Before I get all selfish and focused on the parade being prepared in my honor as the amazing supermom of 12 seen and one wriggling invisible blessings, I must needs give honor where honor is due.
I honor my mother, who taught me to seek God, to write neatly, to finish a job and to pee on the pot. She gave birth to me, agonized over me, no doubt prayed many an hour for me, and poured her life into me, neglecting her own needs almost constantly. She kept me clothed, fed, busy, happy and healthy for years, doing all the jobs that now occupy the better part of my days. And she loves me. Up one side and down the other, she is, as she says, "in my balcony."
I honor my mother in law, the woman who gave birth to the man who has made my dreams come true. One thing I desired in a husband was a man who had a good relationship with his mother, and I am so thankful to have that. She was and is a phenomenal mother and now grandmother. She does everything a mother is supposed to do with excellence, keeping her house, preparing meals, birthday cards, gifts, weeping and laughing with her children and grandchildren, feeling their pain and rejoicing in their triumph. She is a terrific mom.
Finally, I honor the incredibly beautiful and wonderful birthmother of my youngest daughter. She chose, at great physical and emotional cost to herself, to give her baby what she believed was the very best life possible, and had faith in us to provide that for her. She has confirmed again and again her belief that this was the best decision for the little girl we both love. I am daily stunned and overwhelmed by the gift she and the Lord bestowed on us. The little face and smile and laugh and hugs and words, hearing her say Mama and seeing her dance and play, all are a reward that someone else earned and gave freely to me. Her birthmother. Her first mother. What an incredible woman! I will and must always esteem her highly.
Happy Mother's Day to these three women who give my joy wings. Thank you. I owe you all the world.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
Knowing Him, continued
Philippians 3 has always been one of my 2 favorite chapters of the Bible (the other is Ps. 139)
Whatsoever things were gain to me, those things I have counted as loss . . . that I may gain Christ . . . that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of His sufferings . . . Not that I have already obtained it or have already become perfect, but I press on so that I may lay hold of that for which also I was laid hold of by Christ Jesus. Brethren, I do not regard myself as having laid hold of it yet; but one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.
I love that stuff. I think I was always impressed that Paul, while writing the Bible, said he didn't have it yet, but was pressing on. That's humility. But for the first time, I was struck by the next part of the passage:
Let us therefore, as many as are perfect, have this attitude . . . For many walk, of whom I often told you, and now tell you even weeping, that they are enemies of the cross of Christ, whose end is destruction, whose god is their appetite, and whose glory is in their shame, who set their minds on earthly things.
I'm leaving parts out for brevity's sake (you can look up the whole chapter if you want to). But he is saying that we should have this attitude, and that of those who don't have it, many have become enemies of the cross. What attitude? The attitude of pressing in to know Christ, of calling everything garbage compared to knowing Jesus. That's what I think anyway.
As I said in my last post, I have recently been struck by 1) the number of young people who have been brought up before the Lord and have walked away; 2) the condition of the kids my kids have grown up around - kids who have seemed to be in a good place, but for whom I see a slow creep; and 3) the condition of my kids, who I think walk near to the Lord because they are near to their dad and me, and we are near Him, but I find myself asking the question, "Do they know Him?"
Because every waking moment, every home school hour logged, every diaper changed, every contraction in every labor is all grief if one of my jewels doesn't know the One who made them in His image.
So what is my response to all this heaviness?
Well, I'm praying and will pray and then will continue in prayer.
Also, I'm going to continue to and increase in my efforts to bathe them in the Word of God.
And I'm talking to them about it, challenging them. I cannot control their response, but I am showing the question. The Matrix's blue and red pill are out on the coffee table (figuratively - we don't have a coffee table, and if we had pills sitting out, someone would eat them).
ALL things are rubbish in view of knowing Christ.
Whatsoever things were gain to me, those things I have counted as loss . . . that I may gain Christ . . . that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of His sufferings . . . Not that I have already obtained it or have already become perfect, but I press on so that I may lay hold of that for which also I was laid hold of by Christ Jesus. Brethren, I do not regard myself as having laid hold of it yet; but one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.
I love that stuff. I think I was always impressed that Paul, while writing the Bible, said he didn't have it yet, but was pressing on. That's humility. But for the first time, I was struck by the next part of the passage:
Let us therefore, as many as are perfect, have this attitude . . . For many walk, of whom I often told you, and now tell you even weeping, that they are enemies of the cross of Christ, whose end is destruction, whose god is their appetite, and whose glory is in their shame, who set their minds on earthly things.
I'm leaving parts out for brevity's sake (you can look up the whole chapter if you want to). But he is saying that we should have this attitude, and that of those who don't have it, many have become enemies of the cross. What attitude? The attitude of pressing in to know Christ, of calling everything garbage compared to knowing Jesus. That's what I think anyway.
As I said in my last post, I have recently been struck by 1) the number of young people who have been brought up before the Lord and have walked away; 2) the condition of the kids my kids have grown up around - kids who have seemed to be in a good place, but for whom I see a slow creep; and 3) the condition of my kids, who I think walk near to the Lord because they are near to their dad and me, and we are near Him, but I find myself asking the question, "Do they know Him?"
Because every waking moment, every home school hour logged, every diaper changed, every contraction in every labor is all grief if one of my jewels doesn't know the One who made them in His image.
So what is my response to all this heaviness?
Well, I'm praying and will pray and then will continue in prayer.
Also, I'm going to continue to and increase in my efforts to bathe them in the Word of God.
And I'm talking to them about it, challenging them. I cannot control their response, but I am showing the question. The Matrix's blue and red pill are out on the coffee table (figuratively - we don't have a coffee table, and if we had pills sitting out, someone would eat them).
ALL things are rubbish in view of knowing Christ.
Tuesday, May 08, 2012
I KNOW HIM!
typing with left hand, 2 curly haired girls on my lap, no kidding. my 3rd attempt at sugar free brownies is in the oven, but i can already tell you i used too much sweetener. (girls just went to play)
My older class of group school (age 11-14) and I have been reading a book called "But don't all religions lead to God?" or something like that. It's a great book. We've been enjoying it immensely. But yesterday we talked about something that has got me thinking, and I haven't stopped thinking about it. I shall attempt to talk about it here.
There is a scene in the movie "Elf" when Will Farrell is at the "North Pole" a.k.a. the gift wrapping department of Gilbert's or whatever the store is. The manager makes an announcement that Santa is coming, and Buddy (Will Farrell, who plays a human that grew up at the actual North Pole, raised by one of Santa's elves) goes ballistic. "I know him!! I know him," he shouts over and over. Everyone else is like, um, yeah. But Buddy the Elf is ecstatic, because he has a relationship with the actual Santa.
The book talked about how Jesus is unique in His claim to live in us, to be known by us. The Holy Spirit, after Jesus' ascension, reveals Jesus to us and makes it possible for us to KNOW Him. We don't just know about Him. We know Him!
If we are simply trying to live a good life according the Christian version of what a good life is, it is still dead works. It is still man trying to get to God. It is still religion. Even if it is the right religion, man trying to do the right thing so God will like him is not salvation. Salvation is receiving grace, knowing Him, living an entirely different way because we love Him and want to please Him.
If we say a prayer asking Jesus into our hearts, saying the right words, but have not come to know Him, have not been made new, have not been transformed, and are just trying to live up to the pressure of a new set of rules, that is not the narrow way. (by the way, much of this thought came from that sermon I watched on youtube by Paul Washer - sorry for the regurgitation) The evidence of our salvation is a transformed life because we have been changed by Love and want to please the One Who loves us.
What bothered me about the conversation with my kids was realizing that they very well may be going through their lives trying to do what is right out of relationship, but not relationship with HIM. They may just be living out their faith out of relationship with me. And I'm looking at other young people, their generation, and wondering, do they KNOW HIM? Are they just living out the way they were brought up, trying to do what's right, or do they have a real relationship with their living Lord?
Because my kids just doing what's right may look good, may make me look like I'm doing a good job, but if they don't KNOW HIM, it won't last. Or maybe it will. But if they meet Him one day and He says, "Depart from Me, I never knew you," what good is it? If they are successfully religious for their whole lives but never have a relationship with Him, what good does it do?
Not any. I want one thing for my children. Only one. I want them to know Him. I don't care about anything else. I don't care what it costs. I don't care what it looks like. I want them to know Him. If they are happily married and have lots of wonderful children and have a nice house and have great jobs and great educations and are great cooks and have lovely manicured yards and play lots of instruments and write songs and record cds, but don't know Him, it will be for naught. If they have a failure of a life and a string of heartaches but know Jesus, that will be a win. I'd rather have them be happy AND know Jesus. But I'd rather they find Jesus in the middle of difficulty than have a life of ease and happiness and never know Him.
And the brownies were too sweet in an aftertastey kind of way.
My older class of group school (age 11-14) and I have been reading a book called "But don't all religions lead to God?" or something like that. It's a great book. We've been enjoying it immensely. But yesterday we talked about something that has got me thinking, and I haven't stopped thinking about it. I shall attempt to talk about it here.
There is a scene in the movie "Elf" when Will Farrell is at the "North Pole" a.k.a. the gift wrapping department of Gilbert's or whatever the store is. The manager makes an announcement that Santa is coming, and Buddy (Will Farrell, who plays a human that grew up at the actual North Pole, raised by one of Santa's elves) goes ballistic. "I know him!! I know him," he shouts over and over. Everyone else is like, um, yeah. But Buddy the Elf is ecstatic, because he has a relationship with the actual Santa.
The book talked about how Jesus is unique in His claim to live in us, to be known by us. The Holy Spirit, after Jesus' ascension, reveals Jesus to us and makes it possible for us to KNOW Him. We don't just know about Him. We know Him!
If we are simply trying to live a good life according the Christian version of what a good life is, it is still dead works. It is still man trying to get to God. It is still religion. Even if it is the right religion, man trying to do the right thing so God will like him is not salvation. Salvation is receiving grace, knowing Him, living an entirely different way because we love Him and want to please Him.
If we say a prayer asking Jesus into our hearts, saying the right words, but have not come to know Him, have not been made new, have not been transformed, and are just trying to live up to the pressure of a new set of rules, that is not the narrow way. (by the way, much of this thought came from that sermon I watched on youtube by Paul Washer - sorry for the regurgitation) The evidence of our salvation is a transformed life because we have been changed by Love and want to please the One Who loves us.
What bothered me about the conversation with my kids was realizing that they very well may be going through their lives trying to do what is right out of relationship, but not relationship with HIM. They may just be living out their faith out of relationship with me. And I'm looking at other young people, their generation, and wondering, do they KNOW HIM? Are they just living out the way they were brought up, trying to do what's right, or do they have a real relationship with their living Lord?
Because my kids just doing what's right may look good, may make me look like I'm doing a good job, but if they don't KNOW HIM, it won't last. Or maybe it will. But if they meet Him one day and He says, "Depart from Me, I never knew you," what good is it? If they are successfully religious for their whole lives but never have a relationship with Him, what good does it do?
Not any. I want one thing for my children. Only one. I want them to know Him. I don't care about anything else. I don't care what it costs. I don't care what it looks like. I want them to know Him. If they are happily married and have lots of wonderful children and have a nice house and have great jobs and great educations and are great cooks and have lovely manicured yards and play lots of instruments and write songs and record cds, but don't know Him, it will be for naught. If they have a failure of a life and a string of heartaches but know Jesus, that will be a win. I'd rather have them be happy AND know Jesus. But I'd rather they find Jesus in the middle of difficulty than have a life of ease and happiness and never know Him.
And the brownies were too sweet in an aftertastey kind of way.
Friday, May 04, 2012
Kryptonite
I've been eating lots of refined birthday carbs and have pretty much lost vision of what the heck I'm supposed to be eating. I have my four cherished and beloved nieces here, which amounts to 8 kids under the age of 7 here, or eleven under the age of 10, with a grand total of 16 children. Number ten has a pretty horrendous case of chicken pox and the babies have GOT to be coming down with it, as there is much fever and whininess going on. Soccer got rained out halfway through. There is dog hair everywhere in the world. I'm heading toward my third trimester, which today means I'm wretchedly hormonal AND have half the energy of a narcoleptic three toed sloth.
The Amazing Supermom has reached the end of her rope.
The babies spread the Q-tips all over the bathroom floor. The 4 preschool girls keep getting into the pre-teen girls "Stuff" and causing hormonal eruptions. And we are still beating down the door of trying to get school done before the annual trip to Grandma's house.
If I were not pregnant, liked the taste of alcohol, and didn't morally object to it, I would get good and drunk tonight.
My family is spending the evening doing what they do on Fridays, Popcorn, Candy, Movie night with Dad in the attic. I'm spending the evening trying to find the bottom of the sink, the kitchen counter, and washing out my procrastinator's pile of poop filled diapers.
Today I made myself a horrible attempt at sugar free brownies. I used a banana and part of an apple and whole wheat flour and oatmeal and frankly, it tasted horrible. I had to put honey on it to eat it. But I did. I ate the whole dang thing. I don't feel too bad, there really wasn't anything in it to feel bad about, except the calories, of course.
So I need to somehow regain my superpowers. Where in heaven's name is the bright side?
Well, one bright side is the snuggles that come with sick babies. And that goes along with my lethargy pretty well. I don't feel like doing anything, and my babies just want to be held. Lucky me. Sitting on the couch with one feverish kid and one spotted feverish kid works pretty well (never you mind what havoc is being wreeked elsewhere in the house).
Did I mention that the garbage disposal exploded in the mouse poop filled cabinet last night? I think mouse poop is my Kryptonite. Either that or fighting children. Both weaken me. There is mouse poop in the corner of the 1st floor bathroom. I get shorter and more discouraged everytime I go in there. And when my children are hateful - today it was about a drawing contest - it breaks my heart. Instead of doing math or chores or whatever, they were drawing pictures of dinosaurs/dragons/monsters with markers, and one poor child (sucker) was stuck judging the pictures and was therefore the object of the hatred of all the losers. And hearing them use words and tone of voice to cut each other to ribbons just.makes.me.so.sad. How do I convey to them that when they cut each other they cut me? They cut themselves. They cut our family.
Given a choice, I guess I'd rather have mouse poop.
Of course, none of this is anything. My friend's daughter has leukemia. Someone I know about on facebook lost their premature son today. Another dear one found out yesterday that her husband is having an affair. I have nothing to complain about. I'm fat. I'm overwhelmed. So what? My kid has a virus that will be gone soon, she'll have successfully built immunity, and will barely remember.
More importantly, I have easy access to the One Who loves me best, Who leads me, Who is faithful to meet me at my need. I need to take a swim in That Ocean. I need to lean back again into Those Arms. I think I'll have a chat with my Beloved while I clean out the diapers tonight. See if I can shake off the effects of the Kryptonite.
The Amazing Supermom has reached the end of her rope.
The babies spread the Q-tips all over the bathroom floor. The 4 preschool girls keep getting into the pre-teen girls "Stuff" and causing hormonal eruptions. And we are still beating down the door of trying to get school done before the annual trip to Grandma's house.
If I were not pregnant, liked the taste of alcohol, and didn't morally object to it, I would get good and drunk tonight.
My family is spending the evening doing what they do on Fridays, Popcorn, Candy, Movie night with Dad in the attic. I'm spending the evening trying to find the bottom of the sink, the kitchen counter, and washing out my procrastinator's pile of poop filled diapers.
Today I made myself a horrible attempt at sugar free brownies. I used a banana and part of an apple and whole wheat flour and oatmeal and frankly, it tasted horrible. I had to put honey on it to eat it. But I did. I ate the whole dang thing. I don't feel too bad, there really wasn't anything in it to feel bad about, except the calories, of course.
So I need to somehow regain my superpowers. Where in heaven's name is the bright side?
Well, one bright side is the snuggles that come with sick babies. And that goes along with my lethargy pretty well. I don't feel like doing anything, and my babies just want to be held. Lucky me. Sitting on the couch with one feverish kid and one spotted feverish kid works pretty well (never you mind what havoc is being wreeked elsewhere in the house).
