This blog thing is funky, because realizing that anybody is reading threatens the integrity of writing for my own sake. I write because it is good for me to write. It helps me think, helps me process, helps me work through things. This is a post like that, so feel very free to not read it.
Today was my first day of trying again to be a healthier me. I ate in a pretty healthy way. Maybe a few extra bites of trail mix, but other than that, I did well. I drank plenty of water and ate what my body needed. No comfort food.
So I'm feeling rather uncomfortable. Empty. Sad. Sometime soon I will feel strong. But not now. I feel weak.
I just went and played my freshly tuned piano (first time in at least 4 years) while my husband and children listened. Most of my kids haven't heard me really play. So tonight I played Mozart, Beethovan, Bach, and Keith Green's Prodigal Son Suite.
It helped.
It helped to play the music I played when I was young and strong and confident. I can't go back to being twenty. But I can pursue the better version of me, that is healthy, strong, dare I say disciplined.
My piano was full of dust, dice, a match box car, and a number of other bonus features. The piano tuner completely dismantled it. It was fascinating. And I have to say I had no idea how bad it sounded. Until she was done. And I nearly cried. It was beautiful. It played the way it was meant to play.
I guess that is what I need. A complete dismantling, cleaning, tuning, retuning, oiling, fixing. This season I feel a little dismantled. That's okay, but I've been leaning hard on the comfort foods. And now that's gone. And that's hard. I know I need to learn to lean on my Beloved, on Jesus . . . finding more power than I'd ever dream. But tonight a handful of chocolate chips sounds ever so much more appealing.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Sunday, May 08, 2011
An actual parade
So here is the summary of my mother's day, having given myself several pep talks before hand: I received my final gift for the National Holiday week between birthday and mother's day, a shirt with the superman shaped crest with tasm (the amazing super mom) in it, with my blogspot address on the back, which was pretty cool. On the front, my husband affirmed me as a mom, on the back, as a human.
It went somewhat predictably down hill from there. A bowl of my favorite cereal for breakfast, we got everybody ready in matching shirts, travelled to my sister in law's home, ate the frozen pizzas, birthday gifts for sk10, including a dress that didn't match all of us (oh well) which she subsequently dirtied in a way that would inspire a Tide commercial, or that oxi-clean guy, pizza, bbq potato chip dust, fruit roll up, chocolate pudding and grape soda. Then we left.
My husband, who has really outdone himself all week, picked up on my sullen mood, and was understandably discouraged, having really laid it on the line. He also understood that even though the week was good, mother's day itself was in fact a let down. We were both understanding, but it really bummed him out that I was bawling, and I felt like a failure because I couldn't appreciate all he had done for me (sounds just like the battle I anticipated, doesn't it?).
Eventually, because we arrived at the town we were going to eat lunch, I pulled it together and stopped crying (gave myself a royal headache, by the way). I received, because my husband loves me and truly wants to please me, the best fast food that particular small town has to offer, and it was delightful.
We were sitting outside the restaurant, all the kids in matching shirts still, me nursing a baby, a daughter feeding another baby a bottle, people driving by, and I just thought, what a powerful testimony on mother's day of life and the blessing of the Lord. And of course, sitting there drinking my hazelnut iced McCoffee, I was again thankful that I am surely one of the most blessed women alive.
The trip home was much better than the way there. We got everything inside without any major meltdowns. We played outside for a bit with neighbors. We came in and I plopped on the couch, nursing one baby, giving a bottle to another, and, no kidding, my children came before me with their homemade mother's day cards looking for all the world just like a parade.
The cards were great, and I do feel appreciated. My favorite was from my eldest, saying how glad she is that I am her mom and her friend.
I loved that parade.
It went somewhat predictably down hill from there. A bowl of my favorite cereal for breakfast, we got everybody ready in matching shirts, travelled to my sister in law's home, ate the frozen pizzas, birthday gifts for sk10, including a dress that didn't match all of us (oh well) which she subsequently dirtied in a way that would inspire a Tide commercial, or that oxi-clean guy, pizza, bbq potato chip dust, fruit roll up, chocolate pudding and grape soda. Then we left.
My husband, who has really outdone himself all week, picked up on my sullen mood, and was understandably discouraged, having really laid it on the line. He also understood that even though the week was good, mother's day itself was in fact a let down. We were both understanding, but it really bummed him out that I was bawling, and I felt like a failure because I couldn't appreciate all he had done for me (sounds just like the battle I anticipated, doesn't it?).
Eventually, because we arrived at the town we were going to eat lunch, I pulled it together and stopped crying (gave myself a royal headache, by the way). I received, because my husband loves me and truly wants to please me, the best fast food that particular small town has to offer, and it was delightful.
We were sitting outside the restaurant, all the kids in matching shirts still, me nursing a baby, a daughter feeding another baby a bottle, people driving by, and I just thought, what a powerful testimony on mother's day of life and the blessing of the Lord. And of course, sitting there drinking my hazelnut iced McCoffee, I was again thankful that I am surely one of the most blessed women alive.
The trip home was much better than the way there. We got everything inside without any major meltdowns. We played outside for a bit with neighbors. We came in and I plopped on the couch, nursing one baby, giving a bottle to another, and, no kidding, my children came before me with their homemade mother's day cards looking for all the world just like a parade.
The cards were great, and I do feel appreciated. My favorite was from my eldest, saying how glad she is that I am her mom and her friend.
I loved that parade.
Rules of Engagement
These are the rules I try to fight by in marriage battles.
1. Always remember to never use the words 'always' or 'never' in a fair fight.
2. No spear throwing, meaning, if a spear (insult or accusation) is thrown at you, don't pick it up and throw it back.
3. If what you are about to say will tear your house down rather than build it up, don't say it.
4. Deal with the current issue, not with a list of historic issues. If you are bringing up history, you have unforgiveness problems.
5. Don't bother to make a joke in a fight. If one or both of you is hurting, the sense of humor function is probably turned off, and attempted humor may make more pain.
6. Don't fight angry. Work the anger and emotions out between you and God, then talk about the problem when you are in control of your emotions.
7. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
8. Go for the win-win-win. If you feel better but your spouse is laying bleeding on the floor, you have not won anything.
9. A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.
10. Wait until a good time to talk. It is not only appropriate to call for a cooling off period, it is critical.
11. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy. Or, put another way, I desperately need Christ to have mercy on me, therefore, I will extend mercy to others, including and especially my husband.
12. Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another even as God for Christ's sake has forgiven you.
13. Hope in God, Who is faithful, and Who gave you your spouse. Nothing is too hard for Him. The heart of the king is in the hand of the Lord, and He turns it whichever way He wants it to go.
14. You have an enemy, and you are not married to him.
15. Read Proverbs often. Daily if possible.
16. After you fight, make up. You know what I mean. Do it.
1. Always remember to never use the words 'always' or 'never' in a fair fight.
2. No spear throwing, meaning, if a spear (insult or accusation) is thrown at you, don't pick it up and throw it back.
3. If what you are about to say will tear your house down rather than build it up, don't say it.
4. Deal with the current issue, not with a list of historic issues. If you are bringing up history, you have unforgiveness problems.
5. Don't bother to make a joke in a fight. If one or both of you is hurting, the sense of humor function is probably turned off, and attempted humor may make more pain.
6. Don't fight angry. Work the anger and emotions out between you and God, then talk about the problem when you are in control of your emotions.
7. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
8. Go for the win-win-win. If you feel better but your spouse is laying bleeding on the floor, you have not won anything.
9. A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.
10. Wait until a good time to talk. It is not only appropriate to call for a cooling off period, it is critical.
11. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy. Or, put another way, I desperately need Christ to have mercy on me, therefore, I will extend mercy to others, including and especially my husband.
12. Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another even as God for Christ's sake has forgiven you.
13. Hope in God, Who is faithful, and Who gave you your spouse. Nothing is too hard for Him. The heart of the king is in the hand of the Lord, and He turns it whichever way He wants it to go.
14. You have an enemy, and you are not married to him.
15. Read Proverbs often. Daily if possible.
16. After you fight, make up. You know what I mean. Do it.
Saturday, May 07, 2011
Taking captives
Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl. More than almost anything, the boy wanted to make the girl happy. He wanted her to feel loved, wanted, appreciated. But alas, he was unable to do so, at least not all the time.
The fault was not his. And it was not entirely hers. The fault lay with the enemy of their souls. An enemy that had hated long before they were created, that hated their Creator in fact. But the Creator was so strong, and the enemy, being a mere creation himself, was far to weak to get to the Creator. But the creation, specifically the boy and the girl, were within his reach.
And reach he did. He reached into their hearts and minds and fought with his most powerful weapon: lies. Also known as half truths, his lies were so powerful, they earned him the title 'father of lies'. The lies would seep into their hearts as if they were their very own thoughts. And the girl thought these thoughts and owned these thoughts, thoughts like: the boy doesn't want to listen to me; the boy just wants to play with his toys; the boy doesn't care how I feel; this will never get better; I should just give up.
And the lies threatened to take over, morning after morning. But the girl was not completely helpless. She had a powerful weapon as well. Because the Creator had not left her alone. He had said He was always with her and would never forsake her. In fact, He said she need only resist the enemy and he would flee from her. But He had instructed her to take her thoughts captive. Capturing thoughts, though it sounds simple, is very difficult. In fact, it requires the skilled help of the Creator to accomplish it.
So, the girl, remembering the Words hidden in her heart, reached out with the faith that the Creator was stronger than her enemy, and said the magic words: help please, it's too hard, I can't. And to her wonder and amazement, the pain that had just been crushing her tender heart and mind began to melt away. The lies didn't seem true anymore. She remembered that the day was a good day and she had much to be thankful for.
In fact, while the reader may be impressed at the girl's creative ability to hide the exact nature of the cause of the tiff she had with the boy, the fact is, though it hurt so badly at the time, she no longer remembers.
The fault was not his. And it was not entirely hers. The fault lay with the enemy of their souls. An enemy that had hated long before they were created, that hated their Creator in fact. But the Creator was so strong, and the enemy, being a mere creation himself, was far to weak to get to the Creator. But the creation, specifically the boy and the girl, were within his reach.
And reach he did. He reached into their hearts and minds and fought with his most powerful weapon: lies. Also known as half truths, his lies were so powerful, they earned him the title 'father of lies'. The lies would seep into their hearts as if they were their very own thoughts. And the girl thought these thoughts and owned these thoughts, thoughts like: the boy doesn't want to listen to me; the boy just wants to play with his toys; the boy doesn't care how I feel; this will never get better; I should just give up.
And the lies threatened to take over, morning after morning. But the girl was not completely helpless. She had a powerful weapon as well. Because the Creator had not left her alone. He had said He was always with her and would never forsake her. In fact, He said she need only resist the enemy and he would flee from her. But He had instructed her to take her thoughts captive. Capturing thoughts, though it sounds simple, is very difficult. In fact, it requires the skilled help of the Creator to accomplish it.
So, the girl, remembering the Words hidden in her heart, reached out with the faith that the Creator was stronger than her enemy, and said the magic words: help please, it's too hard, I can't. And to her wonder and amazement, the pain that had just been crushing her tender heart and mind began to melt away. The lies didn't seem true anymore. She remembered that the day was a good day and she had much to be thankful for.
In fact, while the reader may be impressed at the girl's creative ability to hide the exact nature of the cause of the tiff she had with the boy, the fact is, though it hurt so badly at the time, she no longer remembers.
I love a parade.
Actually, I don't. But it is a better title than "Mother's Day Eve".
What I love is being celebrated. Or more accurately, feeling appreciated. A year of changing and rinsing and washing and drying and stuffing diapers. A year of making meal after meal that is as big as many people make for a holiday, two or three times a day. I've bought and put away groceries, I've ironed shirts, I've matched socks, I've taught school till my voice was ragged. I've been to doctor appointments, music lessons, and dog poop collection excursions. I've labored and given birth. I've gotten up in the middle of the night and nursed and cleaned up poop, pee and vomit. I have worked hard for no money and very little appreciation. I deserve an ever-loving parade.
But I also have a mother. And my husband has a mother. And we are in Indiana celebrating our mothers. And while the week (roughly) between my birthday and Mother's Day, known at our house as the National Holiday, has been a great week of celebrating my existence, it was not a week of saying thanks. I still had to do all the same work, I just ate more chocolate. Birthdays are different than Mother's Day. Birthdays are about celebrating the birthday girl or boy. Mother's Day and Father's Day are about saying thank you for things you normally take for granted. Take a break, Mom. Put your feet up, Mom. Thanks, Mom.
Tomorrow, in celebration of Mother's Day, I will get up before I'm done sleeping, wake my children up and dress them quickly, snarf a breakfast of cereal and milk, and drive an hour and a half to meet up with my in-laws, where we will eat frozen pizza and pretend to be excited while my mother-in-law pretends to be surprised to see us, even though my father-in-law spilled the beans days ago. Then I will spend the rest of the day riding in the big van, listening to children watch the movie, ask to go to the bathroom, complain about where they are sitting and the placement of their siblings heads and be out-loud thirsty, hungry and especially uncomfortable.
[Bunny trail: my youngest son, sk12 (S is an initial, K is kid, 12 is the number of child I'm talking about) has, since birth had what I affectionately call strep butt. He had a rectal strep infection, something I didn't know existed, and was therefore miserable. He is now less miserable, but still doesn't like riding in the van - which has been the case for a number of my children. In fact, I am beginning to be suspicious that some of my non-van-happy kids are actually in the infant stages of carsickness.]
At any rate, youngest son cries for most of the 6 or so hour van trip, and on the way here, there were 1.5 hours construction, which I assume will be there on the way home as well. When we get home we will have a dozen crabby children, laundry to do and put away, and a large general mess.
I may, when we drive through McDonald's on the way home, get a special drink from the McCafe. Might even get an apple pie.
None of this sounds Mother's Day-ish to me. I don't want to sound ungrateful. My husband has been focused on appreciating me all week. Tomorrow is just a day. I hope our mothers feel loved and honored tomorrow. I hope they like the plant and homemade cards we give them. I hope to honor them. But honoring is complicated as an adult.
What does it mean to honor my mother and husband's mother at this phase of life? Does it mean making them happy? That hardly seems like something I should take responsibility for. Does it mean always doing what they want? What does it look like to honor your mother as a grownup? I suspect it requires a substantial reduction in the amount of eye-rolling I sometimes do. It probably means that when I have an issue with one of them that the enemy is rubbing my face in, I should choose to bless and forgive and not have a list, long or short, of pet peeves and grievances against one or the other of them. It probably means lifting them up in prayer whenever I think of them, especially negatively.
Like, for example, tomorrow, when I'm in the big van, listening to my children complain and eating my cold cheeseburger and drinking my lukewarm McLatte, all so that I could be with my mother this weekend and not surprise my husband's mother for Mother's Day. No parade after all.
What I love is being celebrated. Or more accurately, feeling appreciated. A year of changing and rinsing and washing and drying and stuffing diapers. A year of making meal after meal that is as big as many people make for a holiday, two or three times a day. I've bought and put away groceries, I've ironed shirts, I've matched socks, I've taught school till my voice was ragged. I've been to doctor appointments, music lessons, and dog poop collection excursions. I've labored and given birth. I've gotten up in the middle of the night and nursed and cleaned up poop, pee and vomit. I have worked hard for no money and very little appreciation. I deserve an ever-loving parade.
But I also have a mother. And my husband has a mother. And we are in Indiana celebrating our mothers. And while the week (roughly) between my birthday and Mother's Day, known at our house as the National Holiday, has been a great week of celebrating my existence, it was not a week of saying thanks. I still had to do all the same work, I just ate more chocolate. Birthdays are different than Mother's Day. Birthdays are about celebrating the birthday girl or boy. Mother's Day and Father's Day are about saying thank you for things you normally take for granted. Take a break, Mom. Put your feet up, Mom. Thanks, Mom.
Tomorrow, in celebration of Mother's Day, I will get up before I'm done sleeping, wake my children up and dress them quickly, snarf a breakfast of cereal and milk, and drive an hour and a half to meet up with my in-laws, where we will eat frozen pizza and pretend to be excited while my mother-in-law pretends to be surprised to see us, even though my father-in-law spilled the beans days ago. Then I will spend the rest of the day riding in the big van, listening to children watch the movie, ask to go to the bathroom, complain about where they are sitting and the placement of their siblings heads and be out-loud thirsty, hungry and especially uncomfortable.
[Bunny trail: my youngest son, sk12 (S is an initial, K is kid, 12 is the number of child I'm talking about) has, since birth had what I affectionately call strep butt. He had a rectal strep infection, something I didn't know existed, and was therefore miserable. He is now less miserable, but still doesn't like riding in the van - which has been the case for a number of my children. In fact, I am beginning to be suspicious that some of my non-van-happy kids are actually in the infant stages of carsickness.]
At any rate, youngest son cries for most of the 6 or so hour van trip, and on the way here, there were 1.5 hours construction, which I assume will be there on the way home as well. When we get home we will have a dozen crabby children, laundry to do and put away, and a large general mess.
I may, when we drive through McDonald's on the way home, get a special drink from the McCafe. Might even get an apple pie.
None of this sounds Mother's Day-ish to me. I don't want to sound ungrateful. My husband has been focused on appreciating me all week. Tomorrow is just a day. I hope our mothers feel loved and honored tomorrow. I hope they like the plant and homemade cards we give them. I hope to honor them. But honoring is complicated as an adult.
What does it mean to honor my mother and husband's mother at this phase of life? Does it mean making them happy? That hardly seems like something I should take responsibility for. Does it mean always doing what they want? What does it look like to honor your mother as a grownup? I suspect it requires a substantial reduction in the amount of eye-rolling I sometimes do. It probably means that when I have an issue with one of them that the enemy is rubbing my face in, I should choose to bless and forgive and not have a list, long or short, of pet peeves and grievances against one or the other of them. It probably means lifting them up in prayer whenever I think of them, especially negatively.
Like, for example, tomorrow, when I'm in the big van, listening to my children complain and eating my cold cheeseburger and drinking my lukewarm McLatte, all so that I could be with my mother this weekend and not surprise my husband's mother for Mother's Day. No parade after all.
Monday, May 02, 2011
Dancing is for . . .
Girls? Sissies?
I go to one of those churches where people dance. Which is to say, it is culturally appropriate to dance at my church. Or at least, we say it is. Really, it is culturally appropriate for children to dance. Especially girls. And some women. And men who are either extremely confident, passionate, or weird.