Did I mention that the garbage disposal exploded in the mouse poop filled cabinet last night? I think mouse poop is my Kryptonite. Either that or fighting children. Both weaken me. There is mouse poop in the corner of the 1st floor bathroom. I get shorter and more discouraged everytime I go in there. And when my children are hateful - today it was about a drawing contest - it breaks my heart. Instead of doing math or chores or whatever, they were drawing pictures of dinosaurs/dragons/monsters with markers, and one poor child (sucker) was stuck judging the pictures and was therefore the object of the hatred of all the losers. And hearing them use words and tone of voice to cut each other to ribbons just.makes.me.so.sad. How do I convey to them that when they cut each other they cut me? They cut themselves. They cut our family.
Given a choice, I guess I'd rather have mouse poop.
Of course, none of this is anything. My friend's daughter has leukemia. Someone I know about on facebook lost their premature son today. Another dear one found out yesterday that her husband is having an affair. I have nothing to complain about. I'm fat. I'm overwhelmed. So what? My kid has a virus that will be gone soon, she'll have successfully built immunity, and will barely remember.
More importantly, I have easy access to the One Who loves me best, Who leads me, Who is faithful to meet me at my need. I need to take a swim in That Ocean. I need to lean back again into Those Arms. I think I'll have a chat with my Beloved while I clean out the diapers tonight. See if I can shake off the effects of the Kryptonite.
Thursday, May 03, 2012
Chicken Pox and The National Holiday
Today is Day 6 of the 2012 season of Chicken Pox, and is also Day 2 of what we call the National Holiday - the glorious time period between Mom's Birthday and Mother's Day.
A little chicken pox history . . . a thousand years ago, when I had only 5 kids, my oldest broke out with chicken pox hours after singing at a nursing home for Christmas with the home school co-op. Talk about guilt - I was pretty sure we were going to give it to some old person and they were going to die on Christmas day because of us. We spent that December being paranoid, staying home, checking for spots, and potty training the 2 and 3 year old, which was good, because we were then 3 lazy months away from having 4 in diapers.
Fast forward 3 years and some months, and child number five has a strange rash around her upper chest, front to back, on one side only. She is kind of an allergic child, eggs, poison ivy, and I don't really think about it, but a week and half later, we happen to be at a checkup for someone, and I happen to ask the doctor to take a look at it. He says, "If I didn't know better, I'd think that was shingles." A few days later, as I'm changing baby number eight's diaper, I see a telling little "dew drop on a rose petal" blister on her 7 week old thigh, and think, 'If I didn't know better, I'd think that was chicken pox.'
Next day, child number 7 absolutely has chicken pox, next day child number 6 also certainly has it. Number 5 did have shingles. The exclusively nursed new baby did have chicken pox (and has the scar to prove it).
Fast forward to about 3 weeks ago. Child number 7 has a strange looking rash around his upper chest, front to back, on the left side. It took me a couple days, but I figure out (as I'm already in the process of inviting over an old friend, whose children have chicken pox, in hopes they will give it to my 4 youngest) he has shingles. The friends come over anyway, and we have a sucker sharing pox party. Child number 9 wants nothing to do with it. He doesn't want what Seven has (doesn't understand he won't get shingles, just chicken pox) and won't come near the visitors. Oh well, we think, he'll get it eventually from the other three.
He was the first to pop out, no doubt from wrestling with Seven (shingles is contagious by contact, not airborne, like chicken pox - and you don't get shingles from shingles, you get chicken pox from shingles), not from the pox party. Okay, we think, if the pox party doesn't work, in 2 weeks the other three will have it from him.
Then on his 4th day, child number 10 gets one spot. Next day, she still has one, lonely, very classic looking spot. Next day, maybe 4 more small questionable spots. Today, on what should be Nine's last day (but not far enough into his case for her to have gotten it from him) Ten finally has a large number of spots, several with blisters, a convincing case of chicken pox.
The 1 year olds, meanwhile, have nary a spot or blister. Nothing. This is going to be the longest month since that December so many years ago.
The oldest 8 or 9 have activities to go to. I can't take contagious kids to those things. Dad can only take so many half days. I'm feeling a little overwhelmed.
Insert The National Holiday. Truth be told, I invented The National Holiday in hopes of getting at least one of my special days properly recognized, and an excuse to eat good food several days in a row. Having them close together means one of them is bound to be a dud. Either they'll do a great job with the birthday and forget Mother's Day, or they totally blow the birthday and feel guilty enough to acknowledge Mother's Day. But hypothetically at least something good will go down somewhere during that week or so.
It could be my expectations are just a tad high. I want sugar free Trader Joe's chocolate, flowers (good quality but cheap, a week prior to Mother's Day, yeah right), a cake, dinner with my girl friends one day, double date with close friends another, date with husband on a third, cards or notes or letters from at least a couple people who live in my house - that's all for the birthday. Then, for Mother's Day, I want an entire day off. I want to leave the house and not return until I have done absolutely everything I can think of to do (it won't take a whole day, believe me). I also want to have no responsibilities for the entire Mother's day, make no food, change no diapers, take a hot bath, and No Guilt. I want gratitude dripping off the walls. A thousand thank yous. And a parade.
At any rate, some kind of something that says, thanks, Mom, for cleaning up vomit, for cooking food, for grocery shopping, for home schooling till your voice is shot, for giving birth to and nursing lots of babies, for matching socks and stuffing and changing and rinsing out diapers, for not killing anyone or leaving anyone to be raised by wolves on the side of the mountain, for thinking your children are beautiful even when covered by chicken pox blisters and scabs. (I know it's weird, but I do.)
A little chicken pox history . . . a thousand years ago, when I had only 5 kids, my oldest broke out with chicken pox hours after singing at a nursing home for Christmas with the home school co-op. Talk about guilt - I was pretty sure we were going to give it to some old person and they were going to die on Christmas day because of us. We spent that December being paranoid, staying home, checking for spots, and potty training the 2 and 3 year old, which was good, because we were then 3 lazy months away from having 4 in diapers.
Fast forward 3 years and some months, and child number five has a strange rash around her upper chest, front to back, on one side only. She is kind of an allergic child, eggs, poison ivy, and I don't really think about it, but a week and half later, we happen to be at a checkup for someone, and I happen to ask the doctor to take a look at it. He says, "If I didn't know better, I'd think that was shingles." A few days later, as I'm changing baby number eight's diaper, I see a telling little "dew drop on a rose petal" blister on her 7 week old thigh, and think, 'If I didn't know better, I'd think that was chicken pox.'
Next day, child number 7 absolutely has chicken pox, next day child number 6 also certainly has it. Number 5 did have shingles. The exclusively nursed new baby did have chicken pox (and has the scar to prove it).
Fast forward to about 3 weeks ago. Child number 7 has a strange looking rash around his upper chest, front to back, on the left side. It took me a couple days, but I figure out (as I'm already in the process of inviting over an old friend, whose children have chicken pox, in hopes they will give it to my 4 youngest) he has shingles. The friends come over anyway, and we have a sucker sharing pox party. Child number 9 wants nothing to do with it. He doesn't want what Seven has (doesn't understand he won't get shingles, just chicken pox) and won't come near the visitors. Oh well, we think, he'll get it eventually from the other three.
He was the first to pop out, no doubt from wrestling with Seven (shingles is contagious by contact, not airborne, like chicken pox - and you don't get shingles from shingles, you get chicken pox from shingles), not from the pox party. Okay, we think, if the pox party doesn't work, in 2 weeks the other three will have it from him.
Then on his 4th day, child number 10 gets one spot. Next day, she still has one, lonely, very classic looking spot. Next day, maybe 4 more small questionable spots. Today, on what should be Nine's last day (but not far enough into his case for her to have gotten it from him) Ten finally has a large number of spots, several with blisters, a convincing case of chicken pox.
The 1 year olds, meanwhile, have nary a spot or blister. Nothing. This is going to be the longest month since that December so many years ago.
The oldest 8 or 9 have activities to go to. I can't take contagious kids to those things. Dad can only take so many half days. I'm feeling a little overwhelmed.
Insert The National Holiday. Truth be told, I invented The National Holiday in hopes of getting at least one of my special days properly recognized, and an excuse to eat good food several days in a row. Having them close together means one of them is bound to be a dud. Either they'll do a great job with the birthday and forget Mother's Day, or they totally blow the birthday and feel guilty enough to acknowledge Mother's Day. But hypothetically at least something good will go down somewhere during that week or so.
It could be my expectations are just a tad high. I want sugar free Trader Joe's chocolate, flowers (good quality but cheap, a week prior to Mother's Day, yeah right), a cake, dinner with my girl friends one day, double date with close friends another, date with husband on a third, cards or notes or letters from at least a couple people who live in my house - that's all for the birthday. Then, for Mother's Day, I want an entire day off. I want to leave the house and not return until I have done absolutely everything I can think of to do (it won't take a whole day, believe me). I also want to have no responsibilities for the entire Mother's day, make no food, change no diapers, take a hot bath, and No Guilt. I want gratitude dripping off the walls. A thousand thank yous. And a parade.
At any rate, some kind of something that says, thanks, Mom, for cleaning up vomit, for cooking food, for grocery shopping, for home schooling till your voice is shot, for giving birth to and nursing lots of babies, for matching socks and stuffing and changing and rinsing out diapers, for not killing anyone or leaving anyone to be raised by wolves on the side of the mountain, for thinking your children are beautiful even when covered by chicken pox blisters and scabs. (I know it's weird, but I do.)
Tuesday, May 01, 2012
Skirt people (counter cultural pt 3)
So here is one conviction I have that I don't walk out. I think the skirt people are right. The Duggars and others like them that have girls wear skirts and boys wear pants, I think they are on to something.
Think about it. When a woman has on a skirt, you can easily tell she is a woman. You don't have to glance at the anatomical differences to make that assessment. But when we women have on jeans, t-shirts and especially when we have short hair, we sort of give permission to people to look further at our backsides or fronts to decide what equipment we have. Certainly hairstyle and the presence of makeup are also clues, but you see what I'm saying.
I, however, mostly wear jeans and t-shirts, and have been known to have boy-short hair. I do not require skirts of my girls. I let them wear them (and if they're too little to keep their legs together consistantly, I usually have them wear shorts under) but I don't really push either way.
What I do insist on with clothing (or try to) is that what we wear doesn't draw attention away from our faces and toward our bosoms. Things that have a stripe or words or sequins strategically placed with the goal of drawing the eyes to that zone don't make the cut here.
And yes, it is a goal. The people who design clothing, for the most part, are not concerned with modesty. In fact, they know, and make a living off of it, that sex sells. Their goal is to draw attention to the very parts I want clothing to protect and cover up. It is deliberate. Don't believe for a minute it isn't.
And don't believe for a minute that their efforts are in vain. I heard a small group of late teen/twenties guys talking in a hair salon one day. I was, apparently, invisible, either because of the large baby bump I was sporting, or my less than sexy persona, gray hair, no makeup. Or maybe they didn't even care. But they were talking about how happy they were that it was summer and that girls were wearing less, and how glad they were that the pants were being worn with low waists these days. Lust run amuck. They do notice.
And not just creepy guys. Godly men. Fathers and brothers and friends husbands have eyes and hormones. God made them to be attracted to their spouse, at the right time. God did not make them to withstand constant visual temptation, a cultural bombardment against a pure heart.
So we don't keep pants with words or other stuff on the butts. We don't keep things that look like you have underwear showing (lacy camisoles that do cover cleavage but also draw the eye to the lacy neckline), or garments causing you to have underwear actually showing (tank tops). We don't keep low necklines on hand. Anything we have to fight with to keep straps or unders covered up finds it's way to goodwill.
No short shorts, no short skirts, no skorts (which often make it look like a girl has on a much shorter skirt than she would normally wear; yes, there are shorts built in, but do you really want anyone close enough to figure that out? the fact that the shorts are there only really makes her seem less modest because she will act like she has shorts on but looks like she is wearing a skirt), no low rise pants that let people figure out where your butt dimples are if they are sitting behind you in church, God forbid.
All of this makes us, well, unfashionable. That and the fact that most of our clothing comes in big black trash bags. We are hand-me-down central. I have people giving me clothes that don't even know me. Friends of friends. And we go through, throw out the leopard skin and the figure enhancing clothing, and hang on to the plain clothes that cover our bodies and don't draw attention away from our faces.
It is an on-going process. We weed things out constantly. And not just the kids stuff. I regularly have to pitch a favorite shirt because I realize I'm losing an argument with my bra strap every time I wear it or because it is the kind of shirt a small child is going to cause to migrate every time I hold a small human.
So, we're not skirt people, but we're trying to be weird like them without actually wearing the skirts.
Think about it. When a woman has on a skirt, you can easily tell she is a woman. You don't have to glance at the anatomical differences to make that assessment. But when we women have on jeans, t-shirts and especially when we have short hair, we sort of give permission to people to look further at our backsides or fronts to decide what equipment we have. Certainly hairstyle and the presence of makeup are also clues, but you see what I'm saying.
I, however, mostly wear jeans and t-shirts, and have been known to have boy-short hair. I do not require skirts of my girls. I let them wear them (and if they're too little to keep their legs together consistantly, I usually have them wear shorts under) but I don't really push either way.
What I do insist on with clothing (or try to) is that what we wear doesn't draw attention away from our faces and toward our bosoms. Things that have a stripe or words or sequins strategically placed with the goal of drawing the eyes to that zone don't make the cut here.
And yes, it is a goal. The people who design clothing, for the most part, are not concerned with modesty. In fact, they know, and make a living off of it, that sex sells. Their goal is to draw attention to the very parts I want clothing to protect and cover up. It is deliberate. Don't believe for a minute it isn't.
And don't believe for a minute that their efforts are in vain. I heard a small group of late teen/twenties guys talking in a hair salon one day. I was, apparently, invisible, either because of the large baby bump I was sporting, or my less than sexy persona, gray hair, no makeup. Or maybe they didn't even care. But they were talking about how happy they were that it was summer and that girls were wearing less, and how glad they were that the pants were being worn with low waists these days. Lust run amuck. They do notice.
And not just creepy guys. Godly men. Fathers and brothers and friends husbands have eyes and hormones. God made them to be attracted to their spouse, at the right time. God did not make them to withstand constant visual temptation, a cultural bombardment against a pure heart.
So we don't keep pants with words or other stuff on the butts. We don't keep things that look like you have underwear showing (lacy camisoles that do cover cleavage but also draw the eye to the lacy neckline), or garments causing you to have underwear actually showing (tank tops). We don't keep low necklines on hand. Anything we have to fight with to keep straps or unders covered up finds it's way to goodwill.
No short shorts, no short skirts, no skorts (which often make it look like a girl has on a much shorter skirt than she would normally wear; yes, there are shorts built in, but do you really want anyone close enough to figure that out? the fact that the shorts are there only really makes her seem less modest because she will act like she has shorts on but looks like she is wearing a skirt), no low rise pants that let people figure out where your butt dimples are if they are sitting behind you in church, God forbid.
All of this makes us, well, unfashionable. That and the fact that most of our clothing comes in big black trash bags. We are hand-me-down central. I have people giving me clothes that don't even know me. Friends of friends. And we go through, throw out the leopard skin and the figure enhancing clothing, and hang on to the plain clothes that cover our bodies and don't draw attention away from our faces.
It is an on-going process. We weed things out constantly. And not just the kids stuff. I regularly have to pitch a favorite shirt because I realize I'm losing an argument with my bra strap every time I wear it or because it is the kind of shirt a small child is going to cause to migrate every time I hold a small human.
So, we're not skirt people, but we're trying to be weird like them without actually wearing the skirts.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Counter cultural part 2
"If I had never been offended, I would never have gotten saved."
A dear friend told me this recently. And I was impacted by it.
Also I had a dream. It was a weird and funny dream, but I also thought it might have been a God dream.
In my dream I was on a talk show, I thought the 700 Club, being interviewed for having a lot of kids, and they were asking something to the effect of, are you trying to compete with the Duggars? And my answer was that I honor the Duggars, that I think they are amazing and graced by God for the role they play in our nation, and that we are simply a humbler, less organized, less photo ready, less populous family - that we let people know that having lots of kids is great even if you don't have your act together. Something like that. Then after the show, or between shows, the Duggars were at my parents house, and she was sweet and full of compassion towards us.
I felt like I need to let my little light shine, so to speak. I love people who live what they believe. I love seeing people's convictions walked out. I have strong convictions about some things that I walk out with a measure of integrity. I have others that I walk out with a measure of flakiness. And I have others that I wish I walked out but just don't. Yet.
So, as I write about my convictions, please know that you needn't read it, and that if you do, you need to hear God and follow Him. I daren't put a yoke on you that He has not. But at the same time, I feel convicted about NOT sharing what God has done/is doing in my life, and my feeble efforts at following, and the budding fruit I see when I obey.
All that is pretty much a disclaimer.
Counter-cultural part 2.
On facebook the other day I found myself in a conversation with complete strangers (isn't facebook wonderful that way?) wherein my friend who I know well was asking all her friends that I don't know at all for help in selecting a movie for her daughter's 80's slumber party. Of the several movies suggested, I had seen all of them at some point. Most of them I saw when I was older than the 9-12 age bracket she was dealing with. Only a couple of them could I endorse for my or other people's children.
I guess everybody's brain is not like mine. We don't all remember what we watch and hear with the same clarity, for better or for worse. We aren't all impacted as deeply by what we watch and listen to. For example, I love the movie The American President. Except that when I watch it, I change my entire world view and for that 2 hours and the time following, I become a liberal Democrat, believing in gun control and sex outside marriage. Acht! And there are snippets of shows I've seen, over the years, that are forever burned in my memory, causing me to stumble, ready sin just lurking around the corner.
Because this is true, and I know it is true, I watch almost no tv, very few movies, and am pretty hyper about what I let my children watch. Not as hyper as some. Probably not as hyper as I should be. But hyper, nonetheless. To the point that, during this facebook conversation, I found myself horrified at the suggestions offered, and got all riled up, having to bite my virtual tongue, so as not to offend.
But should I have? Should I have just offended? Am I salty and lighty enough?
I don't want to be a part of inserting scenes and words and worldviews into anyone's memory banks that become a foothold for the enemy later. I don't want to mar the page of anyone's memory with crud they have to repent of and renounce and deal with for their whole life. And I'm tired of it in my mind. So I will be outspoken for the sake of purity of what we see and what we hear, even if I am not perfect in this area - far from it.
What are we watching? What are we listening to? What are we depositing in our spirits? What are we allowing our children to watch? What deposits are strangers who do not share our principles or worldview making into our children's minds and hearts?
Are they being trained by what they watch to believe romance is appropriate for 11 and 12 year olds? Are they being trained by what they see to believe that the earth is billions of years old and the Bible is just another theory? Are they learning that siblings are brats and friends are way more important than family? Are they being trained to think that having stuff and looking cool is what makes a person valuable? These are just examples. You have to guard your mind and heart. You have to guard the minds and hearts of those entrusted to you.
It's so easy to be a lazy parent regarding the tv. It's so easy to let Barney be the nanny. But we are abdicating our precious God-given role if we allow strangers to disciple our children. And we are training their brains and spirits for lesser things.
I am preserving a generation of those who have not bowed the knee. It makes me weird. And that's ok.
(Ironic post script: daughter #2 just came up and described a scene from a tv show they had watched via netflix that I knew nothing about and had not given permission to watch, at least not that I remember. Yeah. I have a long way to go.)
A dear friend told me this recently. And I was impacted by it.
Also I had a dream. It was a weird and funny dream, but I also thought it might have been a God dream.
In my dream I was on a talk show, I thought the 700 Club, being interviewed for having a lot of kids, and they were asking something to the effect of, are you trying to compete with the Duggars? And my answer was that I honor the Duggars, that I think they are amazing and graced by God for the role they play in our nation, and that we are simply a humbler, less organized, less photo ready, less populous family - that we let people know that having lots of kids is great even if you don't have your act together. Something like that. Then after the show, or between shows, the Duggars were at my parents house, and she was sweet and full of compassion towards us.
I felt like I need to let my little light shine, so to speak. I love people who live what they believe. I love seeing people's convictions walked out. I have strong convictions about some things that I walk out with a measure of integrity. I have others that I walk out with a measure of flakiness. And I have others that I wish I walked out but just don't. Yet.
So, as I write about my convictions, please know that you needn't read it, and that if you do, you need to hear God and follow Him. I daren't put a yoke on you that He has not. But at the same time, I feel convicted about NOT sharing what God has done/is doing in my life, and my feeble efforts at following, and the budding fruit I see when I obey.
All that is pretty much a disclaimer.
Counter-cultural part 2.
On facebook the other day I found myself in a conversation with complete strangers (isn't facebook wonderful that way?) wherein my friend who I know well was asking all her friends that I don't know at all for help in selecting a movie for her daughter's 80's slumber party. Of the several movies suggested, I had seen all of them at some point. Most of them I saw when I was older than the 9-12 age bracket she was dealing with. Only a couple of them could I endorse for my or other people's children.
I guess everybody's brain is not like mine. We don't all remember what we watch and hear with the same clarity, for better or for worse. We aren't all impacted as deeply by what we watch and listen to. For example, I love the movie The American President. Except that when I watch it, I change my entire world view and for that 2 hours and the time following, I become a liberal Democrat, believing in gun control and sex outside marriage. Acht! And there are snippets of shows I've seen, over the years, that are forever burned in my memory, causing me to stumble, ready sin just lurking around the corner.
Because this is true, and I know it is true, I watch almost no tv, very few movies, and am pretty hyper about what I let my children watch. Not as hyper as some. Probably not as hyper as I should be. But hyper, nonetheless. To the point that, during this facebook conversation, I found myself horrified at the suggestions offered, and got all riled up, having to bite my virtual tongue, so as not to offend.
But should I have? Should I have just offended? Am I salty and lighty enough?
I don't want to be a part of inserting scenes and words and worldviews into anyone's memory banks that become a foothold for the enemy later. I don't want to mar the page of anyone's memory with crud they have to repent of and renounce and deal with for their whole life. And I'm tired of it in my mind. So I will be outspoken for the sake of purity of what we see and what we hear, even if I am not perfect in this area - far from it.
What are we watching? What are we listening to? What are we depositing in our spirits? What are we allowing our children to watch? What deposits are strangers who do not share our principles or worldview making into our children's minds and hearts?
Are they being trained by what they watch to believe romance is appropriate for 11 and 12 year olds? Are they being trained by what they see to believe that the earth is billions of years old and the Bible is just another theory? Are they learning that siblings are brats and friends are way more important than family? Are they being trained to think that having stuff and looking cool is what makes a person valuable? These are just examples. You have to guard your mind and heart. You have to guard the minds and hearts of those entrusted to you.
It's so easy to be a lazy parent regarding the tv. It's so easy to let Barney be the nanny. But we are abdicating our precious God-given role if we allow strangers to disciple our children. And we are training their brains and spirits for lesser things.
I am preserving a generation of those who have not bowed the knee. It makes me weird. And that's ok.
(Ironic post script: daughter #2 just came up and described a scene from a tv show they had watched via netflix that I knew nothing about and had not given permission to watch, at least not that I remember. Yeah. I have a long way to go.)
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Liking Children. Or not.
"You must really like children . . ."
I get this a lot (along with, you must be really organized, or patient, or a saint). I have a standard answer that might be offensive. I say, "I like my children."
And I've been realizing lately that the children I tend not to like are children who tend to get what they want all the time.
Children need to have their wills opposed. Even shy, easy, compliant children need to be told no. They need practice obeying someone else's will. They need to learn to adjust to a reality not of their own choosing.
Not only does always getting their way make an unpleasant child (and it does), it also sets them up for a crappy life. Marriage will be rough for someone who always has had their way. A job will be hard for someone who has never submitted.
I would even go so far as to say it is dangerous to grow up always getting what you want. From traffic violations to shoplifting to marital fidelity to heart attacks - doing what is right when you don't feel like it is a pretty critical skill to have.
I have a friend who, when her now quite grown up daughter was a baby, would diaper the child on the run. She didn't make her lay down and hold still long enough to get a new diaper. She chased after her. (I assume when the diaper was poopy that she would. And maybe it was only in that setting, when the play and friends were hard to resist, that she allowed it.) But that is a situation that requires opposition, really. The child has to be required to lay down and hold still till she gets a clean diaper and pants back on. That is the age and situation my kids first defy me, usually. I call it Greco-Roman diaper changing - when it becomes a wrestling match. But it is a battle you have to win. You are the parent, make them do it. Pop their little fat leg, strap them down with your leg, get a partner to help, whatever it take, do it. Somehow make it happen.
Because if, when she's one, you can't get her to hold still for a diaper, then, when she's 14, how will you get her to do her homework or get off the phone or take off that inappropriate outfit. (I have a rule by the way about inappropriate clothing - we don't have it in the house. If it isn't in the closet, we don't have to fight about they can wear it. Things just get lost in the wash sometimes . . .)
If she won't come when you call her at 2 years of age, will she come home in the evening when she's supposed to at 16 years?
If we appease our children with food/snacks/juice when they are frustrated/angry/disappointed, how will they content themselves when they are adults and part of their lives is in the tank.
These are the little battles. The battles that come later are bigger and harder.
But the biggest reason our children need to find their wills opposed is because, as Christians, we conform our will to His. We lay down our lives and take up our cross and follow our Master. It is His Kingdom, not ours. Jesus Himself learned submission as a child. He had to obey His earthly mother and father.
Following Jesus, choosing His will, not mine, is not something I find easy. How much harder if I was used to getting my way all the time? When we have children we hope will grow up to follow Jesus, we do them a real disservice to not teach them submission about little easy things. We set them up for much harder battles later.
He who loves his child, disciplines him. If you love your kid, make sure you tell him no sometimes, even if he is the kind of kid who pretty much does what you want him to do. Make him learn to submit to your authority. It's good for him, and you'll probably like him better.
(2 afterthoughts - 1. Be realistic about the battles you choose, make sure you are making age-appropriate requirements. 2. Don't ever discipline a kid in anger, ever. Ever.)
I get this a lot (along with, you must be really organized, or patient, or a saint). I have a standard answer that might be offensive. I say, "I like my children."
And I've been realizing lately that the children I tend not to like are children who tend to get what they want all the time.
Children need to have their wills opposed. Even shy, easy, compliant children need to be told no. They need practice obeying someone else's will. They need to learn to adjust to a reality not of their own choosing.
Not only does always getting their way make an unpleasant child (and it does), it also sets them up for a crappy life. Marriage will be rough for someone who always has had their way. A job will be hard for someone who has never submitted.
I would even go so far as to say it is dangerous to grow up always getting what you want. From traffic violations to shoplifting to marital fidelity to heart attacks - doing what is right when you don't feel like it is a pretty critical skill to have.
I have a friend who, when her now quite grown up daughter was a baby, would diaper the child on the run. She didn't make her lay down and hold still long enough to get a new diaper. She chased after her. (I assume when the diaper was poopy that she would. And maybe it was only in that setting, when the play and friends were hard to resist, that she allowed it.) But that is a situation that requires opposition, really. The child has to be required to lay down and hold still till she gets a clean diaper and pants back on. That is the age and situation my kids first defy me, usually. I call it Greco-Roman diaper changing - when it becomes a wrestling match. But it is a battle you have to win. You are the parent, make them do it. Pop their little fat leg, strap them down with your leg, get a partner to help, whatever it take, do it. Somehow make it happen.
Because if, when she's one, you can't get her to hold still for a diaper, then, when she's 14, how will you get her to do her homework or get off the phone or take off that inappropriate outfit. (I have a rule by the way about inappropriate clothing - we don't have it in the house. If it isn't in the closet, we don't have to fight about they can wear it. Things just get lost in the wash sometimes . . .)
If she won't come when you call her at 2 years of age, will she come home in the evening when she's supposed to at 16 years?
If we appease our children with food/snacks/juice when they are frustrated/angry/disappointed, how will they content themselves when they are adults and part of their lives is in the tank.
These are the little battles. The battles that come later are bigger and harder.
But the biggest reason our children need to find their wills opposed is because, as Christians, we conform our will to His. We lay down our lives and take up our cross and follow our Master. It is His Kingdom, not ours. Jesus Himself learned submission as a child. He had to obey His earthly mother and father.
Following Jesus, choosing His will, not mine, is not something I find easy. How much harder if I was used to getting my way all the time? When we have children we hope will grow up to follow Jesus, we do them a real disservice to not teach them submission about little easy things. We set them up for much harder battles later.
He who loves his child, disciplines him. If you love your kid, make sure you tell him no sometimes, even if he is the kind of kid who pretty much does what you want him to do. Make him learn to submit to your authority. It's good for him, and you'll probably like him better.
(2 afterthoughts - 1. Be realistic about the battles you choose, make sure you are making age-appropriate requirements. 2. Don't ever discipline a kid in anger, ever. Ever.)
Saturday, April 28, 2012
What is the point?
I'll make it quick. The point is Isaiah 44. It is belonging. It is written on my heart, on my hand, I belong. He asked me, I said yes.
Not eating sugar, beginning last summer, was about a food addiction, about being healthier, about losing weight. Not eating sugar, not drinking coffee, beginning in November, was about saying yes to God about a Nazirite vow, a fasted lifestyle, about belonging. I believe God wants me to lose weight and to be healthy. I believe He wants me to look like I belong to Him. Because He loves me, He wants me to have self control, to be a good example for my children, to not have high blood pressure. But above all those things, He wants me to not be a slave to my appetite, instead to be devoted to Him.
The scale is not the point. Finding other ways to satisfy my appetite is not the point. Deciding not to have sugar, but to have a candy bar made with sugar alcohol when I need a fix completely misses the point. Grabbing a green tea latte when I'm feeling the need instead of drinking coffee is not really different for my spirit.
Living a fasted life means that I go to Him and fill my spirit with Him rather than anesthetizing my heart with my drug of choice: food.
I want, desperately, to belong to Him. To put in my mouth what my body genuinely needs, and to feed my spirit with what it genuinely needs. I love Him. I want to choose to fill my mind and spirit with His Word, my time with His presence. I want, I long, to be a worthy bride, valuing with my life that which is most valuable, calling nothing else fair unless it be His beauty, His face, His Word, His voice, His Name.
I am His. I want to live like I am His.
I heard a teaching last night by a guy name Paul Washer. Want your butt kicked hard? Look up Paul Washer on youtube. Whoa baby. He asked this question - if you want to know what you love, what do you think about? Well, I think a whole lot about food. What I'm eating, what I'm not eating, how many calories, that sort of thing.
Not that those are bad things to think about. But I am missing the point. He set me free so I can be free, not so I can be a different kind of slave. I am free from serving my appetite. I am free from serving my flesh. I am free to love Him best, free to worship Him only. I am free from needing that drug. I need Him. Good news: I have Him. Exceedingly, abundantly beyond what I can ask or ever even think. Without measure. That is the point.
Not eating sugar, beginning last summer, was about a food addiction, about being healthier, about losing weight. Not eating sugar, not drinking coffee, beginning in November, was about saying yes to God about a Nazirite vow, a fasted lifestyle, about belonging. I believe God wants me to lose weight and to be healthy. I believe He wants me to look like I belong to Him. Because He loves me, He wants me to have self control, to be a good example for my children, to not have high blood pressure. But above all those things, He wants me to not be a slave to my appetite, instead to be devoted to Him.
The scale is not the point. Finding other ways to satisfy my appetite is not the point. Deciding not to have sugar, but to have a candy bar made with sugar alcohol when I need a fix completely misses the point. Grabbing a green tea latte when I'm feeling the need instead of drinking coffee is not really different for my spirit.
Living a fasted life means that I go to Him and fill my spirit with Him rather than anesthetizing my heart with my drug of choice: food.
I want, desperately, to belong to Him. To put in my mouth what my body genuinely needs, and to feed my spirit with what it genuinely needs. I love Him. I want to choose to fill my mind and spirit with His Word, my time with His presence. I want, I long, to be a worthy bride, valuing with my life that which is most valuable, calling nothing else fair unless it be His beauty, His face, His Word, His voice, His Name.
I am His. I want to live like I am His.
I heard a teaching last night by a guy name Paul Washer. Want your butt kicked hard? Look up Paul Washer on youtube. Whoa baby. He asked this question - if you want to know what you love, what do you think about? Well, I think a whole lot about food. What I'm eating, what I'm not eating, how many calories, that sort of thing.
Not that those are bad things to think about. But I am missing the point. He set me free so I can be free, not so I can be a different kind of slave. I am free from serving my appetite. I am free from serving my flesh. I am free to love Him best, free to worship Him only. I am free from needing that drug. I need Him. Good news: I have Him. Exceedingly, abundantly beyond what I can ask or ever even think. Without measure. That is the point.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Counter-cultural
I've been wrestling lately.