But really, most people don't. Wouldn't feel comfortable. Most of the time.
I fit into the category of "some women" and I do dance sometimes. Sometimes I can't help but dance. Not that I'm a particularly good dancer. And as Chris Farley proved in the old SNL Chip'n'dale's skit with Patrick Swayzee, even if fat people are good at dancing (and I said already that I'm not) it still doesn't look very good. Still I dance, especially with my children.
My older sons are out-growing dancing. Which means my younger sons will never probably do it.
The interesting thing to me is this: in many other cultures (specifically, I'm thinking about the Masai in Kenya and Native Americans), do you know who dances? The warriors. Those headed into battle. Those who have returned from battle victorious. The men.
And I'm just musing here, but perhaps men NOT dancing now is actually the result of the effeminization of men in our culture. Perhaps the men don't dance now because they are not man enough to dance.
Is dancing in worship just for the children, the women, the weak and the weird? No, dancing is for the mighty, the strong, the warriors. It's an upside down kingdom, to be sure. Strength in weakness and all that. But seriously, guys, come on. Sometime, when you feel it rising up in you, just man up and dance.
I go to one of those churches where people dance. Which is to say, it is culturally appropriate to dance at my church. Or at least, we say it is. Really, it is culturally appropriate for children to dance. Especially girls. And some women. And men who are either extremely confident, passionate, or weird.
But really, most people don't. Wouldn't feel comfortable. Most of the time.
I fit into the category of "some women" and I do dance sometimes. Sometimes I can't help but dance. Not that I'm a particularly good dancer. And as Chris Farley proved in the old SNL Chip'n'dale's skit with Patrick Swayzee, even if fat people are good at dancing (and I said already that I'm not) it still doesn't look very good. Still I dance, especially with my children.
My older sons are out-growing dancing. Which means my younger sons will never probably do it.
The interesting thing to me is this: in many other cultures (specifically, I'm thinking about the Masai in Kenya and Native Americans), do you know who dances? The warriors. Those headed into battle. Those who have returned from battle victorious. The men.
And I'm just musing here, but perhaps men NOT dancing now is actually the result of the effeminization of men in our culture. Perhaps the men don't dance now because they are not man enough to dance.
Is dancing in worship just for the children, the women, the weak and the weird? No, dancing is for the mighty, the strong, the warriors. It's an upside down kingdom, to be sure. Strength in weakness and all that. But seriously, guys, come on. Sometime, when you feel it rising up in you, just man up and dance.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Near 40
I am hours away from that very special birthday. I am cresting the hill. I am ramping up for my midlife crisis. Forty.
I remember when my dad turned 40. We got him a cake that said, "40 isn't old . . . If you're a tree.". Sooooo funny.
Now I'm there. And some of what they say may be true. Parts of me are stiffening up. Need oil. Parts of me are stretched beyond recognition, never to be firm again. My hair could be colored, but I'm lucky to shower. Far be it from me to add something to my to do list for vanity's sake alone.
At any rate, 40 is a milestone. How far I've come, how far to go, what can I do better, what have I learned?
Here's one thing:
When it comes to a lot of things, I'm not right. And I'm not wrong. I'm me. And that's ok. For example, housekeeping. My way is on the messy side. Not because I have kids in bulk quantity. Just because I'm like that. I am a flexible chic. Many of my closest friends are what I call neat freaks, but really, they're no more freaky than I am. Truth be told, there are bonuses and drawbacks for each bent. And I'm sure there are a few people out there who are perfectly balanced in this way, but they probably need improvement in other areas.
I remember in grade school, early grades, we didn't receive letter grades. Instead there were these descriptive classifications: Excellant, Satisfactory, Needs improvement. At my house "Needs improvement" was equivalent to "sucks really bad" or "don't count on any privileges this month". Somehow it was unacceptable to "need improvement".
But now, rounding the bend of the big four-oh, I'm thinking my grade thus far is Needs Improvement, and I'm okay with that. Not only is it honest, it is also hopeful. I'm not 20 anymore, but I can still grow and change.
So I need improvement. So does everyone else. Let me give another example: as a worship leader, my focus is on the heart more than skill. Not that I don't care about skill. But the act of worship is more important than the sound made during worship. That sounds noble, right? I would never pick a song solely based on the music of it. But my friend who is focused on musicality, excellence, and variety is also right.
It reminds me of a scene in The Fiddler on the Roof when Tevye is witnessing an argument between two men. The first one speaks, Tevye says, "He's right." The second one speaks, Tevye says, "He's right." Another says, "He's right, he's right, they can't both be right." Tevye responds, "You know, you are also right."
Not about everything. Not about some things. Not about Jesus. We can't all be right about Jesus. He can't be a great prophet or teacher or philosopher if He said things like, "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man comes to the Father but through Me," or, "Abide in Me. Apart from Me you can do nothing." Prophets and teachers and philosophers who are any good are not that egocentric. Either He was (is) God, or the sum of what He said was pretty wack.
I'm not talking about what's come to be called tolerance, here. That idea that there are no absolute rights and wrongs. I'm just saying my neatnik friends could stand to loosen up a bit, and I could stand to clean better and with more frequency. The fashionistas and the frumps could both learn a bit from each other. The excellent musicians and the heartfelt purists could each improve.
I hope to be more firm and consistent with my children, to have more fun and yell and complain less. I hope to honor and bless my husband more and be more of a joy to him, not another burden to shoulder. I still hope to be a more fit companion for the husband of my youth. I desire to become more a woman of prayer, to read my Bible more than I am on Facebook, and to spend more time in the relatively secret place, worshipping, communing, and writing.
I would love to write a book. I'd like to re-register with C.C.L.I., in hopes of maybe a buck or two finding it's way home for my songs.
But while I have these and other hopes for improvement, I am largely content to be turning forty. I don't know if there will be more children. Either way is fine with me. I don't know a lot of things. Reminds me of a song: But I know whom I am believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I've committed unto Him against that day.
I remember when my dad turned 40. We got him a cake that said, "40 isn't old . . . If you're a tree.". Sooooo funny.
Now I'm there. And some of what they say may be true. Parts of me are stiffening up. Need oil. Parts of me are stretched beyond recognition, never to be firm again. My hair could be colored, but I'm lucky to shower. Far be it from me to add something to my to do list for vanity's sake alone.
At any rate, 40 is a milestone. How far I've come, how far to go, what can I do better, what have I learned?
Here's one thing:
When it comes to a lot of things, I'm not right. And I'm not wrong. I'm me. And that's ok. For example, housekeeping. My way is on the messy side. Not because I have kids in bulk quantity. Just because I'm like that. I am a flexible chic. Many of my closest friends are what I call neat freaks, but really, they're no more freaky than I am. Truth be told, there are bonuses and drawbacks for each bent. And I'm sure there are a few people out there who are perfectly balanced in this way, but they probably need improvement in other areas.
I remember in grade school, early grades, we didn't receive letter grades. Instead there were these descriptive classifications: Excellant, Satisfactory, Needs improvement. At my house "Needs improvement" was equivalent to "sucks really bad" or "don't count on any privileges this month". Somehow it was unacceptable to "need improvement".
But now, rounding the bend of the big four-oh, I'm thinking my grade thus far is Needs Improvement, and I'm okay with that. Not only is it honest, it is also hopeful. I'm not 20 anymore, but I can still grow and change.
So I need improvement. So does everyone else. Let me give another example: as a worship leader, my focus is on the heart more than skill. Not that I don't care about skill. But the act of worship is more important than the sound made during worship. That sounds noble, right? I would never pick a song solely based on the music of it. But my friend who is focused on musicality, excellence, and variety is also right.
It reminds me of a scene in The Fiddler on the Roof when Tevye is witnessing an argument between two men. The first one speaks, Tevye says, "He's right." The second one speaks, Tevye says, "He's right." Another says, "He's right, he's right, they can't both be right." Tevye responds, "You know, you are also right."
Not about everything. Not about some things. Not about Jesus. We can't all be right about Jesus. He can't be a great prophet or teacher or philosopher if He said things like, "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man comes to the Father but through Me," or, "Abide in Me. Apart from Me you can do nothing." Prophets and teachers and philosophers who are any good are not that egocentric. Either He was (is) God, or the sum of what He said was pretty wack.
I'm not talking about what's come to be called tolerance, here. That idea that there are no absolute rights and wrongs. I'm just saying my neatnik friends could stand to loosen up a bit, and I could stand to clean better and with more frequency. The fashionistas and the frumps could both learn a bit from each other. The excellent musicians and the heartfelt purists could each improve.
I hope to be more firm and consistent with my children, to have more fun and yell and complain less. I hope to honor and bless my husband more and be more of a joy to him, not another burden to shoulder. I still hope to be a more fit companion for the husband of my youth. I desire to become more a woman of prayer, to read my Bible more than I am on Facebook, and to spend more time in the relatively secret place, worshipping, communing, and writing.
I would love to write a book. I'd like to re-register with C.C.L.I., in hopes of maybe a buck or two finding it's way home for my songs.
But while I have these and other hopes for improvement, I am largely content to be turning forty. I don't know if there will be more children. Either way is fine with me. I don't know a lot of things. Reminds me of a song: But I know whom I am believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I've committed unto Him against that day.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Things I re-learn with each baby
So I've brought 12 babies home from the hospital in the last 15 years, all but one within 18 months of the last one, and yet, there are things I forget and learn with each child.
They eat, they play, they sleep. You do not feed a baby to sleep. You feed them until their "full" light comes on, and then enjoy the happy awake time that follows, even if it happens at 3:30 a.m., for as long as it lasts. Then, when they get sad again after the happy time is over, that's 'tired' and that's when they need to sleep, preferably without nursing again.
Wait for it: the critical need to burp. A crying baby doesn't know why he is crying. He doesn't know why he's sad. He just knows something doesn't feel good. If you offer to nurse him, the good feeling that nursing brings will override whatever was sad, for a while. And a baby that needs to burp will keep eating until he hits *TILT* and then you will wear the top-offs all over your shirt. But I forget this everytime and keep feeding and feeding and feeding.
The hindmilk/foremilk balance. Especially in the above scenario, I have a habit of switching, er, sides everytime a baby nurses again. So I wind up giving a baby lots of foremilk, never get to hindmilk, and that makes for a fussy baby, and sometimes a thrush-y baby.
Thrush=nightmare. It goes like this. I have a baby. People bring food. Lots of food, and lots of desserts. Enough dessert for all 14 people to have 2. Or for all 11 eaters to have one and mom to sneak the other 16 or so servings throughout the day. And my sugar tooth takes over. I am back to my pre-delivery weight and the yeast in my body starts to increase at epic rates. The baby has a yeast infection in the diaper, thrush in his mouth, and I'm in pain. Then I have to (or should) cut out all sugar, white flour and dairy, get a prescription for diflucan, take probiotics, wash with a vinegar/water solution after I nurse, put on the magical motherlove diaper rash thrush cream, and usually wind up painting baby's mouth and my, as sk8 calls it, "nursers, with gentian violet.
Change the diaper, for crying out loud. I have a theory, that God made our poop and pee to stink so we would know to get rid of it and not eat it or keep it on hand. Unfortunately (or sometimes fortunately) my nose doesn't always work. So sometimes my poor baby is crying and I'm nursing and burping and pacifying like I'm getting paid for it and finally it dawns on me to check the diaper and he/she's been sitting in a yucky diaper for a while and my brain just forgot that option.
Too hot to handle? Some of my kids don't like heat. Nuff said.
Babies need sleep, and they need to go to sleep in their beds. If you teach the baby to fall asleep nursing in your arms, they will think that's the only way to get there. You have to put them in bed awake. Exhausted, burped, full of tum and clean of bum, eyes barely open, and let them take it the other 1/10th of the way there. And as soon as they are big enough to sleep longer, somewhere past 11 or 12 lbs, having them a little farther away from my bed means we all sleep better, as they get practice falling back asleep . . . but that only works if they learn to fall asleep on their own.
Anyway. As I'm going through this for the 12th time, and kicking myself in the head remembering these things, I thought I'd write them down. Maybe if I get to have another baby someday, I'll come back and read it and not screw up so bad with the next one.
They eat, they play, they sleep. You do not feed a baby to sleep. You feed them until their "full" light comes on, and then enjoy the happy awake time that follows, even if it happens at 3:30 a.m., for as long as it lasts. Then, when they get sad again after the happy time is over, that's 'tired' and that's when they need to sleep, preferably without nursing again.
Wait for it: the critical need to burp. A crying baby doesn't know why he is crying. He doesn't know why he's sad. He just knows something doesn't feel good. If you offer to nurse him, the good feeling that nursing brings will override whatever was sad, for a while. And a baby that needs to burp will keep eating until he hits *TILT* and then you will wear the top-offs all over your shirt. But I forget this everytime and keep feeding and feeding and feeding.
The hindmilk/foremilk balance. Especially in the above scenario, I have a habit of switching, er, sides everytime a baby nurses again. So I wind up giving a baby lots of foremilk, never get to hindmilk, and that makes for a fussy baby, and sometimes a thrush-y baby.
Thrush=nightmare. It goes like this. I have a baby. People bring food. Lots of food, and lots of desserts. Enough dessert for all 14 people to have 2. Or for all 11 eaters to have one and mom to sneak the other 16 or so servings throughout the day. And my sugar tooth takes over. I am back to my pre-delivery weight and the yeast in my body starts to increase at epic rates. The baby has a yeast infection in the diaper, thrush in his mouth, and I'm in pain. Then I have to (or should) cut out all sugar, white flour and dairy, get a prescription for diflucan, take probiotics, wash with a vinegar/water solution after I nurse, put on the magical motherlove diaper rash thrush cream, and usually wind up painting baby's mouth and my, as sk8 calls it, "nursers, with gentian violet.
Change the diaper, for crying out loud. I have a theory, that God made our poop and pee to stink so we would know to get rid of it and not eat it or keep it on hand. Unfortunately (or sometimes fortunately) my nose doesn't always work. So sometimes my poor baby is crying and I'm nursing and burping and pacifying like I'm getting paid for it and finally it dawns on me to check the diaper and he/she's been sitting in a yucky diaper for a while and my brain just forgot that option.
Too hot to handle? Some of my kids don't like heat. Nuff said.
Babies need sleep, and they need to go to sleep in their beds. If you teach the baby to fall asleep nursing in your arms, they will think that's the only way to get there. You have to put them in bed awake. Exhausted, burped, full of tum and clean of bum, eyes barely open, and let them take it the other 1/10th of the way there. And as soon as they are big enough to sleep longer, somewhere past 11 or 12 lbs, having them a little farther away from my bed means we all sleep better, as they get practice falling back asleep . . . but that only works if they learn to fall asleep on their own.
Anyway. As I'm going through this for the 12th time, and kicking myself in the head remembering these things, I thought I'd write them down. Maybe if I get to have another baby someday, I'll come back and read it and not screw up so bad with the next one.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Was it a morning like this?
I have to admit that when it comes to holidays, especially Easter, I tend to revert back to my musical roots. Don't stone me, but the first Christian concert I ever attended was when Sandy Patti OPENED for the Imperials.
And the song I sing every Easter sunday morning is a Sandy Patti song. Was it a morning like this when the sun still hid from Jerusalem . . . (I can't type it right now because my husband just put on Third Day.)
At any rate, it was even more in my spirit today because there were some marked similarities this morning between me and the ladies attending Jesus. They were getting up to anoint the dead body of the Lamb of God; I also was getting up to anoint a dead lamb. Well, to be more accurate, it was only part of a dead lamb. It's been in my freezer for longer than is customary because it's been waiting for an Easter when I had time to tend it, one where I had no responsibilities for the community Easter celebration. That'd be today.
And really, she was just as surprised to see her Lamb risen as I would have been had mine grown a body and been lying asleep in my fridge (and without being sacrilegious, I think I can say that would have been even more miraculous, since it had been dead, well, a long time, and had no body)(and everybody knows you can't breathe in a refrigerator).
But I love that song. I cannot sing it without weeping.
Did the grass shout? Did the earth rejoice to feel You again? The longing and groaning of creation for the Son of God to come in His glory. On no other day is the word Hallelujah more appropriate.
I know, He doesn't die again and rise again every Easter. But I am not born again every year on my birthday, and I still like to party.
My Lord was dead. He died for me. He shed real blood, wept real tears, His flesh was torn on my behalf. He was publicly humiliated on my behalf, became of no reputation, was mocked, beaten, naked. For me. It is real. It really happened.
And then he was gone. Unreachable. For a whole horrible awful no good very bad Sabbath day He was somewhere they couldn't get to. And it seemed to be forever. All their hope was gone. All their lives had been laid down, and for what. He was made a fool, even to those who loved Him. And they were the fools who followed Him. How stupid they must have felt. And betrayed by a false hope of redemption and freedom.
But their perspective was limited. He could have given them what they wanted. Limited political freedom. He could have set them free. Instead, He set me free. Them and me and you and all who would say yes to that freedom.
Does the grass seem to sing beneath your feet today? Can you hear the wind calling out? The stars were talking about Him last night, though clouds hid them from us. Planets at the other end of the universe proclaim Him. All of creation sings, shouts, declares the glory of God.
Do you know why? It can't help it. It cannot contain it.
Nor can I. My joy is full. My redeemer lives. He shed His blood for me, He died, He conquered death, hell, the grave and MY sin. I am free, I am loved, I am forgiven, I am His.
Hallelujah, Jesus is alive!
And the song I sing every Easter sunday morning is a Sandy Patti song. Was it a morning like this when the sun still hid from Jerusalem . . . (I can't type it right now because my husband just put on Third Day.)
At any rate, it was even more in my spirit today because there were some marked similarities this morning between me and the ladies attending Jesus. They were getting up to anoint the dead body of the Lamb of God; I also was getting up to anoint a dead lamb. Well, to be more accurate, it was only part of a dead lamb. It's been in my freezer for longer than is customary because it's been waiting for an Easter when I had time to tend it, one where I had no responsibilities for the community Easter celebration. That'd be today.
And really, she was just as surprised to see her Lamb risen as I would have been had mine grown a body and been lying asleep in my fridge (and without being sacrilegious, I think I can say that would have been even more miraculous, since it had been dead, well, a long time, and had no body)(and everybody knows you can't breathe in a refrigerator).