I'll be honest. If I had really thought about it, I think I would have said that our biggest battles are behind us. Our counter-cultural battles, I mean. The More Kids Than Normal People Have battle, which leads to the Big Van battle. The Home School battle. The Limited Media and Carefully Chosen Friendships battles. The Modest Hand-me-down Clothing battles. The Family Culture rather than Peer Dependent Culture and Courtship rather than Dating battles. The Adopting When You Have So Many Kids battle and the Pregnant Again After A Down Syndrome "Scare" battle.
I thought those were the big ones. But I am beginning to think the biggest battle may be ahead of us. The What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up battle, closely linked to the College Question.
My husband, who really is on the same page as me, had a momentary lapse into the way pretty much everyone thinks the other day. He was having a conversation (one I try to avoid) with the kids about "goals", a.k.a. What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up. The reason I try to avoid it is because I don't think you know what you want to be when you are young, and I don't want to put pressure on them to try to decide too soon. But it also is a wrestling question, because it brings my counter-cultural stance into sharp focus.
Daughter number 3, the one with all the dimples, replied that she would like to work for the Animal Rescue People (we recently had a visit from them when a 3-legged neighborhood kitten was stuck down in an unfinished home/empty basement next door). My husband said the words he has been conditioned by our culture to say, "Well you won't make much money doing that."
I responded like a razor (lovely), "Really? Is that really your response? She doesn't have to provide for a family. She doesn't have to be the breadwinner for her husband and children. Does she really need to choose a career what makes a lot of money?"
The silence roared.
Later he assured me that he wasn't really thinking when he said that and it didn't indicate his true beliefs (that kind of conversation has the potential to make a wife like me feel like, what the heck am I doing this for if we don't see eye to eye about something this important).
***Pardon me if I've talked about this too much already. I don't remember.***
I believe the Biblical view of this is the following:
Daughters are welcome and expected to stay in the home until they are married or if they are a temptation to the dad.
If they were to become widowed or single after being married, they are to be welcomed back into the home.
The Biblical and ideal model for a home is for the wife to be the keeper of it, and for the family to be open to the Lord giving them children, and if He does, for the wife to be at home with them.
So I am encouraging my sons to pursue a future that will allow them to support a wife, to say yes to God for children, and to have their wives to stay home with the children God gives them.
If my daughters feel strongly about pursuing a career, especially one that genuinely requires a college degree, we will support them, and encourage them to do so debt free, paying as they go, taking as long as is necessary, but I will not encourage them to do such in a way that causes them to end up with any of the following guilt trips:
I have to work to pay for my college debt.
I have to work because I spent so long going to college/worked so hard getting my degree/getting where I am.
I have to work because I am the one who makes more money/has insurance.
If my daughter chooses to, for example, become a surgeon, I will encourage her to do so in such a way that does not produce a debt so large that she HAS to work for 5 years before she can have kids/get married.
I know they might do something else. I'm not controlling them. I'm training them. What they do in the long run is between them and God. I get that. But that is what I believe is the Biblical model.
Hence the battle. My eldest daughter, in particular (because she is first born, she is the first one in the decision making que), is "college material". She could do whatever. If she wants to go to college, fine. We will support her with whatever she pursues. And we are preparing each of them, thus far, for college. We are trying to equip them, with their home school education, to be ready for pretty much anything. If the last year I teach her is the last "learning" she does, then it will have been a good education. If she launches into further education, she will be ready for it.
What I won't do is lay a burden on her that if she doesn't go to college she will be wasting her smart brain. Because smart brains can be used for lots of things, and not all of them make lots of money or require college degrees. All she has to do is make enough money to pay for personal spending. Am I being naive? Maybe.
But here is my counter-cultural soap box. IT IS BIBLICALLY APPROPRIATE FOR PARENTS TO SUPPORT THEIR GROWN UNMARRIED DAUGHTERS. We will raise them and prepare them for marriage, and until the Lord brings them into whatever He has for them, they are under our provision.
I'll be honest. If I had really thought about it, I think I would have said that our biggest battles are behind us. Our counter-cultural battles, I mean. The More Kids Than Normal People Have battle, which leads to the Big Van battle. The Home School battle. The Limited Media and Carefully Chosen Friendships battles. The Modest Hand-me-down Clothing battles. The Family Culture rather than Peer Dependent Culture and Courtship rather than Dating battles. The Adopting When You Have So Many Kids battle and the Pregnant Again After A Down Syndrome "Scare" battle.
I thought those were the big ones. But I am beginning to think the biggest battle may be ahead of us. The What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up battle, closely linked to the College Question.
My husband, who really is on the same page as me, had a momentary lapse into the way pretty much everyone thinks the other day. He was having a conversation (one I try to avoid) with the kids about "goals", a.k.a. What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up. The reason I try to avoid it is because I don't think you know what you want to be when you are young, and I don't want to put pressure on them to try to decide too soon. But it also is a wrestling question, because it brings my counter-cultural stance into sharp focus.
Daughter number 3, the one with all the dimples, replied that she would like to work for the Animal Rescue People (we recently had a visit from them when a 3-legged neighborhood kitten was stuck down in an unfinished home/empty basement next door). My husband said the words he has been conditioned by our culture to say, "Well you won't make much money doing that."
I responded like a razor (lovely), "Really? Is that really your response? She doesn't have to provide for a family. She doesn't have to be the breadwinner for her husband and children. Does she really need to choose a career what makes a lot of money?"
The silence roared.
Later he assured me that he wasn't really thinking when he said that and it didn't indicate his true beliefs (that kind of conversation has the potential to make a wife like me feel like, what the heck am I doing this for if we don't see eye to eye about something this important).
***Pardon me if I've talked about this too much already. I don't remember.***
I believe the Biblical view of this is the following:
Daughters are welcome and expected to stay in the home until they are married or if they are a temptation to the dad.
If they were to become widowed or single after being married, they are to be welcomed back into the home.
The Biblical and ideal model for a home is for the wife to be the keeper of it, and for the family to be open to the Lord giving them children, and if He does, for the wife to be at home with them.
So I am encouraging my sons to pursue a future that will allow them to support a wife, to say yes to God for children, and to have their wives to stay home with the children God gives them.
If my daughters feel strongly about pursuing a career, especially one that genuinely requires a college degree, we will support them, and encourage them to do so debt free, paying as they go, taking as long as is necessary, but I will not encourage them to do such in a way that causes them to end up with any of the following guilt trips:
I have to work to pay for my college debt.
I have to work because I spent so long going to college/worked so hard getting my degree/getting where I am.
I have to work because I am the one who makes more money/has insurance.
If my daughter chooses to, for example, become a surgeon, I will encourage her to do so in such a way that does not produce a debt so large that she HAS to work for 5 years before she can have kids/get married.
I know they might do something else. I'm not controlling them. I'm training them. What they do in the long run is between them and God. I get that. But that is what I believe is the Biblical model.
Hence the battle. My eldest daughter, in particular (because she is first born, she is the first one in the decision making que), is "college material". She could do whatever. If she wants to go to college, fine. We will support her with whatever she pursues. And we are preparing each of them, thus far, for college. We are trying to equip them, with their home school education, to be ready for pretty much anything. If the last year I teach her is the last "learning" she does, then it will have been a good education. If she launches into further education, she will be ready for it.
What I won't do is lay a burden on her that if she doesn't go to college she will be wasting her smart brain. Because smart brains can be used for lots of things, and not all of them make lots of money or require college degrees. All she has to do is make enough money to pay for personal spending. Am I being naive? Maybe.
But here is my counter-cultural soap box. IT IS BIBLICALLY APPROPRIATE FOR PARENTS TO SUPPORT THEIR GROWN UNMARRIED DAUGHTERS. We will raise them and prepare them for marriage, and until the Lord brings them into whatever He has for them, they are under our provision.
Monday, April 23, 2012
5 months and 1 day
That's how pregnant I am. Or 22 weeks 7 days. More than half way. With my first child, as I've said before, I was content to stay pregnant for however long. I felt great. In fact, I think I agreed to that first induction because it had never occurred to me not to. My doctor offered to induce me 4 days after my due date, I said yes.
With each additional pregnancy I have begun to retreat into my cave more and more. The last week, the last month, the last trimester. As my due date approached, I would flake out, cancel rehearsals, disappear.
But for the last few pregnancies, I feel that way even before I take the pregnancy test. I just want to hide. I still enjoy quiet moments with close friends, but I don't want to do group things, parties, social gatherings. If I could do it, I'd stay home from almost everything, school, church, soccer.
I want to be home. I would love to just be here, doing mommy things. That's not my normal way. But as a pregnant person, I like to be home, especially when my husband is also here.
I suppose that includes this blog. I haven't written lately because this didn't feel like it was part of my cave. But here goes, a smattering of the many thoughts I've neglected to mention in the last several weeks. Sorry. Here is my update at 5 months and 1 day.
My favorite thing (read: obsession) is to read birth stories. I have focused on natural birth stories this time. I am committed to not having an epidural for this baby. I have given birth 3 times with one, 6 times without, and 2 in the process of receiving one, which I do not recommend.
I have changed my eating strategy. I am no longer focusing on major protein intake. I've decided that is for people with pre-eclampsia. I don't have pre-e. I have high blood pressure. My mom has high blood pressure, my dad has high blood pressure, and I have it. I have it because I am fat and it is in my genes. It is worst at the end of my pregnancies because that is when I am the biggest.
So I will take drugs for blood pressure when it happens, if it happens, and in the mean time, my goal is to weigh as little as is possible when I deliver. Today I weigh about what I did when I got pregnant (204.5). I would love to get back under 200 lbs. I think if I could deliver a baby at 180 something that would be even better.
So instead of my big protein thing and low carb thing, I am watching my calories. Still avoiding refined carbs. Still not eating sugar. Still not drinking coffee. Still trying to eat a lot of veggies, because they are more satisfying. I'm using my little kitchen scale and measuring things. I'm using myfitnesspal.com to keep track of what I eat.
It feels more like self-control, more balanced, more sustainable.
I'm also chewing gum when I need to be done eating but feel like eating more. That is an amazing trick!
I am so focused on pregnancy and labor and delivery. I've been reading lots of stuff about natural labor and there is weirdness out there in pretty good supply. The spectrum is astounding.
On the one extreme are people who schedule c-sections electively. Maybe they want to pick the day, maybe they are afraid of labor, maybe they just honestly don't want their butt to get bigger, but there are those who choose to never even feel a contraction.
Then on the other end you have the placenta-eaters. There exist in the world today, maybe you are one of them, who prefer to give birth alone, keep the baby connected until it stops pulsating, keep the placenta, cord and all attached to the baby until it all falls off, and rip a chunk of the placenta off and chew it up and swallow it.
And there are variations all along the way. So many questions. Induce or not. Natural induction methods or not. Cord clamping now or later. Epidural, other drugs, drug free. Vaccinate? Circumcise? Antibiotic drops in eyes? Give the baby a bath? Giving birth under water? At home? In birth center? In hospital? My head begins to roll. Unbelievable. Not only the number of things to disagree about, but the vehemence with which people disagree.
Here is what I am firm on.
I am giving birth in a hospital with an ob. Yes it is just in case, but in that case, that is where I want to be. I believe with my ob's support I can have the kind of birth I want to have in the hospital. I think with my blood pressure a home birth is not really an option, and frankly, I need the couple days off, alone with my baby, before I come home and get eaten alive by the other offspring.
I would like my delivery room to be dark, quiet, and void of medical personal until I am ready to deliver. This might mean they have to stand in the hallway. I'm not worried about it. I will push when I am ready, my husband's job is to tell them or catch the baby himself. I don't really care if my own personal ob makes it to the room in time. I hope he does, but if not, I've had a baby on the bed before, I think it will be ok. I don't want a bunch of medical staff standing around with big eyes wondering when it's going to happen. I need a little privacy in transition to work through it, they can come in when I'm pushy.
I think there are good reasons for cord clamping, baby bathing, and the antibiotic drops just aren't that big a deal to me - none of those things is worth a fight to me. The idea of having a baby born underwater gives me the willies, and I don't care to catch my child myself or who the first person to hold them is. They're going home with me, rooming with me, I don't think they'll remember.
I will circumcise my boys because God had the Jews do it, that's all the reason I need. I vaccinate my kids for most things because I think vaccinations are a good thing, most of the time. I don't vaccinate for chicken pox (not for children anyway, if I have a kid reach physical adulthood w/o getting it, I'll have them vaccinated) or stds ("cervical cancer"). If I have a child who walks down the path of being promiscious, then we will have a very sad visit to the doctor office and get that shot, and the pain of the shot will be the least of our tears. But I'm not going to do it just in case.
Giving birth at home sounds grand. Actually, laboring at my favorite campground in Michigan and giving birth on the beach sounds grand, if I could somehow work out the bug thing, and the sand thing, and somehow ensure the ideal temperature. But I can't work those things out, and I can't guarantee that my babies will not need a little something when they're born, and so I will do it the way I've been doing it.
But the epidural. That is one I will fight on. I want to enjoy every contraction of bringing my baby into the world. I want to partner with my Creator and my husband in this process, and I believe that pain in labor means I need to do something different to help the baby come down. If it hurts, I need to change positions. My experience with epidurals bears this out. I just have to keep moving, adjusting, relaxing, trusting, focusing on my God, my husband, and the baby I'm bringing forth. The pain is not my focus. The baby, the journey, the Mighty One, the wonderful man with me, these are the things my heart needs to focus on.
And I would never again choose to be induced for anything other than a medical emergency. I was the worst about it in my early babies, being impatient, self inducing, whatever. Don't do it girls. It is a bad idea. Your body knows. Trust it, trust God. Be patient. Wait until you are ready. So.Much.Better.To.Have.A.Baby.When.Ready.
Blessings.
With each additional pregnancy I have begun to retreat into my cave more and more. The last week, the last month, the last trimester. As my due date approached, I would flake out, cancel rehearsals, disappear.
But for the last few pregnancies, I feel that way even before I take the pregnancy test. I just want to hide. I still enjoy quiet moments with close friends, but I don't want to do group things, parties, social gatherings. If I could do it, I'd stay home from almost everything, school, church, soccer.
I want to be home. I would love to just be here, doing mommy things. That's not my normal way. But as a pregnant person, I like to be home, especially when my husband is also here.
I suppose that includes this blog. I haven't written lately because this didn't feel like it was part of my cave. But here goes, a smattering of the many thoughts I've neglected to mention in the last several weeks. Sorry. Here is my update at 5 months and 1 day.
My favorite thing (read: obsession) is to read birth stories. I have focused on natural birth stories this time. I am committed to not having an epidural for this baby. I have given birth 3 times with one, 6 times without, and 2 in the process of receiving one, which I do not recommend.
I have changed my eating strategy. I am no longer focusing on major protein intake. I've decided that is for people with pre-eclampsia. I don't have pre-e. I have high blood pressure. My mom has high blood pressure, my dad has high blood pressure, and I have it. I have it because I am fat and it is in my genes. It is worst at the end of my pregnancies because that is when I am the biggest.
So I will take drugs for blood pressure when it happens, if it happens, and in the mean time, my goal is to weigh as little as is possible when I deliver. Today I weigh about what I did when I got pregnant (204.5). I would love to get back under 200 lbs. I think if I could deliver a baby at 180 something that would be even better.
So instead of my big protein thing and low carb thing, I am watching my calories. Still avoiding refined carbs. Still not eating sugar. Still not drinking coffee. Still trying to eat a lot of veggies, because they are more satisfying. I'm using my little kitchen scale and measuring things. I'm using myfitnesspal.com to keep track of what I eat.
It feels more like self-control, more balanced, more sustainable.
I'm also chewing gum when I need to be done eating but feel like eating more. That is an amazing trick!
I am so focused on pregnancy and labor and delivery. I've been reading lots of stuff about natural labor and there is weirdness out there in pretty good supply. The spectrum is astounding.
On the one extreme are people who schedule c-sections electively. Maybe they want to pick the day, maybe they are afraid of labor, maybe they just honestly don't want their butt to get bigger, but there are those who choose to never even feel a contraction.
Then on the other end you have the placenta-eaters. There exist in the world today, maybe you are one of them, who prefer to give birth alone, keep the baby connected until it stops pulsating, keep the placenta, cord and all attached to the baby until it all falls off, and rip a chunk of the placenta off and chew it up and swallow it.