But I love that song. I cannot sing it without weeping.
Did the grass shout? Did the earth rejoice to feel You again? The longing and groaning of creation for the Son of God to come in His glory. On no other day is the word Hallelujah more appropriate.
I know, He doesn't die again and rise again every Easter. But I am not born again every year on my birthday, and I still like to party.
My Lord was dead. He died for me. He shed real blood, wept real tears, His flesh was torn on my behalf. He was publicly humiliated on my behalf, became of no reputation, was mocked, beaten, naked. For me. It is real. It really happened.
And then he was gone. Unreachable. For a whole horrible awful no good very bad Sabbath day He was somewhere they couldn't get to. And it seemed to be forever. All their hope was gone. All their lives had been laid down, and for what. He was made a fool, even to those who loved Him. And they were the fools who followed Him. How stupid they must have felt. And betrayed by a false hope of redemption and freedom.
But their perspective was limited. He could have given them what they wanted. Limited political freedom. He could have set them free. Instead, He set me free. Them and me and you and all who would say yes to that freedom.
Does the grass seem to sing beneath your feet today? Can you hear the wind calling out? The stars were talking about Him last night, though clouds hid them from us. Planets at the other end of the universe proclaim Him. All of creation sings, shouts, declares the glory of God.
Do you know why? It can't help it. It cannot contain it.
Nor can I. My joy is full. My redeemer lives. He shed His blood for me, He died, He conquered death, hell, the grave and MY sin. I am free, I am loved, I am forgiven, I am His.
Hallelujah, Jesus is alive!
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Veni, vidi, vici
Triumph.
(Disclaimer: the point of this blog, despite the title, is never, ever to be impressed with me. I am 5'1" and weigh 245 lbs, have acne all over my face, have been horrible to my husband and children all week and my house is just, well, dirty - do not be impressed with me. The point is to give glory to God for working in and through a disaster zone like myself - if He can do good things here, He can do good things there.)
I am in that camp of weird Christians who believe in the entire Bible, including the part that talks about wrestling not with flesh and blood but with the powers and principalities, about demons and a real devil, about an unseen battle and an unseen Kingdom. And we have been at war lately.
Any time we, as Christians, try to do anything besides sit, we face warfare. Because we have a real actual enemy. Now the Bible says that if we resist that enemy, he will flee from us. But, at least for me, sometimes it takes me a little to figure out what the enemy is. And I am often convinced that I'm married to it.
I'm getting my tippee toes wet at pursuing a life of prayer and fasting again, of being who I want to be but haven't been, and have met resistance. My little mini-set is Tuesday afternoon. The fight begins on Sunday, or so. I feel discouraged, hopeless, and like a complete failure. I am certain my husband cares nothing about me, appreciates nothing I do, and would rather be alone on an island with power and a good internet connection with all his devices than with me. I also am led to believe that I am a horrible mother and worthless example to my children.
And then sometimes I remember that I have an enemy and that I also have a King Who fights for me, and the pressure lifts.
But this week it never let up. It just got worse and worse. My little set was terrible. My attitude sank lower and lower. Until last night, my husband and I dared an attempt at communication. I'm not going to lie to you. It wasn't pretty. Snippy and short, we both misunderstood and were offended by everything the other said. We went to sleep unhappy, having said many unkind words.
This morning was much the same. It seemed for all our attempts at reconciliation, we could not get to each other. I had no hope.
All the while I was aware that there may well be a battle raging. Because, you see, our plan for today was to go, as a family, to Planned Parenthood to pray as part of our church's committment to the 40 days for life campaign. We have gone several times over the years, but never with dad, never with 12. We don't stay very long, so we don't sign up for a whole time slot. We just show up, pray for a bit and then leave. I don't want to stay longer than my children are engaged in what we're doing, don't want them to just be there waiting while mom does her thing. That was today.
Today we took our dozen children, including one grown in another's womb and given to us rather than aborted, and stood in the wet cold, some with signs, some with red tape with the word LIFE written on it covering their mouths, all praying. It was simple and yet profound.
I don't know if we made much of a difference in the natural realm. As far as I know, none of us talked to anyone except others there praying. We didn't change any lives that we are aware of. But this is what I told the kids on the way home:
"You know how you guys set up pretend battles with your armies on the dining room table all the time? Well today, there was a real battle, and the army was you. You fought a battle that no one sees when you prayed and asked God to protect the babies, to help the mommies and save the doctors and workers. What you did today was maybe the most important thing you have ever done."
We came home, Dad took several to the library, some stayed and played, and I sat on the big purple couch, nursing two and feeding a bottle to a third, reflecting with great peace and mountains of hope on the goodness of God, the gift of my husband and children, and all the grace that had seemed lacking for the week.
We came, we saw, we kicked demonic butt.
(Disclaimer: the point of this blog, despite the title, is never, ever to be impressed with me. I am 5'1" and weigh 245 lbs, have acne all over my face, have been horrible to my husband and children all week and my house is just, well, dirty - do not be impressed with me. The point is to give glory to God for working in and through a disaster zone like myself - if He can do good things here, He can do good things there.)
I am in that camp of weird Christians who believe in the entire Bible, including the part that talks about wrestling not with flesh and blood but with the powers and principalities, about demons and a real devil, about an unseen battle and an unseen Kingdom. And we have been at war lately.
Any time we, as Christians, try to do anything besides sit, we face warfare. Because we have a real actual enemy. Now the Bible says that if we resist that enemy, he will flee from us. But, at least for me, sometimes it takes me a little to figure out what the enemy is. And I am often convinced that I'm married to it.
I'm getting my tippee toes wet at pursuing a life of prayer and fasting again, of being who I want to be but haven't been, and have met resistance. My little mini-set is Tuesday afternoon. The fight begins on Sunday, or so. I feel discouraged, hopeless, and like a complete failure. I am certain my husband cares nothing about me, appreciates nothing I do, and would rather be alone on an island with power and a good internet connection with all his devices than with me. I also am led to believe that I am a horrible mother and worthless example to my children.
And then sometimes I remember that I have an enemy and that I also have a King Who fights for me, and the pressure lifts.
But this week it never let up. It just got worse and worse. My little set was terrible. My attitude sank lower and lower. Until last night, my husband and I dared an attempt at communication. I'm not going to lie to you. It wasn't pretty. Snippy and short, we both misunderstood and were offended by everything the other said. We went to sleep unhappy, having said many unkind words.
This morning was much the same. It seemed for all our attempts at reconciliation, we could not get to each other. I had no hope.
All the while I was aware that there may well be a battle raging. Because, you see, our plan for today was to go, as a family, to Planned Parenthood to pray as part of our church's committment to the 40 days for life campaign. We have gone several times over the years, but never with dad, never with 12. We don't stay very long, so we don't sign up for a whole time slot. We just show up, pray for a bit and then leave. I don't want to stay longer than my children are engaged in what we're doing, don't want them to just be there waiting while mom does her thing. That was today.
Today we took our dozen children, including one grown in another's womb and given to us rather than aborted, and stood in the wet cold, some with signs, some with red tape with the word LIFE written on it covering their mouths, all praying. It was simple and yet profound.
I don't know if we made much of a difference in the natural realm. As far as I know, none of us talked to anyone except others there praying. We didn't change any lives that we are aware of. But this is what I told the kids on the way home:
"You know how you guys set up pretend battles with your armies on the dining room table all the time? Well today, there was a real battle, and the army was you. You fought a battle that no one sees when you prayed and asked God to protect the babies, to help the mommies and save the doctors and workers. What you did today was maybe the most important thing you have ever done."
We came home, Dad took several to the library, some stayed and played, and I sat on the big purple couch, nursing two and feeding a bottle to a third, reflecting with great peace and mountains of hope on the goodness of God, the gift of my husband and children, and all the grace that had seemed lacking for the week.
We came, we saw, we kicked demonic butt.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Road Goes Ever On . . .
And I'm looking down it this week, and it has occurred to me that some of my children are no longer children. Without going into detail, it has begun to leak into my consciousness that for better or for worse, at some point, at least some of them will not live in my house. They won't come into my room and hand me a baby, won't ask me what is for breakfast (to which I say, 'I don't know, what are you fixing?'), won't need me to remind them to do their responsibilities or check their fingernails or bring their shoes in from the van.
And (quoting Steve Martin from Father of the Bride) something inside starts to hurt. I really like them. I like being with them. I love their senses of humor. I like to play with them. The older they get, the less burdensome they are, and the more they help carry my burdens. The older they get, the more pleasant they become, the more joy they bring to my day. The older they get, the more wise they become, and they give me good counsel when I need it. The older they get, the more they know God, and the more they point me to Him.
I am grateful for this world of ridiculous interconnectedness, thanks to Mark Zuckerberg and his friends, thanks to Al Gore, thanks to the Sprint Now Network. I am glad that texting will keep my children feeling close even when they are not.
And I'm glad that there is great joy intermingled with the sadness. In the same way I am pleased and relieved that my newborn son is packing on the pounds and getting rolls and sleeping longer, even though I love that tiny new fresh-hatched baby look, I know he is healthy and strong and that I am doing a good (enough) job as a mother because he is growing. In that way, even though I love the baby tooth smile, and the first grade lost my teeth smile, and the goofy my-first-grownup-teeth-are-too-big-for-my-mouth-so-I-look-like-a-beaver smile, that lovely adult smile is too beautiful for words.
It has dawned on me that my children very possibly might attract the attention of would-be suitors at some point, and that we are going to need to figure out what to do with that. And for the first time in my life, I am praying in earnest for their future mates. I am sure I lifted up a token thought before, but the other night I really hit the knees hard, asking God for purity of mind and body, for a heart after God, for diligence to accompany faith, for favor with future in-laws.
I am not afraid of the road as it goes on. It is good. But I am treasuring my moments. The days when those freckles and dimples and curls and blue and hazel and brown eyes are easily accessible are numbered. I must kiss them more. I must make sure they hear the kindness in my voice, the patience in my tone, the passion in my prayer, the firmness in my instruction. They need to know how precious the Word of God is, and that every request is perfect to talk to God about, and that all of life is in and through and to Him. They each need to know that I love to be with them and hear what they want to say and care what they think.
Because someday, the little ones won't be little at all. And someday, the big ones will be across town, or across the country, or on the other side of the world, and I want them to know and never wonder about the things that really matter.
So I must make my moments count. The road goes ever on and on . . .
And (quoting Steve Martin from Father of the Bride) something inside starts to hurt. I really like them. I like being with them. I love their senses of humor. I like to play with them. The older they get, the less burdensome they are, and the more they help carry my burdens. The older they get, the more pleasant they become, the more joy they bring to my day. The older they get, the more wise they become, and they give me good counsel when I need it. The older they get, the more they know God, and the more they point me to Him.
I am grateful for this world of ridiculous interconnectedness, thanks to Mark Zuckerberg and his friends, thanks to Al Gore, thanks to the Sprint Now Network. I am glad that texting will keep my children feeling close even when they are not.
And I'm glad that there is great joy intermingled with the sadness. In the same way I am pleased and relieved that my newborn son is packing on the pounds and getting rolls and sleeping longer, even though I love that tiny new fresh-hatched baby look, I know he is healthy and strong and that I am doing a good (enough) job as a mother because he is growing. In that way, even though I love the baby tooth smile, and the first grade lost my teeth smile, and the goofy my-first-grownup-teeth-are-too-big-for-my-mouth-so-I-look-like-a-beaver smile, that lovely adult smile is too beautiful for words.
It has dawned on me that my children very possibly might attract the attention of would-be suitors at some point, and that we are going to need to figure out what to do with that. And for the first time in my life, I am praying in earnest for their future mates. I am sure I lifted up a token thought before, but the other night I really hit the knees hard, asking God for purity of mind and body, for a heart after God, for diligence to accompany faith, for favor with future in-laws.
I am not afraid of the road as it goes on. It is good. But I am treasuring my moments. The days when those freckles and dimples and curls and blue and hazel and brown eyes are easily accessible are numbered. I must kiss them more. I must make sure they hear the kindness in my voice, the patience in my tone, the passion in my prayer, the firmness in my instruction. They need to know how precious the Word of God is, and that every request is perfect to talk to God about, and that all of life is in and through and to Him. They each need to know that I love to be with them and hear what they want to say and care what they think.
Because someday, the little ones won't be little at all. And someday, the big ones will be across town, or across the country, or on the other side of the world, and I want them to know and never wonder about the things that really matter.
So I must make my moments count. The road goes ever on and on . . .
Things I love
Recommendations of stuff I wouldn't want to be without.
(By the way, this site is not monetized - I am not making any money off anybody, so these are genuinely the things I love.)
In no particular order . . .
Baby Carriers: I have a Moby D, an Ergo (Sport or Performance or something), and a Baby Bjorn. All of these were either gifts or hand-me-downs, by the way. I love them all.
Baby Bjorn is really only good for newborns, for me, because I'm really short. The reason I love it is because it is easy (SO easy) and cool.
The Ergo is easy but not as easy, and cool but not as cool, especially for the newborn, who is down in it. The best part of the Ergo is the back packing part. Not only can I put a 1 or 2 year old on my back and feel pretty comfy and have my hands free to make dinner or whatever, I can also have my you-know-whats free and nurse the smaller baby. I'm always looking for ways to take care of more than one baby.
The Moby D (which is only a little different than the Moby) is the most versatile. It takes a little to put on, and it is pretty warm in the summer - to the point that I would just wear a tank-bra under it, but it is mama-love in a carrier. I can wear a newborn on my front 3 different ways, or have a toddler on my hip in a way that is still comfortable for my back.
I have even put a newbie on my front in the Ergo and a bigger baby on my hip in the Moby and been relatively comfortable, enough to push bigger kids on swings. (Needed help getting the 3 yr old out of the baby swing, though, but the 8 yr old hero saved the day: took little guy's shoes off and said, okay, mom, now LIFT! Cool.)
Strollers:
I had the kind of stroller that you pop your carseat into with my first kid, but because my children are closely spaced, that hasn't been used since my second child was born.
I have had two kinds of double strollers (I've owned a total of 4, only the first one was new, a Graco floor model), one that both seats lay back to make a long flat space, great for napping a child, changing a diaper, or for piling 6 or 7 hot youngin's into and making a beeline for the exit after a long day at the zoo, and the other kind, with two separate seats that also lean back but not into each other. I suppose the second kind is good for sun, since it has two visors, but I'm not that good of a mother, and I like the first kind better. Actually, I usually put sunblock on them anyway, so the visor isn't my first concern.
These days I usually use the umbrella stroller, even though it's a piece of crap, because I normally have big kids with me, and use the aforementioned carriers and like the flexibility.
Books I have loved
The Portable Pediatrician for Parents by Dr. Laura Walther Nathanson - gives good advice about developmental expectations and how freaked out to be about things. It is dated, so children's ibuprofen was not available w/o a prescription when it was published. Also, I do not agree with her about everything, for example, discipline or spacing of children, but I have used her reasons to do a better job of what I do.
Shepherding your Child's Heart by Tedd Tripp - I love this book, regarding the how and why of discipline, more than any other philosophy I've been exposed to. Although, I have not read the book "Train up a child" and have heard good things about it.
A Mom Just Like You by Vickie and Jayme Farris - Vickie Farris is the wife of HSLDA guy Michael Farris, a normal everyday homeschooling mom of 10 (which, when I first read it, sounded like a lot of kids).
(If you can get through chapters 3 and 4 of that book) A Full Quiver by Rick and Jan Hess - challenging, dogmatic, humorous except if you disagree with it then potentially downright offensive book about trusting God, or not with your fertility.
No Ordinary Home, the Uncommon Art of Christian Homemaking, can't remember who by.
Love Lord of the Rings and everything I've read so far by C.S. Lewis.
Love my Bible, NASB.
Diapering
I use cloth diapers. Mostly, it's a money thing. It also feels good, maybe because it helps me answer the critics of big families, maybe because there probably are chemicals in that magical gel contained in disposable diapers that explodes all over the bathroom if you hypothetically wait a half hour too long to take it off.
I have used Bummi's Super Whisper wraps and Dappies (the modern version of those nasty plastic pants we grew up with) with regular cotton pre-folds and Snappies (the modern answer to diaper pins, a little Y shaped gadget that works like the operating part of an Ace bandage), and I have a couple Flips on hand (a rectangular prefold that can be folded widthwise or lengthwise and fit into an adjustable open shell, not a pocket, cheaper than the pocket diapers; theoretically the open shell stays dry and clean and you can just switch out the absorbant rectangle and slip another in and re-use the shell . . . yeah, right).
But what I love are the BumGenius diapers, and here is why - my husband and older children will use them. They work just like "regular" diapers. They make them with snaps or velcro now, and I can argue both ways. The snaps are less likely to be pulled off by meddling toddlers, but have to be put on with two hands and cannot be as easily balled when soiled like a disposable or velcro, but the velcros wear out a little quicker maybe, and do get taken off by the self-changers. They make them to fit one size at a time, or to be adjusted, which will fit anybody but a tiny newborn. A friend loaned me some teeny terry-cloth "kissaluvs" for the newby stage this time, and they were great. My BGs were all either on extreme discount or gifts. Grateful.
I also prefer to use cloth wipes - any washcloth will do, especially the baby kind. I wipe the poop off with toilet paper first, then wipe with a wet little washcloth. The toilet paper comes off with the poop when I dump (or spray off with the BumGenius sprayer) it in the toilet; the wipe gets washed with the diapers. But I have not convinced anyone else to do this, so there are still many wipes used in my house.
Other things that help the amazing supermom be super: I have 2 dishwashers and 2 refridgerators and a deep freeze. I only have one washer and dryer. Now that I have a front loader, I don't need another dryer. I love my pampered chef apple slicer and chopper thing. I would not make pancakes without a big griddle. I drive a 15 passenger van. I think it's pretty safe, because it is pretty much all I drive, so I'm used to going slow on the curves.
I guess that will do. I promise I didn't get anything for saying I like any of these things.
(By the way, this site is not monetized - I am not making any money off anybody, so these are genuinely the things I love.)
In no particular order . . .
Baby Carriers: I have a Moby D, an Ergo (Sport or Performance or something), and a Baby Bjorn. All of these were either gifts or hand-me-downs, by the way. I love them all.
Baby Bjorn is really only good for newborns, for me, because I'm really short. The reason I love it is because it is easy (SO easy) and cool.
The Ergo is easy but not as easy, and cool but not as cool, especially for the newborn, who is down in it. The best part of the Ergo is the back packing part. Not only can I put a 1 or 2 year old on my back and feel pretty comfy and have my hands free to make dinner or whatever, I can also have my you-know-whats free and nurse the smaller baby. I'm always looking for ways to take care of more than one baby.
The Moby D (which is only a little different than the Moby) is the most versatile. It takes a little to put on, and it is pretty warm in the summer - to the point that I would just wear a tank-bra under it, but it is mama-love in a carrier. I can wear a newborn on my front 3 different ways, or have a toddler on my hip in a way that is still comfortable for my back.
I have even put a newbie on my front in the Ergo and a bigger baby on my hip in the Moby and been relatively comfortable, enough to push bigger kids on swings. (Needed help getting the 3 yr old out of the baby swing, though, but the 8 yr old hero saved the day: took little guy's shoes off and said, okay, mom, now LIFT! Cool.)
Strollers:
I had the kind of stroller that you pop your carseat into with my first kid, but because my children are closely spaced, that hasn't been used since my second child was born.
I have had two kinds of double strollers (I've owned a total of 4, only the first one was new, a Graco floor model), one that both seats lay back to make a long flat space, great for napping a child, changing a diaper, or for piling 6 or 7 hot youngin's into and making a beeline for the exit after a long day at the zoo, and the other kind, with two separate seats that also lean back but not into each other. I suppose the second kind is good for sun, since it has two visors, but I'm not that good of a mother, and I like the first kind better. Actually, I usually put sunblock on them anyway, so the visor isn't my first concern.
These days I usually use the umbrella stroller, even though it's a piece of crap, because I normally have big kids with me, and use the aforementioned carriers and like the flexibility.
Books I have loved
The Portable Pediatrician for Parents by Dr. Laura Walther Nathanson - gives good advice about developmental expectations and how freaked out to be about things. It is dated, so children's ibuprofen was not available w/o a prescription when it was published. Also, I do not agree with her about everything, for example, discipline or spacing of children, but I have used her reasons to do a better job of what I do.
Shepherding your Child's Heart by Tedd Tripp - I love this book, regarding the how and why of discipline, more than any other philosophy I've been exposed to. Although, I have not read the book "Train up a child" and have heard good things about it.
A Mom Just Like You by Vickie and Jayme Farris - Vickie Farris is the wife of HSLDA guy Michael Farris, a normal everyday homeschooling mom of 10 (which, when I first read it, sounded like a lot of kids).
(If you can get through chapters 3 and 4 of that book) A Full Quiver by Rick and Jan Hess - challenging, dogmatic, humorous except if you disagree with it then potentially downright offensive book about trusting God, or not with your fertility.
No Ordinary Home, the Uncommon Art of Christian Homemaking, can't remember who by.
Love Lord of the Rings and everything I've read so far by C.S. Lewis.
Love my Bible, NASB.
Diapering
I use cloth diapers. Mostly, it's a money thing. It also feels good, maybe because it helps me answer the critics of big families, maybe because there probably are chemicals in that magical gel contained in disposable diapers that explodes all over the bathroom if you hypothetically wait a half hour too long to take it off.
I have used Bummi's Super Whisper wraps and Dappies (the modern version of those nasty plastic pants we grew up with) with regular cotton pre-folds and Snappies (the modern answer to diaper pins, a little Y shaped gadget that works like the operating part of an Ace bandage), and I have a couple Flips on hand (a rectangular prefold that can be folded widthwise or lengthwise and fit into an adjustable open shell, not a pocket, cheaper than the pocket diapers; theoretically the open shell stays dry and clean and you can just switch out the absorbant rectangle and slip another in and re-use the shell . . . yeah, right).
But what I love are the BumGenius diapers, and here is why - my husband and older children will use them. They work just like "regular" diapers. They make them with snaps or velcro now, and I can argue both ways. The snaps are less likely to be pulled off by meddling toddlers, but have to be put on with two hands and cannot be as easily balled when soiled like a disposable or velcro, but the velcros wear out a little quicker maybe, and do get taken off by the self-changers. They make them to fit one size at a time, or to be adjusted, which will fit anybody but a tiny newborn. A friend loaned me some teeny terry-cloth "kissaluvs" for the newby stage this time, and they were great. My BGs were all either on extreme discount or gifts. Grateful.
I also prefer to use cloth wipes - any washcloth will do, especially the baby kind. I wipe the poop off with toilet paper first, then wipe with a wet little washcloth. The toilet paper comes off with the poop when I dump (or spray off with the BumGenius sprayer) it in the toilet; the wipe gets washed with the diapers. But I have not convinced anyone else to do this, so there are still many wipes used in my house.
Other things that help the amazing supermom be super: I have 2 dishwashers and 2 refridgerators and a deep freeze. I only have one washer and dryer. Now that I have a front loader, I don't need another dryer. I love my pampered chef apple slicer and chopper thing. I would not make pancakes without a big griddle. I drive a 15 passenger van. I think it's pretty safe, because it is pretty much all I drive, so I'm used to going slow on the curves.
I guess that will do. I promise I didn't get anything for saying I like any of these things.
Thursday, April 07, 2011
How you do it . . . the hills we die on
Win this hill or die trying . . . I have no idea who said that, maybe nobody, maybe everybody in a war, but the idea is that this is a cause worth giving everything for. Other things are worth pursuing, but not at all costs. These are things worth great sacrifice.
My younger sister goes to a really cool church. It's so big and cool it has an IT department that she is part of. And they're so big and cool they give their sermon cds (and coffee) away for free, so she gives them to me sometimes. One of them was a series called "The Hills We Die On" and it was about the 7 or so things that were most important to them as a church. It was cool. Of course.
When people ask me, "How do you do it?", and they do, for whatever reason, my standard answer is, "Not very well." What I really mean by that is that we have chosen some hills that are worth dying on, and we let some others go.
There is little value in describing all the things we are not focused on, but there might be some value, at least for me, in naming what those hills are for us. What are your priorities? What are your values? What do you want to be when you grow up?
So, in no particular order, here are the things we think are worth fighting for, sacrificing for, dying for. This is who we want to be when we grow up.
Kindness. I want my children to be kind to each other. I want them to be each other's cheerleaders, biggest fans. I want them to keep a short list, to forgive each other, to not play the part of the accuser. I tell them to let me be the bad guy, that we only need one ogre, that they get to have fun together and laugh and love each other. I tell my boys to protect the girls, and everybody to look after everyone smaller.
Choosing friends wisely, even if that means not having very close friends at times. People are known by the company they keep, and they are shaped by the fellowship they choose. We are influenced by those we spend time with. So I encourage my children to be with the friends who respect us and their own parents, who have a similar value system (similar hills they die on), not just now, but looking down the road at where they are headed.
Modesty and purity in sexuality, guarding our minds, hearts, eyes, ears, spirits against the values of the world. If an outfit is questionable, we pitch it. Choosing not to focus on romance and girlfriends and boyfriends, not desiring to awaken love before it is time, but instead to belong to God and to save our hearts and affections and imaginations for the one God has for them, including being ready to belong to Him alone.
Reading lots of good books, and especially the Bible.
Doing things like school, chores, and even brushing teeth, not just so you can check it off, but to learn and become responsible and have clean teeth. Doing all things unto the glory of God. Learning character, hard work, discipline through the tasks we have, not as much for the sake of the task getting done, but for the sake of training the character.
Taking care of the bodies God gave us, being healthy, eating good food, stopping when we are full. For us, this does not include sacrificing time, money, and youth to lots of individual sports activities, but rather doing things as a family that build our bodies.
Keeping the family and not the peer group as the center of our kids' lives. Being the primary influence in their lives and not passing the responsibility for their discipleship to anyone else.
But honestly, there is one hill we die on. All those other things are valuable, but there is one thing, one desire, one thing I'd like to be really good at, one thing that when people look at me, I'd like them to be able to say, she excelled at that thing. I would like to be great at loving Jesus. I'd like them to say that I know Him. That when I sing, they can feel Him or hear Him or trust Him like they couldn't before. I want to be better at being His than I am at anything else.
My younger sister goes to a really cool church. It's so big and cool it has an IT department that she is part of. And they're so big and cool they give their sermon cds (and coffee) away for free, so she gives them to me sometimes. One of them was a series called "The Hills We Die On" and it was about the 7 or so things that were most important to them as a church. It was cool. Of course.
When people ask me, "How do you do it?", and they do, for whatever reason, my standard answer is, "Not very well." What I really mean by that is that we have chosen some hills that are worth dying on, and we let some others go.
There is little value in describing all the things we are not focused on, but there might be some value, at least for me, in naming what those hills are for us. What are your priorities? What are your values? What do you want to be when you grow up?
So, in no particular order, here are the things we think are worth fighting for, sacrificing for, dying for. This is who we want to be when we grow up.
Kindness. I want my children to be kind to each other. I want them to be each other's cheerleaders, biggest fans. I want them to keep a short list, to forgive each other, to not play the part of the accuser. I tell them to let me be the bad guy, that we only need one ogre, that they get to have fun together and laugh and love each other. I tell my boys to protect the girls, and everybody to look after everyone smaller.
Choosing friends wisely, even if that means not having very close friends at times. People are known by the company they keep, and they are shaped by the fellowship they choose. We are influenced by those we spend time with. So I encourage my children to be with the friends who respect us and their own parents, who have a similar value system (similar hills they die on), not just now, but looking down the road at where they are headed.
Modesty and purity in sexuality, guarding our minds, hearts, eyes, ears, spirits against the values of the world. If an outfit is questionable, we pitch it. Choosing not to focus on romance and girlfriends and boyfriends, not desiring to awaken love before it is time, but instead to belong to God and to save our hearts and affections and imaginations for the one God has for them, including being ready to belong to Him alone.
Reading lots of good books, and especially the Bible.
Doing things like school, chores, and even brushing teeth, not just so you can check it off, but to learn and become responsible and have clean teeth. Doing all things unto the glory of God. Learning character, hard work, discipline through the tasks we have, not as much for the sake of the task getting done, but for the sake of training the character.
Taking care of the bodies God gave us, being healthy, eating good food, stopping when we are full. For us, this does not include sacrificing time, money, and youth to lots of individual sports activities, but rather doing things as a family that build our bodies.
Keeping the family and not the peer group as the center of our kids' lives. Being the primary influence in their lives and not passing the responsibility for their discipleship to anyone else.
But honestly, there is one hill we die on. All those other things are valuable, but there is one thing, one desire, one thing I'd like to be really good at, one thing that when people look at me, I'd like them to be able to say, she excelled at that thing. I would like to be great at loving Jesus. I'd like them to say that I know Him. That when I sing, they can feel Him or hear Him or trust Him like they couldn't before. I want to be better at being His than I am at anything else.
Monday, April 04, 2011
Confessions of a recovering perfectionist
I used to be an all or nothing kind of girl. A perfectionist. If I couldn't do it perfectly, I wouldn't do it. I remember getting really irritated when someone helped match my children's socks and didn't do it exactly right. But my sock matching standards have eased up quite a bit. And while I'd prefer to have all the coffee mugs on the right and all the drinking glasses on the left, I've stopped correcting them (I do still put my favorites on the next shelf up).
Today I took a baby step. I had no sugar. I had an orange, 2 glasses of milk, 2 pieces bread and 2 large helpings of white pasta (among other things) - so I did have sugars, but I ate no sweets. I did nothing else. At this rate I'm sure to reach my ideal weight by the time I've been dead for 50 years. But it was a tiny step.
My perfectionist self conscious is not impressed. Neither should you be. I'm not. But exercising a teeny tiny amount of self control felt, well, better. I suspect it might grow on me.
It is better to do a little thing than to do no thing. It is better to get a little done than to wait for the opportune moment to do it all. Sometimes it is better to do a job poorly now than to insist on doing it well and never finding the time to do it well enough.
Today I took a baby step. I had no sugar. I had an orange, 2 glasses of milk, 2 pieces bread and 2 large helpings of white pasta (among other things) - so I did have sugars, but I ate no sweets. I did nothing else. At this rate I'm sure to reach my ideal weight by the time I've been dead for 50 years. But it was a tiny step.
My perfectionist self conscious is not impressed. Neither should you be. I'm not. But exercising a teeny tiny amount of self control felt, well, better. I suspect it might grow on me.
It is better to do a little thing than to do no thing. It is better to get a little done than to wait for the opportune moment to do it all. Sometimes it is better to do a job poorly now than to insist on doing it well and never finding the time to do it well enough.
Friday, April 01, 2011
Things I say a lot
In no particular order:
Don't wipe your booger on your shirt.
Change your shirt.
How long have you been wearing that?
No you may NOT change your shirt.
Is the family closet unlocked?
Where is your shirt?
Where are your pants?
Where is your diaper?
Where is the baby's diaper?
I'll give 25 chocolate chips to the one who finds me the diaper she took off!
Did someone fart or do I need to change a diaper?
Did you make a smell?
Can someone bring me the baby wipes?
We've got a situation here.
Zip up your pants.
Did you wash?
Did you flush?
Did you wipe?
Can someone bring me the fingernail clippers?
Bring me your fingernails.
Go wash your hands with soap.
When is the last time you took a shower?
What are you supposed to be doing?
Are you finished with school and chores?
Do the next thing and then come and tell me.
No we just ate.
Do you know how to peel it?
You may have an apple, in the kitchen, show me when you're finished.
You're a great apple eater!
Clean up your mess.
Has anyone seen my keys?
We can't go without my keys.
Has anyone seen my phone?
Everybody quiet, I'm calling my phone.
Can you hold this kid while I go pee?
TV is for people who are too boring to do anything else.
No we are not playing on the computer or wii or iPad or my phone.
My phone is not a toy.
Did you set a timer?
Your timer's going off.
You are a great boy.
You are a wonderful daughter.
Do you know what I love? You.
What is that sound you're making?
KINDNESS!!
You have two parents in this room (house) go talk to the other one.
This is a phone.
I am not smart enough to talk to more than three people at one time.
Where's your buddy?
Close your mouth and don't say any more words unless they are kind.
Your job is to love her.
You are her big brother. She will learn how important she is from the way you treat her.
You are his biggest fan.
Being mean is my job.
Your happiness is not my responsibility. My job is to train you, love you, keep you safe and teach you about God. Your happiness is between you and Him.
Nobody likes that sound you're making.
Nothing that concerns you spacemen, just us toys.
I've got one job on this ship. It's stupid, but I'm gonna do it.
Don't talk to me while I have my head in the oven (or while I'm cleaning up broken glass).
How many humans do we have here?
Roll call!
Where is everybody?
D and E are missing, does that bother anybody?
Somebody go see what horrible thing they're up to.
Put that down.
Give that to mommy.
Give that to mommy NOW.
Hey, Big Kid, take tha machete (or chainsaw or vat of olive oil or lipstick or syrup or sharpie or book or paper or bag of chocolate chips or peanut butter sandwich) away from her!
Don't wipe your booger on your shirt.
Change your shirt.
How long have you been wearing that?
No you may NOT change your shirt.
Is the family closet unlocked?
Where is your shirt?
Where are your pants?
Where is your diaper?
Where is the baby's diaper?
I'll give 25 chocolate chips to the one who finds me the diaper she took off!
Did someone fart or do I need to change a diaper?
Did you make a smell?
Can someone bring me the baby wipes?
We've got a situation here.
Zip up your pants.
Did you wash?
Did you flush?
Did you wipe?
Can someone bring me the fingernail clippers?
Bring me your fingernails.
Go wash your hands with soap.
When is the last time you took a shower?
What are you supposed to be doing?
Are you finished with school and chores?
Do the next thing and then come and tell me.
No we just ate.
Do you know how to peel it?
You may have an apple, in the kitchen, show me when you're finished.
You're a great apple eater!
Clean up your mess.
Has anyone seen my keys?
We can't go without my keys.
Has anyone seen my phone?
Everybody quiet, I'm calling my phone.
Can you hold this kid while I go pee?
TV is for people who are too boring to do anything else.
No we are not playing on the computer or wii or iPad or my phone.
My phone is not a toy.
Did you set a timer?
Your timer's going off.
You are a great boy.
You are a wonderful daughter.
Do you know what I love? You.
What is that sound you're making?
KINDNESS!!
You have two parents in this room (house) go talk to the other one.
This is a phone.
I am not smart enough to talk to more than three people at one time.
Where's your buddy?
Close your mouth and don't say any more words unless they are kind.
Your job is to love her.
You are her big brother. She will learn how important she is from the way you treat her.
You are his biggest fan.
Being mean is my job.
Your happiness is not my responsibility. My job is to train you, love you, keep you safe and teach you about God. Your happiness is between you and Him.
Nobody likes that sound you're making.
Nothing that concerns you spacemen, just us toys.
I've got one job on this ship. It's stupid, but I'm gonna do it.
Don't talk to me while I have my head in the oven (or while I'm cleaning up broken glass).
How many humans do we have here?
Roll call!
Where is everybody?
D and E are missing, does that bother anybody?
Somebody go see what horrible thing they're up to.
Put that down.
Give that to mommy.
Give that to mommy NOW.
Hey, Big Kid, take tha machete (or chainsaw or vat of olive oil or lipstick or syrup or sharpie or book or paper or bag of chocolate chips or peanut butter sandwich) away from her!
Monday, March 28, 2011
Conflict Resolution
There is a definition and a rule that we heard somewhere years ago, that a fight is over when you can both laugh about it, and that you should not talk to other people in a social setting (as opposed to a counseling setting) until it's over. In this blog (which is more social than counseling) I am disobeying that rule.
We had home group a few days ago, where we are talking about conflict resolution. I shared about how I have learned in our 20+ years of resolving conflict to wait until a good time to talk about something that is bothering me until my husband is ready to talk. For him, these moments are few and far between. He is primarily a man of function, not feeling. He has things to do, important things that need done and he is the only one to do them. He pays the bills, does our taxes (I owed the city $4.00 this year), writes my hardship letter to get out of jury duty, fills out adoption and birth certificate paperwork, changes light bulbs, and cleans the lint off the dryer vent (keeping our house from catching on fire).