And there are variations all along the way. So many questions. Induce or not. Natural induction methods or not. Cord clamping now or later. Epidural, other drugs, drug free. Vaccinate? Circumcise? Antibiotic drops in eyes? Give the baby a bath? Giving birth under water? At home? In birth center? In hospital? My head begins to roll. Unbelievable. Not only the number of things to disagree about, but the vehemence with which people disagree.
Here is what I am firm on.
I am giving birth in a hospital with an ob. Yes it is just in case, but in that case, that is where I want to be. I believe with my ob's support I can have the kind of birth I want to have in the hospital. I think with my blood pressure a home birth is not really an option, and frankly, I need the couple days off, alone with my baby, before I come home and get eaten alive by the other offspring.
I would like my delivery room to be dark, quiet, and void of medical personal until I am ready to deliver. This might mean they have to stand in the hallway. I'm not worried about it. I will push when I am ready, my husband's job is to tell them or catch the baby himself. I don't really care if my own personal ob makes it to the room in time. I hope he does, but if not, I've had a baby on the bed before, I think it will be ok. I don't want a bunch of medical staff standing around with big eyes wondering when it's going to happen. I need a little privacy in transition to work through it, they can come in when I'm pushy.
I think there are good reasons for cord clamping, baby bathing, and the antibiotic drops just aren't that big a deal to me - none of those things is worth a fight to me. The idea of having a baby born underwater gives me the willies, and I don't care to catch my child myself or who the first person to hold them is. They're going home with me, rooming with me, I don't think they'll remember.
I will circumcise my boys because God had the Jews do it, that's all the reason I need. I vaccinate my kids for most things because I think vaccinations are a good thing, most of the time. I don't vaccinate for chicken pox (not for children anyway, if I have a kid reach physical adulthood w/o getting it, I'll have them vaccinated) or stds ("cervical cancer"). If I have a child who walks down the path of being promiscious, then we will have a very sad visit to the doctor office and get that shot, and the pain of the shot will be the least of our tears. But I'm not going to do it just in case.
Giving birth at home sounds grand. Actually, laboring at my favorite campground in Michigan and giving birth on the beach sounds grand, if I could somehow work out the bug thing, and the sand thing, and somehow ensure the ideal temperature. But I can't work those things out, and I can't guarantee that my babies will not need a little something when they're born, and so I will do it the way I've been doing it.
But the epidural. That is one I will fight on. I want to enjoy every contraction of bringing my baby into the world. I want to partner with my Creator and my husband in this process, and I believe that pain in labor means I need to do something different to help the baby come down. If it hurts, I need to change positions. My experience with epidurals bears this out. I just have to keep moving, adjusting, relaxing, trusting, focusing on my God, my husband, and the baby I'm bringing forth. The pain is not my focus. The baby, the journey, the Mighty One, the wonderful man with me, these are the things my heart needs to focus on.
And I would never again choose to be induced for anything other than a medical emergency. I was the worst about it in my early babies, being impatient, self inducing, whatever. Don't do it girls. It is a bad idea. Your body knows. Trust it, trust God. Be patient. Wait until you are ready. So.Much.Better.To.Have.A.Baby.When.Ready.
Blessings.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
The dog ate the bread
We have a dog. He's a dog. He has done many things that are doggish and frustrating.
He has separation anxiety, so he poops on the carpet everytime we leave. If we leave the garbage where he can get at it, he'll find a poopy diaper in it and eat most of it and spread the remains hither and yon. And then I have to clean up hither and yon. (by the way, the little pieces of gel that go everywhere when a diaper explodes clean up way better with a broom and dustpan than to try to wipe it or soak it up or pick it up)
But he just did what was, in my opinion, the worst possible thing. He ate the bread.
Now this wasn't just any bread. This didn't come from a bag or a store. This was my daughter's fresh baked loaf of Italian bread, with onions and spices in it and freshly ground whole wheat. It was, possibly, the very best bread I've ever eaten in my entire life. Like the fresh bread they give you at Macaroni Grill, but way better, not needing butter or olive oil or anything. I could have eaten it and only it every day for the rest of my life. I had a bite, she had a bite, we took a bite to dad, and the dog ate the rest.
I'm not gonna kill him though.
Death is too good for him.
He has separation anxiety, so he poops on the carpet everytime we leave. If we leave the garbage where he can get at it, he'll find a poopy diaper in it and eat most of it and spread the remains hither and yon. And then I have to clean up hither and yon. (by the way, the little pieces of gel that go everywhere when a diaper explodes clean up way better with a broom and dustpan than to try to wipe it or soak it up or pick it up)
But he just did what was, in my opinion, the worst possible thing. He ate the bread.
Now this wasn't just any bread. This didn't come from a bag or a store. This was my daughter's fresh baked loaf of Italian bread, with onions and spices in it and freshly ground whole wheat. It was, possibly, the very best bread I've ever eaten in my entire life. Like the fresh bread they give you at Macaroni Grill, but way better, not needing butter or olive oil or anything. I could have eaten it and only it every day for the rest of my life. I had a bite, she had a bite, we took a bite to dad, and the dog ate the rest.
I'm not gonna kill him though.
Death is too good for him.
Saturday, March 03, 2012
Large family furniture
I have a family of 15 (being pro-life and full of faith, the baby in my belly counts). At some point, there will be at least 15 butts sitting around my dining room table. Problem is, it seats 12. Barely. We are down to 4 of the original chairs that went with our table, but only 2 of them still have a back. We bought my brother-in-law's Great Aunt Somebody's dining room chairs (may she rest in peace) which, apparently, had never been sat on, and after weeks of rescrewing the bottoms in daily and recurrently hearing the little washer and nut hit the floor (nice ching sound), we're down to one of those, and we only let small people sit on it. We have one brown chair we stole from church, fully intending to give it back, which, if you tip forward slightly will quickly and effectively dump you on your rump. Finally, we have 6 metal ivory hand-me-down chairs that are holding up marvelously. I will only buy metal chairs from now on.
But our table is also maxxed out. We are going to need something bigger soon. Because a priority for our family is being together. At least some of the time, we want to all sit together. So the quest is on. I know that an Amish table can seat up to 20. I'm checking that option out. I also thought about getting some Sam's Club or Office Max conference tables and lining them up.
In our kids' bedrooms, we have 2 sets of bunk beds and a loft over a crib in both rooms. (There are no dressers because we have a family closet - a room dedicated to holding all the clothing in the universe, mostly on the floor, but sometimes hung up or put away.) This works well. But again, we are about to outgrow our set up. The girls' room has a place for a crib, eventually switching out the crib under the loft for a regular bed. The boys' room may not. We have another bedroom which is currently a guest room, but it is in the attic, and messes up the being together thing. They like to be together.
In the living room, we've all but given up. We have a couch, a love seat and an oversized chair. We can squeeze, without fighting, 9 kids onto those pieces of furniture. I almost always sit on the floor (I'm short and furniture doesn't fit me), and right now, the babies rarely sit unless they are sitting on someone else. But for us all to sit together politely, there just isn't room. I have looked at sectionals, but never was convinced enough of one working in the room to spend actual dollars, so hard to do when someone always has something they are done with that will work just fine for us.
We have multicolor Berber carpet in our house. It isn't very soft, but it is very forgiving. In our living room, it is basically a speckled navy blue. This is incredibly tolerant carpet. It isn't attractive, but it is just as attractive as it was 8 years and 6 kids ago. And that's saying something. The carpet on the stairs and in the bedrooms is too light, so some places, especially the stairs, the hallway, and my bedroom floor where a child puked on the run once after eating pizza (why do they always puke after pizza, chili or spaghetti?) and where the dog communicated his displeasure at being left at home alone, are less beautiful than they once were. In my dreams I'd love to get some of that thick multicolored carpet that my dad says looks like something from a trailer park, but I'm sure would feel better to my feet in the morning. But not soon. Not today.
In our kitchen we have an island we affectionately labeled Madagascar because it is 9 feet long, which comfortably seats the 7 matching barstools we bought for that purpose (6 kids ago). We also have a barstool with no back that we have so children can fall off and give us heart attacks and another I bought on discount that is so crappy we keep the booster seat attached to it for a second high chair. The island is a funny place because the kids either love it so much they want to be on top of it, or they abandon it to sit in the dining room to be with whoever initially went to the dining room because they couldn't fit around the too small island. Still, it's great for crafts, for serving lots of small people fast, for company, for putting $300 worth of groceries on to put away, for rolling out and frosting cookies, for school, for tea parties, or for leaving dishes on till you get around to putting them in the dishwasher or away.
We have 4 bathrooms in our house. The one on the first floor is used almost constantly, and sometimes by more than one little boy at once. If you come to our house, I recommend you look before you land, and if you want to be alone, lock the door. On the second floor we have two, a kids' bathroom and a master bathroom. The kids one is only used by the boys, because someone saw a spider in there once. The girls use the master bathroom. All the time. Day or night. Without knocking. There is a 4th bathroom in the attic which we only really clean when company is coming, and were we keep 5 or 6 plastic cups, just in case.
Our attic is finished, like having a finished basement on the top of your house (because our old-house basement is dungeon like). It is where the tv lives, where most of the bowls migrate weekly in honor of popcorn and candy night, where the toys are supposed to be (mostly on the floor in front of the bathroom door, apparently) and where we keep our flock of mice.
But our table is also maxxed out. We are going to need something bigger soon. Because a priority for our family is being together. At least some of the time, we want to all sit together. So the quest is on. I know that an Amish table can seat up to 20. I'm checking that option out. I also thought about getting some Sam's Club or Office Max conference tables and lining them up.
In our kids' bedrooms, we have 2 sets of bunk beds and a loft over a crib in both rooms. (There are no dressers because we have a family closet - a room dedicated to holding all the clothing in the universe, mostly on the floor, but sometimes hung up or put away.) This works well. But again, we are about to outgrow our set up. The girls' room has a place for a crib, eventually switching out the crib under the loft for a regular bed. The boys' room may not. We have another bedroom which is currently a guest room, but it is in the attic, and messes up the being together thing. They like to be together.
In the living room, we've all but given up. We have a couch, a love seat and an oversized chair. We can squeeze, without fighting, 9 kids onto those pieces of furniture. I almost always sit on the floor (I'm short and furniture doesn't fit me), and right now, the babies rarely sit unless they are sitting on someone else. But for us all to sit together politely, there just isn't room. I have looked at sectionals, but never was convinced enough of one working in the room to spend actual dollars, so hard to do when someone always has something they are done with that will work just fine for us.
We have multicolor Berber carpet in our house. It isn't very soft, but it is very forgiving. In our living room, it is basically a speckled navy blue. This is incredibly tolerant carpet. It isn't attractive, but it is just as attractive as it was 8 years and 6 kids ago. And that's saying something. The carpet on the stairs and in the bedrooms is too light, so some places, especially the stairs, the hallway, and my bedroom floor where a child puked on the run once after eating pizza (why do they always puke after pizza, chili or spaghetti?) and where the dog communicated his displeasure at being left at home alone, are less beautiful than they once were. In my dreams I'd love to get some of that thick multicolored carpet that my dad says looks like something from a trailer park, but I'm sure would feel better to my feet in the morning. But not soon. Not today.
In our kitchen we have an island we affectionately labeled Madagascar because it is 9 feet long, which comfortably seats the 7 matching barstools we bought for that purpose (6 kids ago). We also have a barstool with no back that we have so children can fall off and give us heart attacks and another I bought on discount that is so crappy we keep the booster seat attached to it for a second high chair. The island is a funny place because the kids either love it so much they want to be on top of it, or they abandon it to sit in the dining room to be with whoever initially went to the dining room because they couldn't fit around the too small island. Still, it's great for crafts, for serving lots of small people fast, for company, for putting $300 worth of groceries on to put away, for rolling out and frosting cookies, for school, for tea parties, or for leaving dishes on till you get around to putting them in the dishwasher or away.
We have 4 bathrooms in our house. The one on the first floor is used almost constantly, and sometimes by more than one little boy at once. If you come to our house, I recommend you look before you land, and if you want to be alone, lock the door. On the second floor we have two, a kids' bathroom and a master bathroom. The kids one is only used by the boys, because someone saw a spider in there once. The girls use the master bathroom. All the time. Day or night. Without knocking. There is a 4th bathroom in the attic which we only really clean when company is coming, and were we keep 5 or 6 plastic cups, just in case.
Our attic is finished, like having a finished basement on the top of your house (because our old-house basement is dungeon like). It is where the tv lives, where most of the bowls migrate weekly in honor of popcorn and candy night, where the toys are supposed to be (mostly on the floor in front of the bathroom door, apparently) and where we keep our flock of mice.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Amazing Super Mom, Really?
I feel the need to clarify every so often, that I don't honestly think of myself as amazing or super. It used a be a joke. I would be at the grocery store with a baby strapped on my front and a toddler on my back and a 2 year old in the front of the cart and a 4 year old in the back, trying to squeeze some groceries in, or be at the van with everyone in their carseats smearing their faces with recently acquired granola bars while I feverishly cram the groceries in the back, all so I can hoard my precious time when Daddy is home to be with him, and I would think, who do think I am, the amazing supermom?
Of course, that was long ages ago. Now I leave the multitudes at home with the eldest or with Daddy and take a couple mid-sized humans with me, buy 3 times as many groceries, and dread coming home and having to put it all away.
But I still have that joke - who do I think I am? When I'm about to have a new baby while my youngest is still very much a baby, who do I think I am? When I'm homeschooling my daughter through physics, which I never took, who do I think I am? When I went through that agonizing, amazing, depleting season with three babies, nursing two and bottle feeding the third, often just laying on the couch with the two little ones sleeping on me, who did I think I was?
But it is also a name God gave me, it is the way He sees me. Because I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me, because He is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that I can ask or think, because He causes my cup to overflow, because He has lavished His grace on me and has blessed me with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places in Christ, I am the amazing supermom.
Because He has given me everything I need to get through the next hour and the next day and the next many years, because He hears me EVERY TIME I cry out to Him and meets me everytime I turn my face toward Him, I am the amazing supermom.
Because when I lean on Him and abide in Him, there is nothing I can't do, I am the amazing supermom.
Of course, that was long ages ago. Now I leave the multitudes at home with the eldest or with Daddy and take a couple mid-sized humans with me, buy 3 times as many groceries, and dread coming home and having to put it all away.
But I still have that joke - who do I think I am? When I'm about to have a new baby while my youngest is still very much a baby, who do I think I am? When I'm homeschooling my daughter through physics, which I never took, who do I think I am? When I went through that agonizing, amazing, depleting season with three babies, nursing two and bottle feeding the third, often just laying on the couch with the two little ones sleeping on me, who did I think I was?
But it is also a name God gave me, it is the way He sees me. Because I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me, because He is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that I can ask or think, because He causes my cup to overflow, because He has lavished His grace on me and has blessed me with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places in Christ, I am the amazing supermom.
Because He has given me everything I need to get through the next hour and the next day and the next many years, because He hears me EVERY TIME I cry out to Him and meets me everytime I turn my face toward Him, I am the amazing supermom.
Because when I lean on Him and abide in Him, there is nothing I can't do, I am the amazing supermom.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
My teeth belong to God
So, a number of years ago I went to the dentist, which has never been my favorite place, and had my 6 month check-up/scolding for not doing a better job taking care of my teeth. I don't like to floss or brush, and especially not at night, when I'm ready for bed. So I was in a habit of "letting myself off the hook" in the evening and just brushing in the morning.
In fact, I had never really brushed or flossed well. I tell my kids to brush their teeth as if they want to keep them. I didn't. I just went through the motions. And that day, after another predictable and well deserved lecture, I went home and thought/prayed, "I just wish one time I could go to the dentist and have them tell me I did a good job." And I felt like God said something like, "Give me your teeth." And I started to treat my teeth as though they belonged to God. And I brushed my teeth and flossed my teeth before I went to bed, because they were God's teeth. I took care of my teeth as unto the Lord.
Ever since then, I have really had good check-ups and last week they told me I was a poster child for taking good care of my teeth. No kidding. They really said that. And then I told them the story I just told you, and ended with this thought, "It's too bad I don't do that with other areas of my life."