Most of what he does is unappreciated by anyone, but is necessary and critical. In addition to all those types of things, he also works, and works hard. He puts in more time than is necessary to do a better job than is required. He is a team player, picking up others' slack if necessary, because it needs done. His boss is a tough and tiny woman from China, and they compliment each other well, with her intensity and fire and his peaceful strength. Often in the evenings there are conference calls, reviews to do, and emails to catch up on.
The computer is a big part of his job, and is also part of how he winds down when work is over. He enjoys what I call putzing, researching future gadget purchases, reading reviews, watching the best of youtube, reading on-line news. And we often can't tell if he is paying bills, catching up on work e-mail, or just messing around. It is an impenetrable wall of focus and concentration, one not easily mounted.
One of my favorite horrible things to say is, when there is chaos and babies are screaming all around, diapers needing changing, a child has just lost a limb, another is weeping of a broken heart, and the man is still sitting there, typing, working, reading, whatever, and looks up and asks, "What? What's wrong?", I quote Woody from Toy Story, "Nothing that concerns you spacemen, just us toys!"
The thing I have learned (but don't always abide by) is that in a conflict with my husband, I can build my house, or tear it down. With my words, with my actions, with my tone of voice, I can make this a happy home and a strong relationship, or I can make it ugly and burdensome and painful.
So, having given this stellar piece of advice at home group on one day, I spent the next two days ignoring it. Oh I didn't lay into him, like I felt like doing. But I fumed, stormed, and nearly ate myself sick. We weren't on the same page in an area of parenting. He thought I was making too big a deal of it, I thought he had his head up his butt. An area we had previously seen eye to eye about was now, somehow, up for grabs, and in case of a jump ball here, he wins.
Part of the problem was that I lacked some information in the initial conflict. Also a factor is that in my first attempt to resolve I disobeyed two of our cardinal rules of engagement. One, we do not do well on the phone. If our relationship was limited to phone conversations, we would not last. Two, I was talking to him while he was on the phone AND on the laptop AND watching a ball game. I had, maybe, a 10th of his attention. What a joke! But I pursued it, and it was a belly flop.
The hard part of this philosophy of honoring my husband by waiting until he is ready to talk is that HE ISN'T READY TO TALK AS MUCH AS I WANT HIM TO BE! He isn't anywhere near as big a talker as I am. Heck, part of why I have this blog is because I want to talk more than anyone wants to listen. I have always had a larger than typical friend base because I talk more than a normal selection of friends has the time or patience to listen to. I am a verbal processor on an extreme level and no one has enough time to listen to me think things through.
So this conflict resolution thing is a tough one because we (like most, if not all, married couples) have irreconcilable differences. I have described my hardship with him, but his hardships with me are many, and much more difficult. A man who grew up in an immaculate house now is dwelling in a pig sty. Oh, we get it cleaner every few days, but I know that most people would be horrified if their house got as messy as ours is when it is clean. The clutter could drive a neat freak crazy, the dirt could drive a germaphobe off a bridge.
And then there are all the side effects of having 12 children. If we limit everyone to 3 pair of shoes, that is still 72 shoes floating around. There are 24 jackets and coats. We get at least a hundred new toys every Christmas. We have 7 matching barstools in the kitchen, and another that is broken, and another that doesn't match or have a back but the kids fight over. The kids routinely move several of these into the dining room, where there are 12 chairs, 6 strong metal ones, 3 remaining from our dining room set (one has lost the back), 2 hand-me-down wooden ones most of us are afraid to sit on, and one brown chair we stole from the church. The children like to watch each other play on the computer, so they create a veritable traffic jam of kitchen and dining room chairs, a cross between an amphitheater and a junkyard. Also in the kitchen/dining room are a high chair, a kiddie table with two chairs, a happy seat (stationary walker thing) and two pumpkin seats to kick your way through. To top it all off, at the end of the dining room table, where Dad likes to set up his laptop, there is just enough space between his chair and the wall for small children to run pell-mell through and pull his power cord out of the wall and drive the man, who always takes perfect care of his stuff, bonkers.
And that's just one part of the house. We live in a land mine for a peace loving man like him, one who likes to have a place for everything and everything in its place.
My way and his way are not the same way. How can two be one, who are so very different? Only Jesus can do this thing. I've said this before (redundancy is a way of life for me) parting the Red Sea, walking on water, turning water into wine, healing the sick, raising the dead - these are all child's play compared to the miracle of unity.
Jesus meets my needs. He will meet my needs. He will sometimes do it through my husband. But Jesus, not husband, is my source. He will heal my heart. He will help me to forgive. He will give us wisdom about parenting our children. He is never tired of hearing me talk. He doesn't mind that I have told this story before. He is not busy or in a bad mood or tired. He even sees the beauty of the clutter of my world, and He will give me the courage to try again to honor my husband by cleaning it. And at the same time, He will give my husband still more patience as he faithfully walks through life with me.
We had home group a few days ago, where we are talking about conflict resolution. I shared about how I have learned in our 20+ years of resolving conflict to wait until a good time to talk about something that is bothering me until my husband is ready to talk. For him, these moments are few and far between. He is primarily a man of function, not feeling. He has things to do, important things that need done and he is the only one to do them. He pays the bills, does our taxes (I owed the city $4.00 this year), writes my hardship letter to get out of jury duty, fills out adoption and birth certificate paperwork, changes light bulbs, and cleans the lint off the dryer vent (keeping our house from catching on fire).
Most of what he does is unappreciated by anyone, but is necessary and critical. In addition to all those types of things, he also works, and works hard. He puts in more time than is necessary to do a better job than is required. He is a team player, picking up others' slack if necessary, because it needs done. His boss is a tough and tiny woman from China, and they compliment each other well, with her intensity and fire and his peaceful strength. Often in the evenings there are conference calls, reviews to do, and emails to catch up on.
The computer is a big part of his job, and is also part of how he winds down when work is over. He enjoys what I call putzing, researching future gadget purchases, reading reviews, watching the best of youtube, reading on-line news. And we often can't tell if he is paying bills, catching up on work e-mail, or just messing around. It is an impenetrable wall of focus and concentration, one not easily mounted.
One of my favorite horrible things to say is, when there is chaos and babies are screaming all around, diapers needing changing, a child has just lost a limb, another is weeping of a broken heart, and the man is still sitting there, typing, working, reading, whatever, and looks up and asks, "What? What's wrong?", I quote Woody from Toy Story, "Nothing that concerns you spacemen, just us toys!"
The thing I have learned (but don't always abide by) is that in a conflict with my husband, I can build my house, or tear it down. With my words, with my actions, with my tone of voice, I can make this a happy home and a strong relationship, or I can make it ugly and burdensome and painful.
So, having given this stellar piece of advice at home group on one day, I spent the next two days ignoring it. Oh I didn't lay into him, like I felt like doing. But I fumed, stormed, and nearly ate myself sick. We weren't on the same page in an area of parenting. He thought I was making too big a deal of it, I thought he had his head up his butt. An area we had previously seen eye to eye about was now, somehow, up for grabs, and in case of a jump ball here, he wins.
Part of the problem was that I lacked some information in the initial conflict. Also a factor is that in my first attempt to resolve I disobeyed two of our cardinal rules of engagement. One, we do not do well on the phone. If our relationship was limited to phone conversations, we would not last. Two, I was talking to him while he was on the phone AND on the laptop AND watching a ball game. I had, maybe, a 10th of his attention. What a joke! But I pursued it, and it was a belly flop.
The hard part of this philosophy of honoring my husband by waiting until he is ready to talk is that HE ISN'T READY TO TALK AS MUCH AS I WANT HIM TO BE! He isn't anywhere near as big a talker as I am. Heck, part of why I have this blog is because I want to talk more than anyone wants to listen. I have always had a larger than typical friend base because I talk more than a normal selection of friends has the time or patience to listen to. I am a verbal processor on an extreme level and no one has enough time to listen to me think things through.
So this conflict resolution thing is a tough one because we (like most, if not all, married couples) have irreconcilable differences. I have described my hardship with him, but his hardships with me are many, and much more difficult. A man who grew up in an immaculate house now is dwelling in a pig sty. Oh, we get it cleaner every few days, but I know that most people would be horrified if their house got as messy as ours is when it is clean. The clutter could drive a neat freak crazy, the dirt could drive a germaphobe off a bridge.
And then there are all the side effects of having 12 children. If we limit everyone to 3 pair of shoes, that is still 72 shoes floating around. There are 24 jackets and coats. We get at least a hundred new toys every Christmas. We have 7 matching barstools in the kitchen, and another that is broken, and another that doesn't match or have a back but the kids fight over. The kids routinely move several of these into the dining room, where there are 12 chairs, 6 strong metal ones, 3 remaining from our dining room set (one has lost the back), 2 hand-me-down wooden ones most of us are afraid to sit on, and one brown chair we stole from the church. The children like to watch each other play on the computer, so they create a veritable traffic jam of kitchen and dining room chairs, a cross between an amphitheater and a junkyard. Also in the kitchen/dining room are a high chair, a kiddie table with two chairs, a happy seat (stationary walker thing) and two pumpkin seats to kick your way through. To top it all off, at the end of the dining room table, where Dad likes to set up his laptop, there is just enough space between his chair and the wall for small children to run pell-mell through and pull his power cord out of the wall and drive the man, who always takes perfect care of his stuff, bonkers.
And that's just one part of the house. We live in a land mine for a peace loving man like him, one who likes to have a place for everything and everything in its place.
My way and his way are not the same way. How can two be one, who are so very different? Only Jesus can do this thing. I've said this before (redundancy is a way of life for me) parting the Red Sea, walking on water, turning water into wine, healing the sick, raising the dead - these are all child's play compared to the miracle of unity.
Jesus meets my needs. He will meet my needs. He will sometimes do it through my husband. But Jesus, not husband, is my source. He will heal my heart. He will help me to forgive. He will give us wisdom about parenting our children. He is never tired of hearing me talk. He doesn't mind that I have told this story before. He is not busy or in a bad mood or tired. He even sees the beauty of the clutter of my world, and He will give me the courage to try again to honor my husband by cleaning it. And at the same time, He will give my husband still more patience as he faithfully walks through life with me.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
How you do it . . . x 12
This is a question I get a lot. It's a silly question, really, because it implies that I'm doing it right or well or in a way anybody else would want to emulate, when, in reality, I'm just barely scraping by. But, for the inquiring minds who want to know, so they can learn how NOT to do it, here it is, a day in the life of the amazing supermom.
(disclaimer: this is what happens on an ideal day, and does not necessarily represent my together-ness on any actual given day)
A good day begins the night before, so, before I go to bed, I have the following things in order: I have a shirt ironed for my husband to wear to work, a double padded diaper on sk11 (child number 11), 4 diapers for sk12 (3 for night-time feedings, one for next morning), clean diapers for sk 11 and 10 for morning, and the makings of a dry bottle for sk11. If I'm really good, I've got my clothes laid out as well.
Morning is the hardest part of my day. On a typical morning I choose more sleep rather than a shower, so my morning begins with one of the three babies being brought to me, but usually I have two or all three pretty quickly. This is most tricky when sk10 comes first because she wants to nurse, but the new baby gets first dibs. Fairly often, if my big kids are sleeping, I can be found nursing 2 and giving a bottle to a third. I am stretched thin but very happy at these moments (can you say psycho/octomom?).
My husband and I pray briefly before he goes to work. This is a tiny but huge moment of connection between he and I and God and has made a huge difference in our marriage. It is funny, because every day he says, "do you want to pray?" and I say, "I ALWAYS want to pray" and then we do. I think, why not ask if I am ready or just say, "Let's pray." But that's the kind of guy he is, unassuming, preferring me each day. So funny.
Then I try to pull it together enough to go down stairs. I usually delay until at least one big kid comes in (in this context, "big kid" is defined as someone old enough to carry a baby safely down stairs, at this point the line is drawn at sk6, who is almost 8 yrs old, and who, incidentally, carried newborn sk8 to the attic when he was 2.5 and she was 3 days old, 6 itty bitty lbs.) to help me get downstairs. Hopefully I brush my teeth, get fully dressed (days don't go well when I never get out of my jammies) and carry down supplies (the used up morning bottle, my phone, clothing for different babies) and a baby or two.
Breakfast at our house ranges from get your own cereal to home ground whole wheat pancakes, depending on mom's energy level, what supplies are on hand (e.g. do we have milk that is about to go bad), and if there is anywhere we have to go today. If I had a decent night's sleep and we aren't going anywhere, I make breakfast, usually 2-3 times a week. If there is a practice or doctor appointment later, or I'm tired or late coming downstairs, I ask each big kid to get their own and their buddy's breakfast. The oldest 7 can do their own cereal/instant oatmeal, and the two youngest already ate, so there are really only 3 requiring help, and their buddies are the big girls, so it works out ok. (not that the big boys can't help, it just isn't always their instinct as much as the girls)
Sk7 with help from 2 and 9 have breakfast kp (kitchen patrol) duties, getting dishes in the sink and wiping the table down. If supper didn't get cleaned up the night before (which happens) the supper kp people pitch in as well, sk 5 and 8. There are two tables to clean up, because we don't all fit at one.
When that magic is over, in my dreams I walk on the treadmill, with a kid (sk10, the one most likely to try to climb onto the treadmill while I use it) strapped on my back, but that hasn't actually happened yet, so we'll just pretend.
Then we do "family worship." Family worship includes some of the following elements, and sometimes all of them: Worship, lead by sk2 on guitar or sk4 on piano, with or without sk5 on djembe; Bible reading, either from the Bible or Egermeier's Bible Story book (and I frequently reinforce that even though they are Bible "stories", they are true because they are in the Bible); prayer time (one at a time, just me, just someone else, small groups like 'the kids on that couch', partners, buddies); listening to God time, sometimes written down, sometimes not, sometimes not shared; marching orders/pep talk for the day.
Then we have been going into 'group school'. We read our history, poetry, literature, science, from Sonlight curriculum - currently level 6, which works for a range of ages. It is not meant to work for 2nd through 9th, but I have not yet pulled off doing 2 cores without having Barney, Elmo and Martha the talking dog nanny my preschoolers. As it stands,they hang with us till they can't stand holding still and being quiet any longer, then they go play. If they play close by, it becomes a war of the decibels to see who lasts longer, their racket or my weakening vocal chords. If they go upstairs, we engage in covert ops from time to time, checking on their progress as they systematically dismantle the family closet or defile all the toothbrushes or empty previously full toilet paper rolls.
Bunny Trail: While I am not a blanket trainer (teaching small people to stay on a blanket, playing quietly, used by lots of big families, including the Duggars) I have experienced in recent years that small people can learn to be still and quiet(er) for a period of time. We started doing this when sk9 was small, well under a year, and my big kids did not enjoy the torture, as I required him to stay on my lap and still during family worship. But while we hated the process, we were all amazed when he sat still and quiet for an entire wedding. It can be done. Mrs. Duggar did it with twins and a toddler.
Usually there is just a little time between group school and lunch. All the older children (oldest 8) have varying degrees of individual work to get done throughout the day, and use their age-appropriate levels of responsibility to get it done, using the time before family worship and after group school and after lunch to make it happen. Which means, sk1 and 2 need almost no prompting, and 3 through 8 need something between little reminders to being beaten over the head with a 2 by 4 to get it done. (just kidding, no 2 by 4s were harmed in the raising of my children) This is what most of my life feels like it is about. Trying to get people to do their school and chores, to manage their time, to understand priorities and consequences, grrrr.
We have several 'helps' in place: chore charts, reward system, built in accountabilities (for example, sk3 has to help sk7 with math, neither can mark it off till it is done, so the big kid helps the little kid to be responsible, and vice versa), little privileges given to those who are done, and consequences of good things that don't happen or bad things that do for those who don't finish in time. But the battle is mine, it is agonizing, and exhausting, and I do not love it. It is, of course, penance for a lifetime of procrastination on my part. I deserve it. I will bear my cross, but between you (the world wide web) and me, I do not love it.
Sometime in the afternoon, children come to me and require me to do their spelling or phonics or whatever subject with them, so they can check it off their lists. I have tried having a more rigid schedule, but it seems to work better to have them come to me when they are ready. If two or three or four need me at the same time, I ask, 'is this all you have left?' and do the people farthest down on their list.
All of the children also have an item on their chart that says, simply, "HELP MOM." This is my catch-all. They ask, how can I help you mom, and I say go scrub the toilets with your fingernails, go wash the poopy diapers, do the dishes, hoist the mainsail, swab the deck, avast me hearties, aargh! Actually, I get to give them an age appropriate task that helps me out in a pinch and gives them the appearance of the attitude of helpfulness, or of a child who will help once only per day and that with the requirement of an imminent reward. (Mom: hand me that thing Kid: is THIS my help-mom? Mom: No, this is just part of you helping mom, you help mom all the time, this doesn't count as the only time you will be helpful today!)
Supper is the bane of my existence. (Oh, I forgot to mention lunch. Lunch is worse than breakfast - help yourself and your buddy - ramen noodles, sandwiches, leftovers, or on a rare day I make a round of bean burritos.) I know supper will happen each day, but mostly it sneaks up on me while I'm in the thick of getting the most resistant to finish school or am basking in the freedom required to do a little laundry or talk on the phone or fall asleep nursing on the couch. But inevitably breakfast, lunch and whatever snacking happens (woe to anyone who dares leave a box of cereal out, only to watch it disappear before our very eyes) wears off and people get hungry for supper, and Dad comes home from work and everyone has this expectation that there will be new food, not recycled leftovers, available for consumption by the masses.
So, ironically, after a day's penance for a life's procrastination, I again try to pull something delicious, cheap, healthy, and simple out of my butt, with sides, no less. Sometimes I pull it off. Sometimes I invent something horrible and pay for it by eating it for my lunch for a week. But we have a number of relatively simple standbys that are ready to be thrown together quickly, helped by having some precooked frozen packages of chicken, turkey, and ground beef in the freezer waiting to become part of a pot of chili, red or white, soup, or a casserole. Most people eat most of what I make, and I'm usually willing to let them make themselves a sandwich after trying what we're all having, because odds are, we don't have quite enough anyway.
After supper I am often too tired to make people clean up, and we make the nightly decision whether to sacrifice our children to the gods of electronic entertainment for the sake of world (or household anyway) peace or to actually parent them.
And then there is bed. On a good day, we read to everyone after teeth are brushed. On a really good day, we tuck them all in. And when we're feeling especially convicted, or when they are nervous because of a neighborhood fire or a movie we shouldn't have let them watch, or when we have something heavy on our hearts, or they're sick, we might actually pray with them.
Then we crash. Or do laundry. Or foolishly watch a movie. Or ignore each other while we putz on our various individual electronic devises, usually while nursing, and nodding off.
It's not that impressive, and I left a lot out. If you have questions, you can leave them in the comments, and maybe I'll answer them:) And if you are frightened or disgusted, well, there are lots of other blogs you can read. Lots.
This just in . . . I just saved my eldest daughter's life. She had a piece of popcorn husk lodged between two molars, down below the gum line, was in tears, Daddy tried to get it out with a knife to no avail, and I popped the little sucker out with a toothpick, with tears running down her cheeks. I AM the amazing supermom.
(disclaimer: this is what happens on an ideal day, and does not necessarily represent my together-ness on any actual given day)
A good day begins the night before, so, before I go to bed, I have the following things in order: I have a shirt ironed for my husband to wear to work, a double padded diaper on sk11 (child number 11), 4 diapers for sk12 (3 for night-time feedings, one for next morning), clean diapers for sk 11 and 10 for morning, and the makings of a dry bottle for sk11. If I'm really good, I've got my clothes laid out as well.
Morning is the hardest part of my day. On a typical morning I choose more sleep rather than a shower, so my morning begins with one of the three babies being brought to me, but usually I have two or all three pretty quickly. This is most tricky when sk10 comes first because she wants to nurse, but the new baby gets first dibs. Fairly often, if my big kids are sleeping, I can be found nursing 2 and giving a bottle to a third. I am stretched thin but very happy at these moments (can you say psycho/octomom?).
My husband and I pray briefly before he goes to work. This is a tiny but huge moment of connection between he and I and God and has made a huge difference in our marriage. It is funny, because every day he says, "do you want to pray?" and I say, "I ALWAYS want to pray" and then we do. I think, why not ask if I am ready or just say, "Let's pray." But that's the kind of guy he is, unassuming, preferring me each day. So funny.
Then I try to pull it together enough to go down stairs. I usually delay until at least one big kid comes in (in this context, "big kid" is defined as someone old enough to carry a baby safely down stairs, at this point the line is drawn at sk6, who is almost 8 yrs old, and who, incidentally, carried newborn sk8 to the attic when he was 2.5 and she was 3 days old, 6 itty bitty lbs.) to help me get downstairs. Hopefully I brush my teeth, get fully dressed (days don't go well when I never get out of my jammies) and carry down supplies (the used up morning bottle, my phone, clothing for different babies) and a baby or two.
Breakfast at our house ranges from get your own cereal to home ground whole wheat pancakes, depending on mom's energy level, what supplies are on hand (e.g. do we have milk that is about to go bad), and if there is anywhere we have to go today. If I had a decent night's sleep and we aren't going anywhere, I make breakfast, usually 2-3 times a week. If there is a practice or doctor appointment later, or I'm tired or late coming downstairs, I ask each big kid to get their own and their buddy's breakfast. The oldest 7 can do their own cereal/instant oatmeal, and the two youngest already ate, so there are really only 3 requiring help, and their buddies are the big girls, so it works out ok. (not that the big boys can't help, it just isn't always their instinct as much as the girls)
Sk7 with help from 2 and 9 have breakfast kp (kitchen patrol) duties, getting dishes in the sink and wiping the table down. If supper didn't get cleaned up the night before (which happens) the supper kp people pitch in as well, sk 5 and 8. There are two tables to clean up, because we don't all fit at one.
When that magic is over, in my dreams I walk on the treadmill, with a kid (sk10, the one most likely to try to climb onto the treadmill while I use it) strapped on my back, but that hasn't actually happened yet, so we'll just pretend.
Then we do "family worship." Family worship includes some of the following elements, and sometimes all of them: Worship, lead by sk2 on guitar or sk4 on piano, with or without sk5 on djembe; Bible reading, either from the Bible or Egermeier's Bible Story book (and I frequently reinforce that even though they are Bible "stories", they are true because they are in the Bible); prayer time (one at a time, just me, just someone else, small groups like 'the kids on that couch', partners, buddies); listening to God time, sometimes written down, sometimes not, sometimes not shared; marching orders/pep talk for the day.
Then we have been going into 'group school'. We read our history, poetry, literature, science, from Sonlight curriculum - currently level 6, which works for a range of ages. It is not meant to work for 2nd through 9th, but I have not yet pulled off doing 2 cores without having Barney, Elmo and Martha the talking dog nanny my preschoolers. As it stands,they hang with us till they can't stand holding still and being quiet any longer, then they go play. If they play close by, it becomes a war of the decibels to see who lasts longer, their racket or my weakening vocal chords. If they go upstairs, we engage in covert ops from time to time, checking on their progress as they systematically dismantle the family closet or defile all the toothbrushes or empty previously full toilet paper rolls.
Bunny Trail: While I am not a blanket trainer (teaching small people to stay on a blanket, playing quietly, used by lots of big families, including the Duggars) I have experienced in recent years that small people can learn to be still and quiet(er) for a period of time. We started doing this when sk9 was small, well under a year, and my big kids did not enjoy the torture, as I required him to stay on my lap and still during family worship. But while we hated the process, we were all amazed when he sat still and quiet for an entire wedding. It can be done. Mrs. Duggar did it with twins and a toddler.
Usually there is just a little time between group school and lunch. All the older children (oldest 8) have varying degrees of individual work to get done throughout the day, and use their age-appropriate levels of responsibility to get it done, using the time before family worship and after group school and after lunch to make it happen. Which means, sk1 and 2 need almost no prompting, and 3 through 8 need something between little reminders to being beaten over the head with a 2 by 4 to get it done. (just kidding, no 2 by 4s were harmed in the raising of my children) This is what most of my life feels like it is about. Trying to get people to do their school and chores, to manage their time, to understand priorities and consequences, grrrr.
We have several 'helps' in place: chore charts, reward system, built in accountabilities (for example, sk3 has to help sk7 with math, neither can mark it off till it is done, so the big kid helps the little kid to be responsible, and vice versa), little privileges given to those who are done, and consequences of good things that don't happen or bad things that do for those who don't finish in time. But the battle is mine, it is agonizing, and exhausting, and I do not love it. It is, of course, penance for a lifetime of procrastination on my part. I deserve it. I will bear my cross, but between you (the world wide web) and me, I do not love it.
Sometime in the afternoon, children come to me and require me to do their spelling or phonics or whatever subject with them, so they can check it off their lists. I have tried having a more rigid schedule, but it seems to work better to have them come to me when they are ready. If two or three or four need me at the same time, I ask, 'is this all you have left?' and do the people farthest down on their list.
All of the children also have an item on their chart that says, simply, "HELP MOM." This is my catch-all. They ask, how can I help you mom, and I say go scrub the toilets with your fingernails, go wash the poopy diapers, do the dishes, hoist the mainsail, swab the deck, avast me hearties, aargh! Actually, I get to give them an age appropriate task that helps me out in a pinch and gives them the appearance of the attitude of helpfulness, or of a child who will help once only per day and that with the requirement of an imminent reward. (Mom: hand me that thing Kid: is THIS my help-mom? Mom: No, this is just part of you helping mom, you help mom all the time, this doesn't count as the only time you will be helpful today!)
Supper is the bane of my existence. (Oh, I forgot to mention lunch. Lunch is worse than breakfast - help yourself and your buddy - ramen noodles, sandwiches, leftovers, or on a rare day I make a round of bean burritos.) I know supper will happen each day, but mostly it sneaks up on me while I'm in the thick of getting the most resistant to finish school or am basking in the freedom required to do a little laundry or talk on the phone or fall asleep nursing on the couch. But inevitably breakfast, lunch and whatever snacking happens (woe to anyone who dares leave a box of cereal out, only to watch it disappear before our very eyes) wears off and people get hungry for supper, and Dad comes home from work and everyone has this expectation that there will be new food, not recycled leftovers, available for consumption by the masses.
So, ironically, after a day's penance for a life's procrastination, I again try to pull something delicious, cheap, healthy, and simple out of my butt, with sides, no less. Sometimes I pull it off. Sometimes I invent something horrible and pay for it by eating it for my lunch for a week. But we have a number of relatively simple standbys that are ready to be thrown together quickly, helped by having some precooked frozen packages of chicken, turkey, and ground beef in the freezer waiting to become part of a pot of chili, red or white, soup, or a casserole. Most people eat most of what I make, and I'm usually willing to let them make themselves a sandwich after trying what we're all having, because odds are, we don't have quite enough anyway.
After supper I am often too tired to make people clean up, and we make the nightly decision whether to sacrifice our children to the gods of electronic entertainment for the sake of world (or household anyway) peace or to actually parent them.
And then there is bed. On a good day, we read to everyone after teeth are brushed. On a really good day, we tuck them all in. And when we're feeling especially convicted, or when they are nervous because of a neighborhood fire or a movie we shouldn't have let them watch, or when we have something heavy on our hearts, or they're sick, we might actually pray with them.
Then we crash. Or do laundry. Or foolishly watch a movie. Or ignore each other while we putz on our various individual electronic devises, usually while nursing, and nodding off.
It's not that impressive, and I left a lot out. If you have questions, you can leave them in the comments, and maybe I'll answer them:) And if you are frightened or disgusted, well, there are lots of other blogs you can read. Lots.
This just in . . . I just saved my eldest daughter's life. She had a piece of popcorn husk lodged between two molars, down below the gum line, was in tears, Daddy tried to get it out with a knife to no avail, and I popped the little sucker out with a toothpick, with tears running down her cheeks. I AM the amazing supermom.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Creme de la creme
On Wednesday nights, we drop off 9 children at Awana Bible club at a nearby church and then run errands with the three youngest. We talk about just having one of us stay home and the other one go to the stores, but neither wants to be the one to stay home, and I want so badly to have some time with my husband that I'd rather take 3 babies to Walmart or sit in the van with them while he runs into other stores than not go.
Which means, we walk around the stores with 3 very small people and attract sometimes a large amount of attention. Especially from Black people who notice our 11th child who is adopted and has beautiful brown skin.
To tell the truth, she has beautiful everything. She is stunning. Her eyes, her hair, her skin, her smile, her personality and temperament - she is exquisite. She could not be more spectacular in any way.
And people notice this, and comment. Of course, for those brave enough to ask, the first thing they want to know is why we have so many in a short span, and are we babysitting or fostering. But when the reality dawns on them, as it did last night when my husband said, no, they are all ours, they say something like, "Wow. Somebody gave up a beautiful baby."
And I feel bad about it. I feel guilty. Like it would be okay if I had adopted an ugly baby. But I didn't. I adopted the creme de la creme. The cream of the crop. She is as beautiful a baby as I have seen in my life. And she is the most pleasant, delightful, easy to parent baby we've ever had in our family.
It doesn't matter to the strangers who comment that we said yes to her before she was born. We knew she was a girl. That was all. When we walked into her birthmom's hospital room and met her for the first time, we were both struck by how beautiful she was. But it didn't matter. We were already committed at that point. Healthy, sick, weak, strong, physically, mentally, spiritually perfect or marred, we were in.
It is the same with our other children. We have 12 healthy, beautiful, wonderful children. People like to call us lucky. I don't believe in luck. Luck is a way we account for good or bad things without crediting or blaming God. To say God has given us 12 blessings is to acknowledge that He is also involved when someone tries to have children but doesn't, or has a miscarriage.
If someone survives a disaster and we say they were lucky, that's okay, because the people who didn't survive just weren't lucky. But if we say God protected them, we acknowledge that He allowed those who perished to do so. He didn't protect them.
No one is comfortable with the idea that God is involved in that way. Believers don't like to think about a God who gives to some and not to others. Luck is a much easier friend/villian. And some feel God is as unpredictable and unworthy of trust as is Luck.
How deeply involved is this God? Big things, small things? Stock market, tsunami, card games, ball games, regular season only, or championships as well?
I think He is very involved. I am uncertain what is caused and what is allowed, but the fact that He CAN prevent or protect or provide and sometimes doesn't makes that somewhat of a mute point. If He didn't cause Job's family and fortune to perish (and I think an argument could be made that He did pick that fight), but could have prevented it from happening, it makes precious little difference if He is passive or active - His passivity is itself an act of indifference.
Or is it?
This is what I am certain of.
1. God is good. He is only, always, ever good. He cannot be anything but what He is, and that is good.
2. He loves me. Not only that, He loves every single human He made. He IS love. He is a more true definition of love than any feeling or relationship or experience any of us have ever known. Every manifestation we know of the concept of love we know because of a creation of His that gives us a glimpse of love, but only a shadow.
3. All power is His. He is God. He can do anything. Nothing can oppose Him.
Since He is good, He is love, and has all power, I trust Him.
You might say, "Well that's easy for you, everything goes your way. You have healthy children and food to feed them and good health insurance." And that would be a legitimate point. Satan made it, regarding Job. Of course he trusts God, he has everything. But, take away his wealth, his children, his health, and then what will happen?
I don't want to take that test, but I hope I would pass.
I don't know why God has blessed me. I don't know why some ask for children and don't have them, but I have a full dozen. But I believe God gives them and knows what He is doing. Children are a blessing from the Lord, and the fruit of the womb is His reward.
As for our adopted treasure, we said yes. We showed up. A young woman was unintentionally pregnant and felt the best thing she could do for her daughter was to place her for adoption, and eventually decided the best place for her was in our family. She had every opportunity to change her mind. She didn't.
I don't want to spend my life apologizing for God's goodness in my life and trying to explain what He did or didn't do for someone else. He is good. In the end, every eye will see and every mind will know His goodness.
For now, I just have to say, yes, we are ridiculously and inexplicably blessed by God. Not only do we have an abundance of biological masterpieces, we also have the Mona Lisa of adopted babies. We said yes. Over and over, we have said yes.
Which means, we walk around the stores with 3 very small people and attract sometimes a large amount of attention. Especially from Black people who notice our 11th child who is adopted and has beautiful brown skin.
To tell the truth, she has beautiful everything. She is stunning. Her eyes, her hair, her skin, her smile, her personality and temperament - she is exquisite. She could not be more spectacular in any way.
And people notice this, and comment. Of course, for those brave enough to ask, the first thing they want to know is why we have so many in a short span, and are we babysitting or fostering. But when the reality dawns on them, as it did last night when my husband said, no, they are all ours, they say something like, "Wow. Somebody gave up a beautiful baby."
And I feel bad about it. I feel guilty. Like it would be okay if I had adopted an ugly baby. But I didn't. I adopted the creme de la creme. The cream of the crop. She is as beautiful a baby as I have seen in my life. And she is the most pleasant, delightful, easy to parent baby we've ever had in our family.
It doesn't matter to the strangers who comment that we said yes to her before she was born. We knew she was a girl. That was all. When we walked into her birthmom's hospital room and met her for the first time, we were both struck by how beautiful she was. But it didn't matter. We were already committed at that point. Healthy, sick, weak, strong, physically, mentally, spiritually perfect or marred, we were in.
It is the same with our other children. We have 12 healthy, beautiful, wonderful children. People like to call us lucky. I don't believe in luck. Luck is a way we account for good or bad things without crediting or blaming God. To say God has given us 12 blessings is to acknowledge that He is also involved when someone tries to have children but doesn't, or has a miscarriage.
If someone survives a disaster and we say they were lucky, that's okay, because the people who didn't survive just weren't lucky. But if we say God protected them, we acknowledge that He allowed those who perished to do so. He didn't protect them.
No one is comfortable with the idea that God is involved in that way. Believers don't like to think about a God who gives to some and not to others. Luck is a much easier friend/villian. And some feel God is as unpredictable and unworthy of trust as is Luck.
How deeply involved is this God? Big things, small things? Stock market, tsunami, card games, ball games, regular season only, or championships as well?
I think He is very involved. I am uncertain what is caused and what is allowed, but the fact that He CAN prevent or protect or provide and sometimes doesn't makes that somewhat of a mute point. If He didn't cause Job's family and fortune to perish (and I think an argument could be made that He did pick that fight), but could have prevented it from happening, it makes precious little difference if He is passive or active - His passivity is itself an act of indifference.
Or is it?
This is what I am certain of.
1. God is good. He is only, always, ever good. He cannot be anything but what He is, and that is good.
2. He loves me. Not only that, He loves every single human He made. He IS love. He is a more true definition of love than any feeling or relationship or experience any of us have ever known. Every manifestation we know of the concept of love we know because of a creation of His that gives us a glimpse of love, but only a shadow.
3. All power is His. He is God. He can do anything. Nothing can oppose Him.
Since He is good, He is love, and has all power, I trust Him.
You might say, "Well that's easy for you, everything goes your way. You have healthy children and food to feed them and good health insurance." And that would be a legitimate point. Satan made it, regarding Job. Of course he trusts God, he has everything. But, take away his wealth, his children, his health, and then what will happen?
I don't want to take that test, but I hope I would pass.
I don't know why God has blessed me. I don't know why some ask for children and don't have them, but I have a full dozen. But I believe God gives them and knows what He is doing. Children are a blessing from the Lord, and the fruit of the womb is His reward.
As for our adopted treasure, we said yes. We showed up. A young woman was unintentionally pregnant and felt the best thing she could do for her daughter was to place her for adoption, and eventually decided the best place for her was in our family. She had every opportunity to change her mind. She didn't.
I don't want to spend my life apologizing for God's goodness in my life and trying to explain what He did or didn't do for someone else. He is good. In the end, every eye will see and every mind will know His goodness.
For now, I just have to say, yes, we are ridiculously and inexplicably blessed by God. Not only do we have an abundance of biological masterpieces, we also have the Mona Lisa of adopted babies. We said yes. Over and over, we have said yes.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
To whom much is given . . .
much is required.
Sometimes I get discouraged. Sleep deprivation doesn't help. I am tired only partially due to a newborn. I also stayed up late doing laundry one night recently, and twice have stayed up to watch a movie with my husband (his love language=me watching a movie with him, not my preference, watched The Social Network, saw half of it one night because he watched it and I got sucked in, saw the rest last night because I had seen the other half and wanted to see the beginning).
Being with people who disapprove of my life and choices wears me down. Whether they are strangers, friends, or family, I have not learned the skill of not caring what people think.