Well, I went home thinking about that, and I'm trying it. My fast, my Nazirite vow, is not about denying myself of good things. It is about belonging to the Lord. It's about Isaiah 44. I belong to the Lord. So what I eat falls under His jurisdiction. I'm trying it. I'm submitting to Him. Several times I have stopped eating because I didn't really need more food. Sometimes I have kept eating and regretted it. But I am trying to belong to Him regarding what I eat.
I am my Beloved's and He is mine, and His banner over me is LOVE.
In fact, I had never really brushed or flossed well. I tell my kids to brush their teeth as if they want to keep them. I didn't. I just went through the motions. And that day, after another predictable and well deserved lecture, I went home and thought/prayed, "I just wish one time I could go to the dentist and have them tell me I did a good job." And I felt like God said something like, "Give me your teeth." And I started to treat my teeth as though they belonged to God. And I brushed my teeth and flossed my teeth before I went to bed, because they were God's teeth. I took care of my teeth as unto the Lord.
Ever since then, I have really had good check-ups and last week they told me I was a poster child for taking good care of my teeth. No kidding. They really said that. And then I told them the story I just told you, and ended with this thought, "It's too bad I don't do that with other areas of my life."
Well, I went home thinking about that, and I'm trying it. My fast, my Nazirite vow, is not about denying myself of good things. It is about belonging to the Lord. It's about Isaiah 44. I belong to the Lord. So what I eat falls under His jurisdiction. I'm trying it. I'm submitting to Him. Several times I have stopped eating because I didn't really need more food. Sometimes I have kept eating and regretted it. But I am trying to belong to Him regarding what I eat.
I am my Beloved's and He is mine, and His banner over me is LOVE.
What I don't know
I think at this stage in my life, most people either assume I know what I'm doing, or that I'm a complete idiot and have no idea what I'm doing.
Either they figure, hey, you've had that many kids, you probably know everything you need to know about labor, nursing, parenting, when to take kids to the doctor, all that sort of thing; or, they think if I had any sense I would have stopped having kids years ago and I am obviously on welfare and don't have the good sense God gave a dog to know when to stop overpopulating the earth.
In the hospital, they mostly figure I know what I'm doing. "Just let us know when you think you're going to need to push," they say. I say, by the time I know I need to push, the baby will be born. Or with nursing, "You have done this so many times before," and I say, well yeah, but he hasn't.
Because really, there is a lot I don't know. And I learn new stuff with every baby, every labor, every day. For example, nursing. Because I have had a few genuinely refluxy babies, I just expect fussiness. I assume they're just going to cry sometimes. It honestly never occurs to me to try to figure out if it is something I ate or drank that is causing a nursing baby to be uncomfortable.
Another thing, about the time my babies start solid food, 4, 5, maybe 6 months old, I start worrying about my milk supply. But that is probably also about the time I stop being very patient with the nursing times, about the time someone else is potty training, about the time I start exercising and trying to drop a few (dozen) pounds, start wanting more freedom and to not take the little piker with me every where I go.
With labor, I worry about when to be checked, when to have the doctor come, and how long it will be and if I have enough oom-pa-pa to make it to the end or if I need an epidural because I'm just not strong enough anymore to do this on my own. (mind you, I've given birth w/o epidural 8 times - not discrediting epidurals, but I really can and prefer to go without)
I still have the lactation consultant come in and help me position babies. I still talk to my friends and read articles and books about labor. I am still learning. My younger sister (both my sisters are younger than me, this is the older of the two) sent me a little jar last week that says, "Blessing Box" (or something like that) that she made for me, with maybe hundreds of strips of paper with scriptures on each, with my name on them, personalized for me. She has 4 little crazy girls that go to the doctor every other day and want to be held all the time, and she took the time to do this thing. And she totally rocked my world. Because she told me, the big sister, to read one when I'm having a hard day or a hard minute. And it has been life to me.
I should know that. I should know that the Word of God gives me strength. But there it is. Every day, something new. Because, well, there is a whole lot that I just don't know. And when you are old and wise and mature like me, you'll realize there's a whole lot that you don't know either. (I'm just kidding, that was a joke, did you get it?!)
Either they figure, hey, you've had that many kids, you probably know everything you need to know about labor, nursing, parenting, when to take kids to the doctor, all that sort of thing; or, they think if I had any sense I would have stopped having kids years ago and I am obviously on welfare and don't have the good sense God gave a dog to know when to stop overpopulating the earth.
In the hospital, they mostly figure I know what I'm doing. "Just let us know when you think you're going to need to push," they say. I say, by the time I know I need to push, the baby will be born. Or with nursing, "You have done this so many times before," and I say, well yeah, but he hasn't.
Because really, there is a lot I don't know. And I learn new stuff with every baby, every labor, every day. For example, nursing. Because I have had a few genuinely refluxy babies, I just expect fussiness. I assume they're just going to cry sometimes. It honestly never occurs to me to try to figure out if it is something I ate or drank that is causing a nursing baby to be uncomfortable.
Another thing, about the time my babies start solid food, 4, 5, maybe 6 months old, I start worrying about my milk supply. But that is probably also about the time I stop being very patient with the nursing times, about the time someone else is potty training, about the time I start exercising and trying to drop a few (dozen) pounds, start wanting more freedom and to not take the little piker with me every where I go.
With labor, I worry about when to be checked, when to have the doctor come, and how long it will be and if I have enough oom-pa-pa to make it to the end or if I need an epidural because I'm just not strong enough anymore to do this on my own. (mind you, I've given birth w/o epidural 8 times - not discrediting epidurals, but I really can and prefer to go without)
I still have the lactation consultant come in and help me position babies. I still talk to my friends and read articles and books about labor. I am still learning. My younger sister (both my sisters are younger than me, this is the older of the two) sent me a little jar last week that says, "Blessing Box" (or something like that) that she made for me, with maybe hundreds of strips of paper with scriptures on each, with my name on them, personalized for me. She has 4 little crazy girls that go to the doctor every other day and want to be held all the time, and she took the time to do this thing. And she totally rocked my world. Because she told me, the big sister, to read one when I'm having a hard day or a hard minute. And it has been life to me.
I should know that. I should know that the Word of God gives me strength. But there it is. Every day, something new. Because, well, there is a whole lot that I just don't know. And when you are old and wise and mature like me, you'll realize there's a whole lot that you don't know either. (I'm just kidding, that was a joke, did you get it?!)
Monday, February 13, 2012
I hate my face
and the rest of me as well. But mostly my face. The rosacea is taking over. I took a picture with my phone of me and my youngest daughter, and she looks so beautiful, and I look so very crappy.
I have to be honest here on this blog called the amazing super mom. I have not felt remotely amazing or anything like super in quite some time. The daily grind is really bringing me down. I don't like the look of me or the feel of me.
I was reading a facebook conversation recently, started by a young woman who was confidently stating her updated religious views. She said she is a deist, she believes in God. She likes the idea of a rescuer but has decided that the Bible isn't trustworthy because of translation issues someone told her about. But what she wants is a life that isn't based on rules and a constant trying to measure up, but instead a life that flows out of love.
And I thought, that's what being a Christian is. Or is supposed to be. It is supposed to be a life that flows in and out of the immense love of God. Jesus, living the life He lived, dying on the cross and rising again was all about revealing the love of God. It was about setting us free from all those rules and guilt into living a life flowing in that mighty love.
The facebook poster had not seen that love in the churches she'd been part of or in the Christians she knew apparently. She certainly wouldn't see it in me. Why is that? I've been a Christian for 30+ years. In my brain I know that Jesus loves me. I know I am free. I know I am beautiful to Him. I know He is right and I am wrong.
But when I look in the mirror or hear myself talk or think about how I act, I do not love me.
When I am with Him, focused on Him, listening to Him, I remember. And though I don't feel beautiful, I know He is, and I enjoy Him there. But even that revelation is hard to cling to when I get back to the blow-by-blow of being a human. Harsh words spoken, blank stares from formerly friendly faces, criticism, failure, just the normal uphill battles we all face, all these things wage war on that lovely peace that passes understanding.
I want to be one of those women who carry with them the grace of having looked myself in the face and seen what Jesus sees, of having gone through the fire but not been burned, of having been with Jesus so often and so deeply and authentically that nothing, no nothing, interferes in my nestled existence.
I want to be so saturated with the glorious, universe-sized love of the Almighty that it slimes everyone I come in contact with, in a good way.
But I'm not that girl today. I'm just me. Tripping along, bumping into stuff and people. I feel small (in a fat sort of way) and weak and offensive and insufficient and ugly. And far, far away from the arms of my Beloved Jesus, though they are ever so near.
My very favorite image of Jesus in the Bible is when John the disciple was leaning back on Him during the last supper. There was turmoil, unrest, Jesus was talking about things like being crucified and tortured and betrayed, and John simply leaned back.
There is a quote in one of the Winnie the Pooh stories when the Piglet calls out to Pooh, and Pooh asks what he wants, and Piglet replies, "Nothing, I just wanted to be sure of you." That's the height of my faith this morning. I don't have all the answers. I'm not floating in a sea of the love of God. I can't probably inspire any athiests or agnostics to believe by my lifestyle or world view. I'm just hanging on. I know Him. I know He loves me. But it has not seeped into my all day, every day.
I'm just leaning back, just wanting to be sure of Him who my heart loves.
I have to be honest here on this blog called the amazing super mom. I have not felt remotely amazing or anything like super in quite some time. The daily grind is really bringing me down. I don't like the look of me or the feel of me.
I was reading a facebook conversation recently, started by a young woman who was confidently stating her updated religious views. She said she is a deist, she believes in God. She likes the idea of a rescuer but has decided that the Bible isn't trustworthy because of translation issues someone told her about. But what she wants is a life that isn't based on rules and a constant trying to measure up, but instead a life that flows out of love.
And I thought, that's what being a Christian is. Or is supposed to be. It is supposed to be a life that flows in and out of the immense love of God. Jesus, living the life He lived, dying on the cross and rising again was all about revealing the love of God. It was about setting us free from all those rules and guilt into living a life flowing in that mighty love.
The facebook poster had not seen that love in the churches she'd been part of or in the Christians she knew apparently. She certainly wouldn't see it in me. Why is that? I've been a Christian for 30+ years. In my brain I know that Jesus loves me. I know I am free. I know I am beautiful to Him. I know He is right and I am wrong.
But when I look in the mirror or hear myself talk or think about how I act, I do not love me.
When I am with Him, focused on Him, listening to Him, I remember. And though I don't feel beautiful, I know He is, and I enjoy Him there. But even that revelation is hard to cling to when I get back to the blow-by-blow of being a human. Harsh words spoken, blank stares from formerly friendly faces, criticism, failure, just the normal uphill battles we all face, all these things wage war on that lovely peace that passes understanding.
I want to be one of those women who carry with them the grace of having looked myself in the face and seen what Jesus sees, of having gone through the fire but not been burned, of having been with Jesus so often and so deeply and authentically that nothing, no nothing, interferes in my nestled existence.
I want to be so saturated with the glorious, universe-sized love of the Almighty that it slimes everyone I come in contact with, in a good way.
But I'm not that girl today. I'm just me. Tripping along, bumping into stuff and people. I feel small (in a fat sort of way) and weak and offensive and insufficient and ugly. And far, far away from the arms of my Beloved Jesus, though they are ever so near.
My very favorite image of Jesus in the Bible is when John the disciple was leaning back on Him during the last supper. There was turmoil, unrest, Jesus was talking about things like being crucified and tortured and betrayed, and John simply leaned back.
There is a quote in one of the Winnie the Pooh stories when the Piglet calls out to Pooh, and Pooh asks what he wants, and Piglet replies, "Nothing, I just wanted to be sure of you." That's the height of my faith this morning. I don't have all the answers. I'm not floating in a sea of the love of God. I can't probably inspire any athiests or agnostics to believe by my lifestyle or world view. I'm just hanging on. I know Him. I know He loves me. But it has not seeped into my all day, every day.
I'm just leaning back, just wanting to be sure of Him who my heart loves.
Monday, February 06, 2012
Monday
New week, new start, fresh attitude. I don't feel particularly motivated, but today is Monday. I better get my game on or it's going to be a very draggy week. I'm digging around, trying to find some mojo, trying to fan some kind of flame from the seemingly cool motivational embers in the fireplace of my heart (pretty poetic, eh).
I don't have much. Just a vague memory of who I want to be someday, a deeply buried thought that I have the Spirit that raised Christ from the dead in me, and 12 really loud, distracted children who, if I don't pull it together, will sit around all day nibbling the stuff from the bottom of the box of shredded miniwheats and making miniature fishing poles out of paperclips. That doesn't seem like enough. Now is when I miss coffee.
I had a healthy breakfast, scrambled eggs with spinach, cheese and ham. I've taken my vitamins. That's 2 points. Several children are starting their new week's k.p. duties (others are fighting over what their new duties are, and one is playing heart and soul on the piano). That's a start.
I am reminded of one of my favorite things, St. Patrick's Breastplate. It first became special to me when I was pregnant with my 3rd child, when the oldest was 2.5, and I was pretty sure life was ending and that I would grocery shop online and never leave the house again. He was due around or on St. Patrick's Day. And I was researching about Patrick and his name (not that my husband ever really considered the name Patrick or Patricia, but I was brainstorming) and ran across it, it's also called the Deer's Cry, and probably wasn't maybe really even written by St. Patrick, but here it is. I'm grabbing hold.
I arise today Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity, Through the belief in the threeness, Through confession of the oneness Of the Creator of Creation.
I arise today Through the strength of Christ's birth with his baptism, Through the strength of his crucifixion with his burial, Through the strength of his resurrection with his ascension, Through the strength of his descent for the judgment of Doom.
I arise today Through the strength of the love of Cherubim, In obedience of angels, In the service of archangels, In hope of resurrection to meet with reward, In prayers of patriarchs, In predictions of prophets, In preaching of apostles, In faith of confessors, In innocence of holy virgins, In deeds of righteous men. I arise today Through the strength of heaven: Light of sun, Radiance of moon, Splendor of fire, Speed of lightning, Swiftness of wind, Depth of sea, Stability of earth, Firmness of rock.
I arise today Through God's strength to pilot me: God's might to uphold me, God's wisdom to guide me, God's eye to look before me, God's ear to hear me, God's word to speak for me, God's hand to guard me, God's way to lie before me, God's shield to protect me, God's host to save me From snares of devils, From temptations of vices, From everyone who shall wish me ill, Afar and anear, Alone and in multitude.
I summon today all these powers between me and those evils, Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul, Against incantations of false prophets, Against black laws of pagandom Against false laws of heretics, Against craft of idolatry, Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards, Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul. Christ to shield me today Against poison, against burning, Against drowning, against wounding, So that there may come to me abundance of reward.
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise, Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me, Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hears me.
I arise today Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity, Through belief in the threeness, Through confession of the oneness, Of the Creator of Creation.
I don't have much. Just a vague memory of who I want to be someday, a deeply buried thought that I have the Spirit that raised Christ from the dead in me, and 12 really loud, distracted children who, if I don't pull it together, will sit around all day nibbling the stuff from the bottom of the box of shredded miniwheats and making miniature fishing poles out of paperclips. That doesn't seem like enough. Now is when I miss coffee.
I had a healthy breakfast, scrambled eggs with spinach, cheese and ham. I've taken my vitamins. That's 2 points. Several children are starting their new week's k.p. duties (others are fighting over what their new duties are, and one is playing heart and soul on the piano). That's a start.
I am reminded of one of my favorite things, St. Patrick's Breastplate. It first became special to me when I was pregnant with my 3rd child, when the oldest was 2.5, and I was pretty sure life was ending and that I would grocery shop online and never leave the house again. He was due around or on St. Patrick's Day. And I was researching about Patrick and his name (not that my husband ever really considered the name Patrick or Patricia, but I was brainstorming) and ran across it, it's also called the Deer's Cry, and probably wasn't maybe really even written by St. Patrick, but here it is. I'm grabbing hold.
I arise today Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity, Through the belief in the threeness, Through confession of the oneness Of the Creator of Creation.
I arise today Through the strength of Christ's birth with his baptism, Through the strength of his crucifixion with his burial, Through the strength of his resurrection with his ascension, Through the strength of his descent for the judgment of Doom.