(laughing out loud because I'm typing about being discouraged and overwhelmed while holding two babies)
Having sick children feels like failure. In the same way we begin to yearn for spring in the dead of winter, feeling like we'll never be warm again, I am longing for my children to be all healthy again. It's been the weirdest collection of symptoms without a diagnosis, all different things, just dribbling along. I don't mind little sick people all that much. I can clean up a bed full of vomit, diarrhea down the leg and on the floor, give a shower in the night to a croupy toddler or wipe little snotty noses all day and not mind too much. But having big kids laying around with a half fever, a wimpy appetite and a sort of sore throat is hard to deal with. I just want them to feel better.
Last night, I started a conversation with my husband with the question, "This doesn't seem to bother you, how do you handle it?" But our talk eventually moved toward the condition of my home school records and another thing to add to my too-long to-do list, and the sinking feeling that my husband thinks I'm not very impressive either.
Checking anything off that list feels great to me. This past weekend I hung up two laundry baskets full of shirts and matched two baskets full of socks. But child #10 frequently gets loose in the family closet and wants to wear everything she sees, whether it belongs to her or not. Small people put socks on feet and hands to become lions and tigers or ice skaters and there goes my carefully matched and jealously hoarded sock collection.
And the list of things to do is long, and many of the tasks require my full attention, which is so rare and precious, and that is discouraging too.
This assessment of the new normal can be discouraging. Each time a new little one comes home, I am astonished at how little time I really have to do anything with 2 hands and a brain. But this is a little different. Basically, for the first time in my long and glorious (or not) mothering career, I have come to a point where I have a hard time being alone with my smallest 3. I can do it, but it is hard, and, well, discouraging. Nursing a baby takes a lot of time. Nursing 2 babies takes longer. And nursing and bottle feeding and diaper changing and rinsing and washing and hanging and drying all my Bumgenius diapers (don't be impressed, could I honestly afford to put them all in disposables??) takes a whole lot of time. (And I should mention that holding a certain 6 month old is the aquatic equivalent of sitting on the front row at Sea World during the Free Willy show, you have to change your shirt or wear it wet.)
On the other hand, and this is the silliest thing, I feel so thankful at the silliest things. I feel like a dragon on a pile of gold sitting in my laundry room with all the diapers and clothes that God has provided for all the blessings God has given, sleeping in the beds God has also provided in the home He has given us, paid for with $$ from the job God has blessed my husband with. I am blessed. My cup runneth over. I don't want it to change. The Lord is my Shepherd - I shall not want.
He leads me beside the still waters. My children often bring me a big dripping cup of it. He makes me lie down in green pastures. My husband will soon be teaching our sons how to mow the green pastures. And my daughter is planning what to grow in her garden. He prepares a table before me in the presence of my enemies - I do not have to wait for a safe peaceful moment for restoration and nourishment. Right in the middle of chaos, insanity and various attacks, I find Him faithful and more awesome than I knew.
Goodness and mercy follow me, asking if they can have an orange, and can I peel it, or can they have some chocolate chips. And I will dwell in the house of the Lord, because I'd be lost without Him.
Sometimes I get discouraged. Sleep deprivation doesn't help. I am tired only partially due to a newborn. I also stayed up late doing laundry one night recently, and twice have stayed up to watch a movie with my husband (his love language=me watching a movie with him, not my preference, watched The Social Network, saw half of it one night because he watched it and I got sucked in, saw the rest last night because I had seen the other half and wanted to see the beginning).
Being with people who disapprove of my life and choices wears me down. Whether they are strangers, friends, or family, I have not learned the skill of not caring what people think.
(laughing out loud because I'm typing about being discouraged and overwhelmed while holding two babies)
Having sick children feels like failure. In the same way we begin to yearn for spring in the dead of winter, feeling like we'll never be warm again, I am longing for my children to be all healthy again. It's been the weirdest collection of symptoms without a diagnosis, all different things, just dribbling along. I don't mind little sick people all that much. I can clean up a bed full of vomit, diarrhea down the leg and on the floor, give a shower in the night to a croupy toddler or wipe little snotty noses all day and not mind too much. But having big kids laying around with a half fever, a wimpy appetite and a sort of sore throat is hard to deal with. I just want them to feel better.
Last night, I started a conversation with my husband with the question, "This doesn't seem to bother you, how do you handle it?" But our talk eventually moved toward the condition of my home school records and another thing to add to my too-long to-do list, and the sinking feeling that my husband thinks I'm not very impressive either.
Checking anything off that list feels great to me. This past weekend I hung up two laundry baskets full of shirts and matched two baskets full of socks. But child #10 frequently gets loose in the family closet and wants to wear everything she sees, whether it belongs to her or not. Small people put socks on feet and hands to become lions and tigers or ice skaters and there goes my carefully matched and jealously hoarded sock collection.
And the list of things to do is long, and many of the tasks require my full attention, which is so rare and precious, and that is discouraging too.
This assessment of the new normal can be discouraging. Each time a new little one comes home, I am astonished at how little time I really have to do anything with 2 hands and a brain. But this is a little different. Basically, for the first time in my long and glorious (or not) mothering career, I have come to a point where I have a hard time being alone with my smallest 3. I can do it, but it is hard, and, well, discouraging. Nursing a baby takes a lot of time. Nursing 2 babies takes longer. And nursing and bottle feeding and diaper changing and rinsing and washing and hanging and drying all my Bumgenius diapers (don't be impressed, could I honestly afford to put them all in disposables??) takes a whole lot of time. (And I should mention that holding a certain 6 month old is the aquatic equivalent of sitting on the front row at Sea World during the Free Willy show, you have to change your shirt or wear it wet.)
On the other hand, and this is the silliest thing, I feel so thankful at the silliest things. I feel like a dragon on a pile of gold sitting in my laundry room with all the diapers and clothes that God has provided for all the blessings God has given, sleeping in the beds God has also provided in the home He has given us, paid for with $$ from the job God has blessed my husband with. I am blessed. My cup runneth over. I don't want it to change. The Lord is my Shepherd - I shall not want.
He leads me beside the still waters. My children often bring me a big dripping cup of it. He makes me lie down in green pastures. My husband will soon be teaching our sons how to mow the green pastures. And my daughter is planning what to grow in her garden. He prepares a table before me in the presence of my enemies - I do not have to wait for a safe peaceful moment for restoration and nourishment. Right in the middle of chaos, insanity and various attacks, I find Him faithful and more awesome than I knew.
Goodness and mercy follow me, asking if they can have an orange, and can I peel it, or can they have some chocolate chips. And I will dwell in the house of the Lord, because I'd be lost without Him.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
It is time
My twins are about to turn 1 and 6 months. People are done bringing meals, mostly. It is time for me to begin eating more appropriately. I just want to go on record here. I am not talking about a psycho frantic crazy diet. I just need to eat things that are good for me and not eat things that are bad for me. Fruit, veggies, whole grains, lean meats, good dairy - all okay to eat. Chocolate, brownies, ice cream, cookies, refined grains, etc. - these I will save for birthdays, special occasions, not eat all day, every day, whatever I want, whenever I want it.
To review my reasons for wanting to eat healthier:
I want to weigh less than my husband (a lot less).
I want to not have high blood pressure.
I want to be a person my daughter (and all my children) can respect and imitate.
I want to feed my spiritual and emotional and physical needs with appropriate and healthy "food".
I want to feel better and be smaller.
Tomorrow may not be stellar, because I haven't shopped or planned for healthier eating. I will wait another week to start walking, I think.
Anyway, just wanted to go on record, going to start to try. Here goes.
To review my reasons for wanting to eat healthier:
I want to weigh less than my husband (a lot less).
I want to not have high blood pressure.
I want to be a person my daughter (and all my children) can respect and imitate.
I want to feed my spiritual and emotional and physical needs with appropriate and healthy "food".
I want to feel better and be smaller.
Tomorrow may not be stellar, because I haven't shopped or planned for healthier eating. I will wait another week to start walking, I think.
Anyway, just wanted to go on record, going to start to try. Here goes.
Friday, March 11, 2011
The amazing supermom rides again
Do you know what I did today?
I got up, nursed one baby, grabbed a shower, shaved pits and ankles, nursed another baby and fed another baby a bottle. I am the amazing supermom.
An hour later, I nursed a baby while flipping home made whole wheat chocolate chip pancakes (mine had pecans in them too). I am the amazing supermom.
At least once today I nursed two babies while giving a third a bottle. I am the amazing supermom.
This evening, I had a baby on my back in my Ergo, was nursing a baby while carrying the following: my water jug (empty), my phone and charger, a bag of wet cloth diapers, a small canister of formula, and a small trash can full (and overflowing) of poopy cloth diapers and soiled clothes . . . and came up stairs with all that. I am the amazing supermom.
I also won solitaire on my phone 5 times today.
This week we went to a drum lesson, a training set at the house of prayer, Awanas, the dentist, the allergist, and a friend's yard so my eldest son could pick up their dog's poop. We did most of our school most days and have most of our laundry clean and some of it put away. Wonderful people who love us are bringing meals every other day, but other than that, we are beginning to breathe and move on our own, and it feels good.
My husband and eldest are both eating in a healthy way, and I think I will join them sometime soon. For now, I'm enjoying the calories I think I deserve while nursing two, and the grace, as He gently leads this nursing ewe. And I'm enjoying all the little triumphs along the way.
I got up, nursed one baby, grabbed a shower, shaved pits and ankles, nursed another baby and fed another baby a bottle. I am the amazing supermom.
An hour later, I nursed a baby while flipping home made whole wheat chocolate chip pancakes (mine had pecans in them too). I am the amazing supermom.
At least once today I nursed two babies while giving a third a bottle. I am the amazing supermom.
This evening, I had a baby on my back in my Ergo, was nursing a baby while carrying the following: my water jug (empty), my phone and charger, a bag of wet cloth diapers, a small canister of formula, and a small trash can full (and overflowing) of poopy cloth diapers and soiled clothes . . . and came up stairs with all that. I am the amazing supermom.
I also won solitaire on my phone 5 times today.
This week we went to a drum lesson, a training set at the house of prayer, Awanas, the dentist, the allergist, and a friend's yard so my eldest son could pick up their dog's poop. We did most of our school most days and have most of our laundry clean and some of it put away. Wonderful people who love us are bringing meals every other day, but other than that, we are beginning to breathe and move on our own, and it feels good.
My husband and eldest are both eating in a healthy way, and I think I will join them sometime soon. For now, I'm enjoying the calories I think I deserve while nursing two, and the grace, as He gently leads this nursing ewe. And I'm enjoying all the little triumphs along the way.
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
Long day
At the end of a long tired day, I think I can call it a good day. A long day, a hard day, a stretched nearly to my limits day. The low point: when I dropped off the big four at the HOP and took the youngest eight home. I realized then how different 3 under 2 is from 2 under 2. Lots of neediness, lots of demand, not very helpful middle aged kids and an exhausted mommy. High point: when the eldest daughter told me I look pretty. I love that child so much. Love the rest too. Achy love, wanting so much to do the best job possible, wanting to draw them to Jesus, wanting to set a good example, wanting to train and inspire and nurture and encourage. The end of a long day of breaking up fights and instructing and teaching and admonishing and butt-kicking. Changed diapers, served meals, cleaned up, washed diapers, found the laundry room floor, nursed, fed bottles, taught school, drove around, gave snacks. A good day, I think. Will try again tomorrow.
Monday, March 07, 2011
Preparing to launch
Today is our last day of having Daddy home to help. Tomorrow is the beginning of "normal" life. Hmmn. Not that I intend to go at Supermom pace tomorrow or this week. If corporate chics get 6 weeks, I guess I can have a couple more days to get all oriented.
The problem with that idea, though, is that when a corporate chic takes 6 weeks, her co-workers don't take the time off with her. In fact, they all probably work harder because she isn't. If a school teacher takes maternity leave, there is a substitute teacher who takes her place in making sure everything happens as it is supposed to.
But for a home school mom, who calls in a sub? Who makes sure everything gets done? There is no relief pitcher. My children are fairly well trained, but they are, in the end, children. If they were capable of doing everything without me, they wouldn't need a mother.
So to some degree, I'm not really taking time off, because being their mother is my life, and it is a critical part of their lives. Instead, we will whittle it down to what my IT husband calls "the critical path". Math, spoons, socks. Diapers, food. Survival mode. And even survival mode is a stretch for us right now. T-minus 10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . .
"We don't have any apples, we don't have any oranges. Can we have orange soda?"
The problem with that idea, though, is that when a corporate chic takes 6 weeks, her co-workers don't take the time off with her. In fact, they all probably work harder because she isn't. If a school teacher takes maternity leave, there is a substitute teacher who takes her place in making sure everything happens as it is supposed to.
But for a home school mom, who calls in a sub? Who makes sure everything gets done? There is no relief pitcher. My children are fairly well trained, but they are, in the end, children. If they were capable of doing everything without me, they wouldn't need a mother.
So to some degree, I'm not really taking time off, because being their mother is my life, and it is a critical part of their lives. Instead, we will whittle it down to what my IT husband calls "the critical path". Math, spoons, socks. Diapers, food. Survival mode. And even survival mode is a stretch for us right now. T-minus 10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . .
"We don't have any apples, we don't have any oranges. Can we have orange soda?"
Friday, March 04, 2011
Whine and cheeze
I should have written this before I started feeling better. I wanted to talk about post partum wickedness when you are old and fat. I have tried to know if it takes longer to recover from childbirth now that I am older, or have had more children, and I'm not sure.
It is different. With a first or earlier babies, there is more tearing and tenderness where the baby comes out. The hard is in the initiation. First time nursing, first time giving birth, it's hard because you haven't done it before.
But with later deliveries, there are other challenges. There are afterbirth contractions, there is a stretched out uterus to get back to normal. There is an older body. Taking enough time to nurse well, taking care of myself, and especially, taking care of the other children. This was perhaps the biggest challenge for me this time.
When there is another baby who doesn't walk but who is way over the limit of what a new mom is supposed to carry, that is difficult. She doesn't need her mama less, she needs me just as much. And with the added challenge of a very insistant, still-nursing toddler, when I came home, I felt like I had given birth to three infants. And having this new boy who seemed to be peeing less, pooping less, I just was really questioning my adequacy for the job at hand. (especially when I couldn't lift anyone or go on the stairs without gushing - tip for postpartum stairs: go very very slow, slow for a snail, tedious for a turtle slow, take a step, rest for a while, fools the body, makes for quicker recovery)
Can I do this? Can I nurse 2? Can I give 3 littles the attention each needs? (I can hear the I-told-you-so's piling up - I told you, if you think I'm an idiot and bad mother, don't read my blog!) Can I discipline the preschoolers, teach the youngin's the 3 r's, give the hormonal ones therapy and help the high schooler with geometry proofs and chemistry? Will I ever go on a date again? Leave the house alone? Go to the store? Get my bangs cut?
I haven't gained a child, I've lost an arm. And my confidence. And my pluck.
But I haven't. Yesterday I started to feel human again. Today I am the little train that could. I only have one child more than I did 2 weeks ago. It's like an 8% increase. It will be okay. I'm not any more super than I was with 2 or 7 or 10 or 11 kids, but I'm not any less.
I still have access to the same resources, I still have the same counter-cultural values and beliefs. I can still do all things through Christ who strengthens me. So here's my new song (you can't hear the tune, of course). It does not pretend to be very original, but it is my theme song, anyway.
Jesus Christ, You are my strength
As I rise up today, You alone are all I need
The more that I abide in You,
The more that You are all I have,
The more that You are all I need
Teach me in the wilderness
To lean on You there
I don't care
I know You are all I need
Like manna in the wilderness
Take me away, till I say
Lord that You are all I need
You are my strength
You're my beloved
I can do all things
When I am in You
You are my bread
Your love sustains me
You satisfy me
When You are all I have
Because You are all I need
Strength in the wilderness, abiding in You . . .
It is different. With a first or earlier babies, there is more tearing and tenderness where the baby comes out. The hard is in the initiation. First time nursing, first time giving birth, it's hard because you haven't done it before.
But with later deliveries, there are other challenges. There are afterbirth contractions, there is a stretched out uterus to get back to normal. There is an older body. Taking enough time to nurse well, taking care of myself, and especially, taking care of the other children. This was perhaps the biggest challenge for me this time.
When there is another baby who doesn't walk but who is way over the limit of what a new mom is supposed to carry, that is difficult. She doesn't need her mama less, she needs me just as much. And with the added challenge of a very insistant, still-nursing toddler, when I came home, I felt like I had given birth to three infants. And having this new boy who seemed to be peeing less, pooping less, I just was really questioning my adequacy for the job at hand. (especially when I couldn't lift anyone or go on the stairs without gushing - tip for postpartum stairs: go very very slow, slow for a snail, tedious for a turtle slow, take a step, rest for a while, fools the body, makes for quicker recovery)
Can I do this? Can I nurse 2? Can I give 3 littles the attention each needs? (I can hear the I-told-you-so's piling up - I told you, if you think I'm an idiot and bad mother, don't read my blog!) Can I discipline the preschoolers, teach the youngin's the 3 r's, give the hormonal ones therapy and help the high schooler with geometry proofs and chemistry? Will I ever go on a date again? Leave the house alone? Go to the store? Get my bangs cut?
I haven't gained a child, I've lost an arm. And my confidence. And my pluck.
But I haven't. Yesterday I started to feel human again. Today I am the little train that could. I only have one child more than I did 2 weeks ago. It's like an 8% increase. It will be okay. I'm not any more super than I was with 2 or 7 or 10 or 11 kids, but I'm not any less.
I still have access to the same resources, I still have the same counter-cultural values and beliefs. I can still do all things through Christ who strengthens me. So here's my new song (you can't hear the tune, of course). It does not pretend to be very original, but it is my theme song, anyway.
Jesus Christ, You are my strength
As I rise up today, You alone are all I need
The more that I abide in You,
The more that You are all I have,
The more that You are all I need
Teach me in the wilderness
To lean on You there
I don't care
I know You are all I need
Like manna in the wilderness
Take me away, till I say
Lord that You are all I need
You are my strength
You're my beloved
I can do all things
When I am in You
You are my bread
Your love sustains me
You satisfy me
When You are all I have
Because You are all I need
Strength in the wilderness, abiding in You . . .
Thursday, March 03, 2011
The chromosome question . . . answered?