I arise today Through the strength of the love of Cherubim, In obedience of angels, In the service of archangels, In hope of resurrection to meet with reward, In prayers of patriarchs, In predictions of prophets, In preaching of apostles, In faith of confessors, In innocence of holy virgins, In deeds of righteous men. I arise today Through the strength of heaven: Light of sun, Radiance of moon, Splendor of fire, Speed of lightning, Swiftness of wind, Depth of sea, Stability of earth, Firmness of rock.
I arise today Through God's strength to pilot me: God's might to uphold me, God's wisdom to guide me, God's eye to look before me, God's ear to hear me, God's word to speak for me, God's hand to guard me, God's way to lie before me, God's shield to protect me, God's host to save me From snares of devils, From temptations of vices, From everyone who shall wish me ill, Afar and anear, Alone and in multitude.
I summon today all these powers between me and those evils, Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul, Against incantations of false prophets, Against black laws of pagandom Against false laws of heretics, Against craft of idolatry, Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards, Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul. Christ to shield me today Against poison, against burning, Against drowning, against wounding, So that there may come to me abundance of reward.
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise, Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me, Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hears me.
I arise today Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity, Through belief in the threeness, Through confession of the oneness, Of the Creator of Creation.
Saturday, February 04, 2012
Appropriate joy
I got on BabyCenter last night. Hadn't been on in months, really not since finding out our youngest didn't have Downs syndrome. I don't have time and, when I'm not pregnant, that's just not somewhere I want to be. But pregnant, and not sleeping (why?), somehow I feel compelled to go to those type of sites.
So there is a group for moms due in August of this year, and there is a question, how old are you and how many kids do you have. 135 responses. A few older than 40, none with more than 4 children, many relieved to be having their last before age 30.
One lady said she was 58 and having her 13th, but was just kidding. Because of course she couldn't have a baby at 58, and of course she could't be having her 13th. Ha ha. That would be ridiculous.
And I thought, do I post?
I don't know why I care. I don't know why what anybody thinks matters to me. But it does. It does impact me. Am I alone in this? I feel people's acceptance or rejection of my pregnancy as I would their acceptance or rejection of my child.
And it isn't just people who think having 13 is as ridiculous as having a baby at 58. It is people who are grieving themselves because they have longed and prayed for a pregnancy, and why do I get to be pregnant, again, and they are not? No one says it, and maybe, by God's grace, they aren't even thinking it.
But I am. I'm glad to be pregnant but I would give anything for each of them to be.
Some people are concerned about my weight, or my other children, or my health, or our finances. But all of that concern, even if it is legitimate, amounts to disapproval. And my weakness is that I take that stuff in.
I used to really get a kick out of telling people how many kids I had in how many years. But over the years all the negativity beats it out of me, until, I just want to stay home. It takes the joy out of pregnancy, takes the excitement out of telling people, takes the fun out of looking pregnant.
I feel physically great, as good as I ever have felt when pregnant. I am healthy. I am strong. I am as thrilled about being pregnant as I have ever been. This baby is as greatly longed for and anticipated and desired as any of my babies has ever been. I'm not very tired, not very uncomfortable, not puking, not nauseaus.
Why don't I feel happier? I do not want to accept on my child's behalf that he or she is less stunningly amazing, less stupendously delightful, less phenomenonally, once-in-a-lifetime miraculously wonderful than every other baby due in August of 2012. God making a human is simply one of the most wonderful things He ever does. And, though I don't know why, and I certainly don't know why He maybe didn't yet in some of my precious friends' wombs, somehow, miraculously, He did and is in me.
This baby, this event, this miracle is worthy of all the joy I can muster, worthy of cute T-shirts and maternity clothes and shouting from the rooftops.
God, why are there so many who think it is ridiculous or laughable or wrong for me to rejoice over a precious new life, simply because I have already celebrated a dozen other times? Why are there wombs hungry for life when mine overflows? Why is joy that is so very appropriate so hard to come by? Please give life to these friends of mine. You are good, show forth Your goodness. And please, let people see the joy that You and I take in each conception, in each spirit, in each pregnancy, in each life.
I did post.
I said, I'm 40, will be 41 when baby is born, our 13th. Not kidding.
So there is a group for moms due in August of this year, and there is a question, how old are you and how many kids do you have. 135 responses. A few older than 40, none with more than 4 children, many relieved to be having their last before age 30.
One lady said she was 58 and having her 13th, but was just kidding. Because of course she couldn't have a baby at 58, and of course she could't be having her 13th. Ha ha. That would be ridiculous.
And I thought, do I post?
I don't know why I care. I don't know why what anybody thinks matters to me. But it does. It does impact me. Am I alone in this? I feel people's acceptance or rejection of my pregnancy as I would their acceptance or rejection of my child.
And it isn't just people who think having 13 is as ridiculous as having a baby at 58. It is people who are grieving themselves because they have longed and prayed for a pregnancy, and why do I get to be pregnant, again, and they are not? No one says it, and maybe, by God's grace, they aren't even thinking it.
But I am. I'm glad to be pregnant but I would give anything for each of them to be.
Some people are concerned about my weight, or my other children, or my health, or our finances. But all of that concern, even if it is legitimate, amounts to disapproval. And my weakness is that I take that stuff in.
I used to really get a kick out of telling people how many kids I had in how many years. But over the years all the negativity beats it out of me, until, I just want to stay home. It takes the joy out of pregnancy, takes the excitement out of telling people, takes the fun out of looking pregnant.
I feel physically great, as good as I ever have felt when pregnant. I am healthy. I am strong. I am as thrilled about being pregnant as I have ever been. This baby is as greatly longed for and anticipated and desired as any of my babies has ever been. I'm not very tired, not very uncomfortable, not puking, not nauseaus.
Why don't I feel happier? I do not want to accept on my child's behalf that he or she is less stunningly amazing, less stupendously delightful, less phenomenonally, once-in-a-lifetime miraculously wonderful than every other baby due in August of 2012. God making a human is simply one of the most wonderful things He ever does. And, though I don't know why, and I certainly don't know why He maybe didn't yet in some of my precious friends' wombs, somehow, miraculously, He did and is in me.
This baby, this event, this miracle is worthy of all the joy I can muster, worthy of cute T-shirts and maternity clothes and shouting from the rooftops.
God, why are there so many who think it is ridiculous or laughable or wrong for me to rejoice over a precious new life, simply because I have already celebrated a dozen other times? Why are there wombs hungry for life when mine overflows? Why is joy that is so very appropriate so hard to come by? Please give life to these friends of mine. You are good, show forth Your goodness. And please, let people see the joy that You and I take in each conception, in each spirit, in each pregnancy, in each life.
I did post.
I said, I'm 40, will be 41 when baby is born, our 13th. Not kidding.
Friday, February 03, 2012
Angry
I got angry today. Angry enough to make a phone call. Angry enough to call my congresshumans. I called and talked to their respective flunkies and let them know, in no uncertain terms that I am NOT okay with any portion of my health insurance premiums going to help anybody kill a baby.
And I need someone to help me with the government civics end of this thing, because it seems to me that Congress may have the authority to require my health insurance company to require me to do that - although it would be gravely wrong and desperately against the founders' intentions for them to do so - but I don't understand how the president, who I thought was the executive and not legislative branch, has the authority to say that.
Unreal. I guess they passed something that gave him the room to do that.
I get a lot of call-your-senator e-mails. They always make me feel guilty, but rarely do they make me feel anything strong enough to do something about it.
I would love to be the kind of person (my husband is) who acts out of conviction, not out of emotion. But there are a lot of times I have conviction, but not enough emotion to follow through with it.
And I wander through life, wondering, what will it take to get me worked up enough, for long enough, to do some of the things I have conviction about. Many things I do. But there are others for which my commitment to my conviction waxes and wanes based on, I don't know, the phases of the moon? Well, I might write more, but I didn't make enough quesadillas, and the sound my daughter is making is enough to make me get up and follow through on the conviction I have about feeding my children supper.
And I need someone to help me with the government civics end of this thing, because it seems to me that Congress may have the authority to require my health insurance company to require me to do that - although it would be gravely wrong and desperately against the founders' intentions for them to do so - but I don't understand how the president, who I thought was the executive and not legislative branch, has the authority to say that.
Unreal. I guess they passed something that gave him the room to do that.
I get a lot of call-your-senator e-mails. They always make me feel guilty, but rarely do they make me feel anything strong enough to do something about it.
I would love to be the kind of person (my husband is) who acts out of conviction, not out of emotion. But there are a lot of times I have conviction, but not enough emotion to follow through with it.
And I wander through life, wondering, what will it take to get me worked up enough, for long enough, to do some of the things I have conviction about. Many things I do. But there are others for which my commitment to my conviction waxes and wanes based on, I don't know, the phases of the moon? Well, I might write more, but I didn't make enough quesadillas, and the sound my daughter is making is enough to make me get up and follow through on the conviction I have about feeding my children supper.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
The Amazing Supermom cooks!
When I am eating in a healthy fashion, which I am so far today, although Papa John's is on the menu tonight, and I have no plan, there is a smallish list of healthy wonderful things I like to eat that are delicious and completely healthy for my pregnant (or otherwise) self. So here is one.
Healthy chicken salad on bell pepper
Whatcha need: About 3/4 cup cooked shredded chicken (no pressure, but the tastier the chicken, the tastier the chicken salad)
A cleaned finely chopped stalk of celery
1/2 cup cottage cheese, low fat if you like
A bell pepper, halved with the junk scraped out
Some chopped walnuts, optional
Whatcha do: (in case it isn't obvious)
Mix everything but the bell pepper together in a bowl and stuff it in the bell pepper or maybe two, with a little salt and pepper
I would have hated this whole thing before going off sugar, by the way, but now, though I'm not excited while making it because what I really want is a bowl of crunchy raisin bran, it is really delicious and satisfying, full of veggies and protein for me.
Healthy chicken salad on bell pepper
Whatcha need: About 3/4 cup cooked shredded chicken (no pressure, but the tastier the chicken, the tastier the chicken salad)
A cleaned finely chopped stalk of celery
1/2 cup cottage cheese, low fat if you like
A bell pepper, halved with the junk scraped out
Some chopped walnuts, optional
Whatcha do: (in case it isn't obvious)
Mix everything but the bell pepper together in a bowl and stuff it in the bell pepper or maybe two, with a little salt and pepper
I would have hated this whole thing before going off sugar, by the way, but now, though I'm not excited while making it because what I really want is a bowl of crunchy raisin bran, it is really delicious and satisfying, full of veggies and protein for me.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Empty(er) nest
Right this moment, 5 of my children are at 2 different birthday parties, 2 are sleeping and one is upstairs doing a chore. Leaving 4 with me. Sort of. One of the four is deeply engaged in a well earned computer turn, conquering trolls, I believe, and a second is longingly looking over his shoulder.
My house feels very quiet and empty.
In an hour, all but 2 will be here, awake, and hungry. But those 2 will not return until tomorrow. And my house, even teeming with 10 young people, will feel "alone and in the winter" until they return.
Sure, we'll eat less food tonight, there will doubtless be less fighting, and the girls will not have to talk as loud to make themselves heard. Not worth it. I miss them. We all do.
And I wonder again, for the thousandth time, if a day will come when I don't feel like a part of my heart has gone walking around somewhere outside my body.
It's not that I don't have anything else to do. There are socks to match, dishes to do, songs to compose and record someday, maybe even a book to write. There are lots of fun and/or meaningful things I could see doing someday. And be content doing them. But the reality, I suspect, is that my favorite times will always be when my children are with me, and that the times when they are all here will happen less and less.
I just really like them. That's why I keep having them. I like them as babies, as toddlers, as little punks, as preteens, as young adults. They keep getting better and better. I love their faces and smiles and jokes and songs and games.
Thanks, God, for letting me be my children's mama. Thank You for today and tomorrow. Thanks for the hugs and kisses, the sick day snuggles, the battles to learn new things and the confidence acquired in the process. Thanks for letting me see bits of fruit. Make me a wise steward of what You trust me with. They are Yours, not mine. And I am also Yours.
My house feels very quiet and empty.
In an hour, all but 2 will be here, awake, and hungry. But those 2 will not return until tomorrow. And my house, even teeming with 10 young people, will feel "alone and in the winter" until they return.
Sure, we'll eat less food tonight, there will doubtless be less fighting, and the girls will not have to talk as loud to make themselves heard. Not worth it. I miss them. We all do.
And I wonder again, for the thousandth time, if a day will come when I don't feel like a part of my heart has gone walking around somewhere outside my body.
It's not that I don't have anything else to do. There are socks to match, dishes to do, songs to compose and record someday, maybe even a book to write. There are lots of fun and/or meaningful things I could see doing someday. And be content doing them. But the reality, I suspect, is that my favorite times will always be when my children are with me, and that the times when they are all here will happen less and less.
I just really like them. That's why I keep having them. I like them as babies, as toddlers, as little punks, as preteens, as young adults. They keep getting better and better. I love their faces and smiles and jokes and songs and games.
Thanks, God, for letting me be my children's mama. Thank You for today and tomorrow. Thanks for the hugs and kisses, the sick day snuggles, the battles to learn new things and the confidence acquired in the process. Thanks for letting me see bits of fruit. Make me a wise steward of what You trust me with. They are Yours, not mine. And I am also Yours.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Hormones
Quote from daughter number 3 on a particularly tough day, "I told them I have hormones, and they didn't even CARE!"
Hormones are raging at my house, and it's not just me. I have 2 teenagers who have leveled off and are mostly delightful. But I have 3 pre-teens who are each and all a huge mess. And I, myself, am a mess. Together, well, there is a good amount of screaming, crying, and flat out despair. We are all more vulnerable to those particular fabrications of the enemy that creep up mostly when we are tired. As my 4th daughter used to say, "nobody's mad at me".
I'm reaping what I'm sowing, of course. Me. I am one big fat example of not self control. And I do mean fat. Sugar free chocolate is not my friend. Instead of creatively digging into the goodness God has provided in healthy veggies and proteins, my carb craving machine is all fired up and I'm out of control. My attitude is lousy.
I don't know if I've ever felt uglier. My rosacea is pretty bad. Make up helps, but not enough to make me want to do it every day. It just makes me look like a covered up bumpy mess instead of a red angry bumpy mess. I am the proud owner of some very expensive night serum, which I put on when I remember, day or night. But even if it would really work I'm not consistent enough to really fix it. I'm too lazy to wear contacts every day, and my glasses are bent and scratched.
I have often thought I am the biggest loser and the duggars rolled into one, but what I really need is an extreme makeover and clean sweep episode as well.
So in the midst of all this vomitous suckiness, I had my little devotional set at the house of prayer today. 2 sometimes wonderful hours with me, Jesus, a piano, a microphone and a handful of people coming in and out. And for a few significant moments, it was just me and Him. And, incredibly, as it turns out, He still really loves me and likes me and wants to be with me and is pleased with me and isn't firing me and wants me to try again and promises to help me. Isn't that just unbelievable?!
So somehow, tomorrow morning, I hope to convey some of that wonderful, matchless grace of Jesus (sing it if you know it ... "deeper than the mighty rolling sea") to all the other walking hormones. And perhaps, by that matchless grace, we'll all survive the week.
Hormones are raging at my house, and it's not just me. I have 2 teenagers who have leveled off and are mostly delightful. But I have 3 pre-teens who are each and all a huge mess. And I, myself, am a mess. Together, well, there is a good amount of screaming, crying, and flat out despair. We are all more vulnerable to those particular fabrications of the enemy that creep up mostly when we are tired. As my 4th daughter used to say, "nobody's mad at me".
I'm reaping what I'm sowing, of course. Me. I am one big fat example of not self control. And I do mean fat. Sugar free chocolate is not my friend. Instead of creatively digging into the goodness God has provided in healthy veggies and proteins, my carb craving machine is all fired up and I'm out of control. My attitude is lousy.
I don't know if I've ever felt uglier. My rosacea is pretty bad. Make up helps, but not enough to make me want to do it every day. It just makes me look like a covered up bumpy mess instead of a red angry bumpy mess. I am the proud owner of some very expensive night serum, which I put on when I remember, day or night. But even if it would really work I'm not consistent enough to really fix it. I'm too lazy to wear contacts every day, and my glasses are bent and scratched.
I have often thought I am the biggest loser and the duggars rolled into one, but what I really need is an extreme makeover and clean sweep episode as well.