Knowing I would be induced, I thought a great deal about whether my baby was going to have Down syndrome. I obsessed about it. I was afraid of what it would mean, especially immediately after birth - if he would stay in the room with me, if he would nurse, if he would be in the NICU, if it would be different than my other babies' postpartum hospital stays. I know that is short sighted. I wasn't thinking about having Down syndrome for his whole life. Just the immediate future.
I was even concerned about if I would be able to focus during labor, or if I would be thinking all the time about whether he would have it. I needn't have worried. Labor is not about meeting your baby, it's not about ending a pregnancy, it is about labor only. Nothing else.
But when he was born, and was across the room with my husband and the nurse and the doctor and they were all talking, I could hear my ob pointing out all the reasons he didn't have it, and I was fine. I didn't care. I don't know if I would have cared if he did, but I didn't care that he didn't.
They walked across the room to weigh him, and I saw him, for the first time, on the scale, and I gasped at how big and healthy and gorgeous he was. And then they brought him over and I held him, and I wept for relief, just that he was alive and here and mine. And I told him how glad I was to see him and how I've been thinking of him all day and all night and how happy I was to finally meet him. And it had nothing to do with chromosomes.
In the next couple days at the hospital, I took inventory, and wished I was the kind of mama that always did that, but I'm not. I wished I had a couple other of my newborns to compare him to, but I didn't. Is the skin on the back of his neck thicker? Is the gap between his toes big? (Never mind that Jambo's big toe gap was so big, we said he had opposing big toes.) Do his ears seem low, (do they wobble . . . ) or small, or folded over? Is he like our other people? Well, no, he is himself. And all the time I usually spend trying to figure out who he looks like was spent trying to figure out if he looked like, well, like he had Down syndrome.
I don't think he does.
In the hospital, he didn't poop very often, but not concerning, and he didn't pee that much, but I didn't worry. When we came home, I got concerned about his output, started adding an ounce of formula, then pumped mama milk after feedings, to make sure he was taking enough in. Then the inevitable nursing strike came, a 3 hour argument between mom and son (I won). Then we did the old SNS with pumped milk for another day, but that is not sustainable. All the time wondering - is this Ds? Is he one of those kids that doesn't look like he has it, and doesn't seem like he has it, but has sluggish bowels and a weak suck?
But I don't think he has it. Tomorrow we will have blood drawn and an ultrasound on his "renal" system, to make sure, to get it off the radar, and out of my mind. But I am pretty sure it will be negative.
And I have peace. I am content. I do not know what the journey was for, and I don't need to know right now. I feel a tiny bit silly for dragging everyone there, but not a lot, because of the critical moment it is in the world of Down syndrome diagnoses. I think, if our potential has raised awareness for anyone, as it obviously has for us, then it is worth it.
I am nearer my God for the journey, and that is good. I am nearer my husband, and my children, and that is also good. And if, someday, God really does place one of those treasures in my womb or my heart and in my arms, that will also be very good.
He is always good. Even when He seems not to be, when He seems silent, or absent, or cruel (have you noticed my servant Job?) still He is good. He cannot be other than He is. And He is good.
I was even concerned about if I would be able to focus during labor, or if I would be thinking all the time about whether he would have it. I needn't have worried. Labor is not about meeting your baby, it's not about ending a pregnancy, it is about labor only. Nothing else.
But when he was born, and was across the room with my husband and the nurse and the doctor and they were all talking, I could hear my ob pointing out all the reasons he didn't have it, and I was fine. I didn't care. I don't know if I would have cared if he did, but I didn't care that he didn't.
They walked across the room to weigh him, and I saw him, for the first time, on the scale, and I gasped at how big and healthy and gorgeous he was. And then they brought him over and I held him, and I wept for relief, just that he was alive and here and mine. And I told him how glad I was to see him and how I've been thinking of him all day and all night and how happy I was to finally meet him. And it had nothing to do with chromosomes.
In the next couple days at the hospital, I took inventory, and wished I was the kind of mama that always did that, but I'm not. I wished I had a couple other of my newborns to compare him to, but I didn't. Is the skin on the back of his neck thicker? Is the gap between his toes big? (Never mind that Jambo's big toe gap was so big, we said he had opposing big toes.) Do his ears seem low, (do they wobble . . . ) or small, or folded over? Is he like our other people? Well, no, he is himself. And all the time I usually spend trying to figure out who he looks like was spent trying to figure out if he looked like, well, like he had Down syndrome.
I don't think he does.
In the hospital, he didn't poop very often, but not concerning, and he didn't pee that much, but I didn't worry. When we came home, I got concerned about his output, started adding an ounce of formula, then pumped mama milk after feedings, to make sure he was taking enough in. Then the inevitable nursing strike came, a 3 hour argument between mom and son (I won). Then we did the old SNS with pumped milk for another day, but that is not sustainable. All the time wondering - is this Ds? Is he one of those kids that doesn't look like he has it, and doesn't seem like he has it, but has sluggish bowels and a weak suck?
But I don't think he has it. Tomorrow we will have blood drawn and an ultrasound on his "renal" system, to make sure, to get it off the radar, and out of my mind. But I am pretty sure it will be negative.
And I have peace. I am content. I do not know what the journey was for, and I don't need to know right now. I feel a tiny bit silly for dragging everyone there, but not a lot, because of the critical moment it is in the world of Down syndrome diagnoses. I think, if our potential has raised awareness for anyone, as it obviously has for us, then it is worth it.
I am nearer my God for the journey, and that is good. I am nearer my husband, and my children, and that is also good. And if, someday, God really does place one of those treasures in my womb or my heart and in my arms, that will also be very good.
He is always good. Even when He seems not to be, when He seems silent, or absent, or cruel (have you noticed my servant Job?) still He is good. He cannot be other than He is. And He is good.
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
Birth stories, part 6
The arrival of Little Red
Winter, 2011
After being on blood pressure medication for 3 weeks, (Labetalol, 100mg 2x/day {8am and 4 pm} to 200mg 2x/day to 200 mg 3x/day, in case anyone needs to know) and having my blood drawn each week, the doc said my ldh (a liver enzyme) was steadily going up. This is what happened with my 8th, but it was high enough at 37wks3days to induce. This time, we had kept it at bay and it was just on the line at 38 wks. So I agreed, to my ob's delight, to be induced the day before my due date.
I was divided about this, for several reasons: my 39 wk blood draw showed my ldh had actually gone down to under the limit, for obvious reasons I prefer not to be induced, and I didn't want to play God and let my impatience take over. On the other hand, my doctor and husband both felt good about going ahead, not waiting to get sicker, not waiting to have to do it.
So, after a weekend of knowing it was going to happen (first scheduled induction in 6 kids or so, that was weird - knowing this is our last ______ before Dozer, last popcorn and candy night, last time going to church, etc.), we got the call Tuesday morning. They had said we would go in by 9 or 10. We got the call at 5:45, to be there at 7:30! My plan of having a good breakfast was out the window. I tried to choke down a hastily made turkey sandwich (gag) and part of a bagel but my mouth was nervous and my stomach wasn't interested - but I never missed it.
At my last visit I had measured 2 cm and 60% effaced. So I was hoping for a 3 the morning of the induction. No. I was 1-2. Hmmn. My nurses were all named Sue, and the main one was a good one, one of the tough ones who has been there a long time and knows her stuff. That was good. We did the briefing, a resident came in and acknowledged that it was possible she would deliver the baby, if things went fast at the end, that was nice. Dr. Brooke.
They hooked me up to the pitocin and I had contractions for about 3 hours, some that got my attention, but not very consistent. I tried to rest, but was nervous and excited. We watched TV some during this time, I had cranberry juice, it was okay. Around 12 I was at 3 (which was nice, to have gained a little without too much pain) and my doc asked to have my water broken. Now I know this is controversial, and I don't know if perhaps it would have been better otherwise. There is a part of me that would love to be in that natural, labor-at-home, no-intervention camp, but I've had enough issues with blood pressure, etc., not to have that option, and I can't afford to get bent out of shape when things don't go my way. They don't always, and that's okay too.
Water broken, pretty soon the contractions picked up and before long I was having to work. I leaned over the back of my sat-up bed, which worked well during contractions but not between them, and they were far enough apart that there was some time between them. (In fact, they were never ever really closer together than 3 minutes, consistently anyway.) So my nurse was a fan of the birthing ball, and I did that for a while. I was a little chicken of it, because, um, well, I'm short and fat and was not sure I could keep my balance, but hubby sat behind me and it worked okay. I found the more I hurt, the bigger area I needed to rock and roll on that ball. So at first he was right behind me and I was pushed up next to the bed. Then I backed up and he backed up and the ball made "much bigger circle". (Fiddler on the Roof)
When I am in good hard labor, I do not like to be touched. So my poor husband is asking if he can do anything, and I know people who have counter pressure and back rubbing and I just don't want any part of it. We have a joke, from The Apple Dumplin' Gang, I just say, "Clovis don't like to be touched," and he understands.
At 2 o'clock, I was at 5. From then on, it felt like transition could happen any time. Now that may sound silly, but my transition from 5 to pushing has gone fairly quickly in the past, sometimes, and this was no different, eventually. But not for a while. I kept asking to be checked, and kept being a 5, kept crying wolf, kept feeling stupid. And I wouldn't care, except that I wanted my doctor to be there. But I didn't want him to have to leave patients during office hours only to come stand outside and wait for a long time - and I didn't know. So after about 2 hours of being at 5, I agreed to an epidural. I wasn't progressing. The contractions were wicked, but not long enough or close enough, and I knew I was going to need more pitocin (was at 11) and didn't think I could take it. He wasn't coming down, I was doing everything I knew to do but couldn't relax and suspected an epidural would do the trick.
The thing I had wanted to avoid regarding an epidural was the sit in bed all day and do nothing, don't move, stuck baby with a bruise on her head kind of epidural. So I was okay with getting one here, knowing it wouldn't be long. On the other hand, I was very nervous that I would go through all the trauma of having one placed but not get medicated in time to push. Yeah.
So the anesthesiologist came, I got on the side of the bed in a little ball (not too uncomfortable, if you're not having CONTRACTIONS!)(but I was), and she got it in, except that it went into a vein, which is apparently not where you want it. So she pulled it out and started over. And all the time, I am more and more sure she's not going to get it in in time. And all I could think was, "I just want to have ONE contraction I don't feel, just ONE.
As you can guess, I didn't even get one. I got on my back, they started giving me medicine. With each contraction I kept asking (whining), how much longer do you think it will take? And they kept saying ridiculous things like, 10 to 15 minutes. I think I was just deciding whether to relax, or wait for the pain to stop, and finally something in me clicked and said, the heck with it, I'm pushing. (And the nurse checked me right in the middle of that moment I think and realized it was too late.)
So I said the magic words we had all been waiting for for 2 hours - "I need to push." She said, "don't push." I said, "I'm pushing." And she said, "I know you are honey." Little Red was half way out and they said, now you really have to push, so I did a mighty push and my son came out on the bed. Dr. Brooke came in quickly and did all the uncomfortable things they do right after you have a baby, and I felt a whole lot of it, but I think some of the epidural had kicked in a little.
Red (red hair, red skin - neither will stay that way) was over with Daddy and the nurse being checked out, doing well, but I couldn't see him and didn't know really what was going on, just kicking myself for getting another stupid epidural that we have to pay for but I got no benefit from whatsoever. Oh well, I say. It distracted me through the last leg, maybe relaxed me a bit, maybe got me in a better position . . . in the end, I have a son, I had him naturally, without drugs, and he is marvelous. 8 lb 4 oz, right in the middle of my boys, bigger than any of my girls.
After all my labors I like the line from the end of the movie Hook, that the little guy says when Pan is flying away: Now that was a great game.
Winter, 2011
After being on blood pressure medication for 3 weeks, (Labetalol, 100mg 2x/day {8am and 4 pm} to 200mg 2x/day to 200 mg 3x/day, in case anyone needs to know) and having my blood drawn each week, the doc said my ldh (a liver enzyme) was steadily going up. This is what happened with my 8th, but it was high enough at 37wks3days to induce. This time, we had kept it at bay and it was just on the line at 38 wks. So I agreed, to my ob's delight, to be induced the day before my due date.
I was divided about this, for several reasons: my 39 wk blood draw showed my ldh had actually gone down to under the limit, for obvious reasons I prefer not to be induced, and I didn't want to play God and let my impatience take over. On the other hand, my doctor and husband both felt good about going ahead, not waiting to get sicker, not waiting to have to do it.
So, after a weekend of knowing it was going to happen (first scheduled induction in 6 kids or so, that was weird - knowing this is our last ______ before Dozer, last popcorn and candy night, last time going to church, etc.), we got the call Tuesday morning. They had said we would go in by 9 or 10. We got the call at 5:45, to be there at 7:30! My plan of having a good breakfast was out the window. I tried to choke down a hastily made turkey sandwich (gag) and part of a bagel but my mouth was nervous and my stomach wasn't interested - but I never missed it.
At my last visit I had measured 2 cm and 60% effaced. So I was hoping for a 3 the morning of the induction. No. I was 1-2. Hmmn. My nurses were all named Sue, and the main one was a good one, one of the tough ones who has been there a long time and knows her stuff. That was good. We did the briefing, a resident came in and acknowledged that it was possible she would deliver the baby, if things went fast at the end, that was nice. Dr. Brooke.
They hooked me up to the pitocin and I had contractions for about 3 hours, some that got my attention, but not very consistent. I tried to rest, but was nervous and excited. We watched TV some during this time, I had cranberry juice, it was okay. Around 12 I was at 3 (which was nice, to have gained a little without too much pain) and my doc asked to have my water broken. Now I know this is controversial, and I don't know if perhaps it would have been better otherwise. There is a part of me that would love to be in that natural, labor-at-home, no-intervention camp, but I've had enough issues with blood pressure, etc., not to have that option, and I can't afford to get bent out of shape when things don't go my way. They don't always, and that's okay too.
Water broken, pretty soon the contractions picked up and before long I was having to work. I leaned over the back of my sat-up bed, which worked well during contractions but not between them, and they were far enough apart that there was some time between them. (In fact, they were never ever really closer together than 3 minutes, consistently anyway.) So my nurse was a fan of the birthing ball, and I did that for a while. I was a little chicken of it, because, um, well, I'm short and fat and was not sure I could keep my balance, but hubby sat behind me and it worked okay. I found the more I hurt, the bigger area I needed to rock and roll on that ball. So at first he was right behind me and I was pushed up next to the bed. Then I backed up and he backed up and the ball made "much bigger circle". (Fiddler on the Roof)
When I am in good hard labor, I do not like to be touched. So my poor husband is asking if he can do anything, and I know people who have counter pressure and back rubbing and I just don't want any part of it. We have a joke, from The Apple Dumplin' Gang, I just say, "Clovis don't like to be touched," and he understands.
At 2 o'clock, I was at 5. From then on, it felt like transition could happen any time. Now that may sound silly, but my transition from 5 to pushing has gone fairly quickly in the past, sometimes, and this was no different, eventually. But not for a while. I kept asking to be checked, and kept being a 5, kept crying wolf, kept feeling stupid. And I wouldn't care, except that I wanted my doctor to be there. But I didn't want him to have to leave patients during office hours only to come stand outside and wait for a long time - and I didn't know. So after about 2 hours of being at 5, I agreed to an epidural. I wasn't progressing. The contractions were wicked, but not long enough or close enough, and I knew I was going to need more pitocin (was at 11) and didn't think I could take it. He wasn't coming down, I was doing everything I knew to do but couldn't relax and suspected an epidural would do the trick.
The thing I had wanted to avoid regarding an epidural was the sit in bed all day and do nothing, don't move, stuck baby with a bruise on her head kind of epidural. So I was okay with getting one here, knowing it wouldn't be long. On the other hand, I was very nervous that I would go through all the trauma of having one placed but not get medicated in time to push. Yeah.
So the anesthesiologist came, I got on the side of the bed in a little ball (not too uncomfortable, if you're not having CONTRACTIONS!)(but I was), and she got it in, except that it went into a vein, which is apparently not where you want it. So she pulled it out and started over. And all the time, I am more and more sure she's not going to get it in in time. And all I could think was, "I just want to have ONE contraction I don't feel, just ONE.
As you can guess, I didn't even get one. I got on my back, they started giving me medicine. With each contraction I kept asking (whining), how much longer do you think it will take? And they kept saying ridiculous things like, 10 to 15 minutes. I think I was just deciding whether to relax, or wait for the pain to stop, and finally something in me clicked and said, the heck with it, I'm pushing. (And the nurse checked me right in the middle of that moment I think and realized it was too late.)
So I said the magic words we had all been waiting for for 2 hours - "I need to push." She said, "don't push." I said, "I'm pushing." And she said, "I know you are honey." Little Red was half way out and they said, now you really have to push, so I did a mighty push and my son came out on the bed. Dr. Brooke came in quickly and did all the uncomfortable things they do right after you have a baby, and I felt a whole lot of it, but I think some of the epidural had kicked in a little.
Red (red hair, red skin - neither will stay that way) was over with Daddy and the nurse being checked out, doing well, but I couldn't see him and didn't know really what was going on, just kicking myself for getting another stupid epidural that we have to pay for but I got no benefit from whatsoever. Oh well, I say. It distracted me through the last leg, maybe relaxed me a bit, maybe got me in a better position . . . in the end, I have a son, I had him naturally, without drugs, and he is marvelous. 8 lb 4 oz, right in the middle of my boys, bigger than any of my girls.
After all my labors I like the line from the end of the movie Hook, that the little guy says when Pan is flying away: Now that was a great game.
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
upcoming episodes
Look for coming episodes in the Adventures of the Amazing Super Mom, including . . .
The Amazing Super Mom gives birth for the eleventh time to her 12th child
Unlocking the mystery of the extra chromosome
Whine and cheeze, a really old chic complains about the impact of being old and fat on postpartum recovery
The continuing adventures of the supermom and her minions as they attempt to finish the school year with 3 children under the age of 2
. . . sorry no adventures today, but two-handedness is an extremely precious commodity . . . and my butt hurts.
The Amazing Super Mom gives birth for the eleventh time to her 12th child
Unlocking the mystery of the extra chromosome
Whine and cheeze, a really old chic complains about the impact of being old and fat on postpartum recovery
The continuing adventures of the supermom and her minions as they attempt to finish the school year with 3 children under the age of 2
. . . sorry no adventures today, but two-handedness is an extremely precious commodity . . . and my butt hurts.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)