So in the midst of all this vomitous suckiness, I had my little devotional set at the house of prayer today. 2 sometimes wonderful hours with me, Jesus, a piano, a microphone and a handful of people coming in and out. And for a few significant moments, it was just me and Him. And, incredibly, as it turns out, He still really loves me and likes me and wants to be with me and is pleased with me and isn't firing me and wants me to try again and promises to help me. Isn't that just unbelievable?!
So somehow, tomorrow morning, I hope to convey some of that wonderful, matchless grace of Jesus (sing it if you know it ... "deeper than the mighty rolling sea") to all the other walking hormones. And perhaps, by that matchless grace, we'll all survive the week.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Flunking Afro Hair
I struggle, often, especially around African-American strangers, with being a peach mom of a brown daughter. More specifically, I wrestle with being the straight haired, pressed for time mother with soon to be a dozen other children of a girl with marvelously curly black hair that I can either train to be worn "free" and get endless feedback and disapproving looks from said African-American strangers, or I (or eldest daughter) can learn to and devote many future hours to significant styling routines.
Eventually, my course will be determined by her preferences. But for now, it is mostly about not putting too much effort into hair that will have her breakfast, lunch, and dinner smeared into it within hours, counterbalanced with the desire to not have other people think I suck, and should have adopted a child with easier hair.
The very great reality here, however, is that she is my DAUGHTER. She is mine. She is engraved in my heart. Whether or not her hair style pleases others, she is completely and totally my own child. I will try to pull it together on the hair front. But I must never connect that particular skill set with my qualification as her mama.
What other people think of my parenting is not my gradecard. My gradecard is grace and favor and peace from the One Who delights in me and delights to give me good gifts. He is faithful and able to give me everything I need to be the mama He made me to be, for each of my overwhelming and larger than my time and confidence allows children. I am not big, strong, wise, capable enough, nor do I have enough time, but He is, and He does. Hollar back.
Eventually, my course will be determined by her preferences. But for now, it is mostly about not putting too much effort into hair that will have her breakfast, lunch, and dinner smeared into it within hours, counterbalanced with the desire to not have other people think I suck, and should have adopted a child with easier hair.
The very great reality here, however, is that she is my DAUGHTER. She is mine. She is engraved in my heart. Whether or not her hair style pleases others, she is completely and totally my own child. I will try to pull it together on the hair front. But I must never connect that particular skill set with my qualification as her mama.
What other people think of my parenting is not my gradecard. My gradecard is grace and favor and peace from the One Who delights in me and delights to give me good gifts. He is faithful and able to give me everything I need to be the mama He made me to be, for each of my overwhelming and larger than my time and confidence allows children. I am not big, strong, wise, capable enough, nor do I have enough time, but He is, and He does. Hollar back.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
resolved:
I have a half written song called 'new day's resolution', which, ironically, I will likely never finish. It goes,
This is my new day's resolution
I'm gonna write more and sing right
And put some cream on my wart at night
I'm gonna talk less and listen more
And self-control the slamming of the doors
If New Year's Eve is the only occasion for saying, "It's time to try harder," then we are really kidding ourselves, aren't we?
But this isn't about your ordinary, run of the mill, self-improvements. This is about pregnancy/labor/delivery. Yes, I'm only 10ish weeks, but as I am pregnant, there's nothing I'd rather really talk about, so, here are the things I am hoping for with this dozenth pregnancy. (drumroll, please)
This stands to be my healthiest, thinnest, and therefore, lowest blood pressurest (just when you thought the grammar couldn't get any worse) pregnancy. I hope very much to stay on course living without sugar and caffeine, which I don't need, without empty carbs, which I also don't need, and with lots of protein and veggies and water, which I do.
The only way, really, to pull that monkeyshine off, is to stay in very near proximity to my Jesus, Who meets my emotional/hormonal need for comfort on a moment by moment basis. I am trying to read His Word more and What To Expect When You're Expecting and prego blogs and Babycenter.com and Childbirth.org articles and birth stories way less. (I've probably read What To Expect 25 times, parts of it more, could ace a quiz on it).
(less firmly resolved, but convinced of the need) I would really, really, honestly really like to try to move my butt a couple times a day for a few minutes a day, to the tune of 10 whole minutes on the treadmill, or walking up and down my stairs a dozen times, or taking the dog up the block to potty. Even once a day. Would like to try.
About labor, as always, would like to not be induced. This could happen! I can keep my weight down, walk, take the bp meds if necessary, and just let labor start. For those of you who have not quite memorized each of my numerous birth stories, I have only had 2, count 'em, two babies without the glorious blessing of pitocin. That is for sure a goal.
Either way, I am definitely looking for some changes in the labor and delivery. I am resolved not to care if the doctor makes it. I will not focus on the ever pressing question, "Are you feeling any pressure?" ("By the time I feel pressure, there likely isn't time for him to get here without the help of a transporter beam.") I am resolved to focus on each individual contraction as another step toward my baby. I don't care if it takes a couple days. I will not rush or be hurried through one of my favorite things.
And I have regretted every epidural experience but the first. I can do it without it. One contraction at a time, I can do it. I will dance and pray and worship my way through, not asking how long it will take, just enjoying (er, sort of) the journey. I won't get to have many more babies. Giving birth is one of my very favoritest things. I will cherish it. This is something God and I, and my husband, toward the end, do together.
I will eat healthyish in the hospital, and will not, so help me God, gain back all my pre-delivery weight in the weeks that follow the birth. This may mean deciding to pitch, rather than making it my personal mandate to finish off the marvelous vat of pasta con broccoli that my children have undervalued. I don't even know how to tell people what to bring, but I will figure it out by then. Veggie trays, salads without fruits, soups, if desserts, small amounts.
I will nurse whenever and for however long this baby wants to nurse. Even non stop, at first.
I guess that's a lot. I always think, at the beginning of pregnancy, how can I do better? This is how. Here's to the healthiest pregnancy ever (for me)! Cheers!
This is my new day's resolution
I'm gonna write more and sing right
And put some cream on my wart at night
I'm gonna talk less and listen more
And self-control the slamming of the doors
If New Year's Eve is the only occasion for saying, "It's time to try harder," then we are really kidding ourselves, aren't we?
But this isn't about your ordinary, run of the mill, self-improvements. This is about pregnancy/labor/delivery. Yes, I'm only 10ish weeks, but as I am pregnant, there's nothing I'd rather really talk about, so, here are the things I am hoping for with this dozenth pregnancy. (drumroll, please)
This stands to be my healthiest, thinnest, and therefore, lowest blood pressurest (just when you thought the grammar couldn't get any worse) pregnancy. I hope very much to stay on course living without sugar and caffeine, which I don't need, without empty carbs, which I also don't need, and with lots of protein and veggies and water, which I do.
The only way, really, to pull that monkeyshine off, is to stay in very near proximity to my Jesus, Who meets my emotional/hormonal need for comfort on a moment by moment basis. I am trying to read His Word more and What To Expect When You're Expecting and prego blogs and Babycenter.com and Childbirth.org articles and birth stories way less. (I've probably read What To Expect 25 times, parts of it more, could ace a quiz on it).
(less firmly resolved, but convinced of the need) I would really, really, honestly really like to try to move my butt a couple times a day for a few minutes a day, to the tune of 10 whole minutes on the treadmill, or walking up and down my stairs a dozen times, or taking the dog up the block to potty. Even once a day. Would like to try.
About labor, as always, would like to not be induced. This could happen! I can keep my weight down, walk, take the bp meds if necessary, and just let labor start. For those of you who have not quite memorized each of my numerous birth stories, I have only had 2, count 'em, two babies without the glorious blessing of pitocin. That is for sure a goal.
Either way, I am definitely looking for some changes in the labor and delivery. I am resolved not to care if the doctor makes it. I will not focus on the ever pressing question, "Are you feeling any pressure?" ("By the time I feel pressure, there likely isn't time for him to get here without the help of a transporter beam.") I am resolved to focus on each individual contraction as another step toward my baby. I don't care if it takes a couple days. I will not rush or be hurried through one of my favorite things.
And I have regretted every epidural experience but the first. I can do it without it. One contraction at a time, I can do it. I will dance and pray and worship my way through, not asking how long it will take, just enjoying (er, sort of) the journey. I won't get to have many more babies. Giving birth is one of my very favoritest things. I will cherish it. This is something God and I, and my husband, toward the end, do together.
I will eat healthyish in the hospital, and will not, so help me God, gain back all my pre-delivery weight in the weeks that follow the birth. This may mean deciding to pitch, rather than making it my personal mandate to finish off the marvelous vat of pasta con broccoli that my children have undervalued. I don't even know how to tell people what to bring, but I will figure it out by then. Veggie trays, salads without fruits, soups, if desserts, small amounts.
I will nurse whenever and for however long this baby wants to nurse. Even non stop, at first.
I guess that's a lot. I always think, at the beginning of pregnancy, how can I do better? This is how. Here's to the healthiest pregnancy ever (for me)! Cheers!
Thursday, January 19, 2012
indulgence vs denial
So I've been in this season of indulgence. I'm not eating sugar, not having (much) caffeine. But instead of living in a place where I am set apart for the Lord, drawing near to Him, forsaking legitimate earthly pleasures for the gaining of great eternal treasure, instead I've been walking out the equivalent of an "obedient" child *stomping* up to her room, slamming doors and kicking small children out of the way. Oh, I'm fasting. I'm a Nazirite, for crying out loud. I'm set apart, alright. I'm set apart with attitude.
And I'm eating everything but sugar and caffeine. And lots of it. And I'm miserable. I feel lousy. I'm amazing at 3 suit spider solitaire, though.
But that whole spirit vs flesh thing, my flesh has totally been winning. I'm not even trying. Just giving up and feeling crappy. Everyone's been sick. Now I'm sick. My regular clothes don't fit right and my pregnancy clothes don't fit right. And I am absolutely a raging hormonal maniac nearly all the time.
But eating for comfort and pleasure isn't helping me be healthier or stronger, physically or spiritually.
So today was different. I put my flesh down for the day. I feel that empty feeling, but also stronger and less disgusting, more in control in a submitted to God kind of way. Safe.
And I'm eating everything but sugar and caffeine. And lots of it. And I'm miserable. I feel lousy. I'm amazing at 3 suit spider solitaire, though.
But that whole spirit vs flesh thing, my flesh has totally been winning. I'm not even trying. Just giving up and feeling crappy. Everyone's been sick. Now I'm sick. My regular clothes don't fit right and my pregnancy clothes don't fit right. And I am absolutely a raging hormonal maniac nearly all the time.
But eating for comfort and pleasure isn't helping me be healthier or stronger, physically or spiritually.
So today was different. I put my flesh down for the day. I feel that empty feeling, but also stronger and less disgusting, more in control in a submitted to God kind of way. Safe.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
unlikely
i have a cold. not bad. several kids have something also. sometimes just the feeling of children who are not healthy is overwhelming. a recurring diaper rash, a dog who seems to think the living room is the appropriate place to poop, a broken dishwasher . . . all these gnaw away at my shakey perceptions regarding my own competence.
i am pretty hormonal, but am getting used to it. not sure if the people i live with are, but maybe.
we are back to the state of the laundry room floor being about 2.5 feet deep in somewhat clean if rather wrinkled clothes. seems like the laundry room floor is my act-together-ometer. it is how one could measure my margins. it is the first thing to go on a long, ever-growing list. so for weeks i've been in that daily scrape-through-to-find-a-couple-roughly-matched-socks-and-a-pair-of-underwear-or-just-stay-in-pajamas-because-that's-the-next-best-thing-to-staying-in-bed-which-is-what-i-really-want-to-do-anyway state of mind.
i shouldn't really be measuring right now, though. until friday (5 days ago) we were blessed with visiting family off and on for nearly a Christmas month, i'm in my first trimester and i'm sick. being behind on laundry is completely appropriate.
what's not appropriate is giving up. because i have lots of hope. i have lots of joy. and i have a baby growing in my belly. how marvelous.
my cousin is pregnant. i'm excited. sometimes when someone gets pregnant that isn't married, which is her case, we don't know how to respond. but really, that's kind of mixed up thinking, to me. most of the time, when that happens, we already knew they were messing around. we knew the situation was not what we desire most for her. that isn't news. whatever our response was to that life shouldn't really manifest now. (i know that sometimes people find out someone's activity because of a pregnancy, but usually, for discerning people, we already knew there were goings on.)
the news now is a baby. that's wonderful. a baby is wonderful. to get mad now because she is having a baby is ridiculously poor timing. now is a time to rejoice. a baby means God chose to do a good thing in her. He is up to something for her good. He loves her tremendously. i've been praying for her and i'm excited to see what He will do through this new life.
a baby is never bad news. even when created in seemingly difficult or unfavorable circumstances, even when it isn't the way we would have planned it ourselves, even when the person is poor or sickly or unmarried or already has more than a dozen kids or has an incompetent cervix or an incompetent husband. when God makes a human soul, God Who sees the end from the beginning, God Who does what He pleases, God Who does not make mistakes ever, it is always good. always. good.
if God thought it was a good idea to place a child in the womb of my cousin who i love, who isn't married yet, whose future i do not know, but whose good i desire, i can and will greatly rejoice.
and if God thinks it is a great idea to put another little one in my womb and heart, even if we are sick and messy and all i want to eat is carbs and i just want to go back to bed for a week, i will also greatly rejoice.
God is big into unlikely heroes. not many wise, not many noble. He loves making something of nothing. He loves warriors hiding in winepresses, youngest sons out in the fields counted out by everyone else, unmarried virgins, women too old to bear children, Moabitess widows, harlots, tax collectors, stinky shepherds and pagan astrologers. and my beautiful cousin. and me. He's like that.
i am pretty hormonal, but am getting used to it. not sure if the people i live with are, but maybe.
we are back to the state of the laundry room floor being about 2.5 feet deep in somewhat clean if rather wrinkled clothes. seems like the laundry room floor is my act-together-ometer. it is how one could measure my margins. it is the first thing to go on a long, ever-growing list. so for weeks i've been in that daily scrape-through-to-find-a-couple-roughly-matched-socks-and-a-pair-of-underwear-or-just-stay-in-pajamas-because-that's-the-next-best-thing-to-staying-in-bed-which-is-what-i-really-want-to-do-anyway state of mind.
i shouldn't really be measuring right now, though. until friday (5 days ago) we were blessed with visiting family off and on for nearly a Christmas month, i'm in my first trimester and i'm sick. being behind on laundry is completely appropriate.
what's not appropriate is giving up. because i have lots of hope. i have lots of joy. and i have a baby growing in my belly. how marvelous.
my cousin is pregnant. i'm excited. sometimes when someone gets pregnant that isn't married, which is her case, we don't know how to respond. but really, that's kind of mixed up thinking, to me. most of the time, when that happens, we already knew they were messing around. we knew the situation was not what we desire most for her. that isn't news. whatever our response was to that life shouldn't really manifest now. (i know that sometimes people find out someone's activity because of a pregnancy, but usually, for discerning people, we already knew there were goings on.)
the news now is a baby. that's wonderful. a baby is wonderful. to get mad now because she is having a baby is ridiculously poor timing. now is a time to rejoice. a baby means God chose to do a good thing in her. He is up to something for her good. He loves her tremendously. i've been praying for her and i'm excited to see what He will do through this new life.
a baby is never bad news. even when created in seemingly difficult or unfavorable circumstances, even when it isn't the way we would have planned it ourselves, even when the person is poor or sickly or unmarried or already has more than a dozen kids or has an incompetent cervix or an incompetent husband. when God makes a human soul, God Who sees the end from the beginning, God Who does what He pleases, God Who does not make mistakes ever, it is always good. always. good.
if God thought it was a good idea to place a child in the womb of my cousin who i love, who isn't married yet, whose future i do not know, but whose good i desire, i can and will greatly rejoice.
and if God thinks it is a great idea to put another little one in my womb and heart, even if we are sick and messy and all i want to eat is carbs and i just want to go back to bed for a week, i will also greatly rejoice.
God is big into unlikely heroes. not many wise, not many noble. He loves making something of nothing. He loves warriors hiding in winepresses, youngest sons out in the fields counted out by everyone else, unmarried virgins, women too old to bear children, Moabitess widows, harlots, tax collectors, stinky shepherds and pagan astrologers. and my beautiful cousin. and me. He's like that.
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
announcing ...
Behold, I bring good tidings of great joy that will be to all people: for unto us a child is to be born. Unto us a son (or daughter) is given. And his/her name shall be called ... Well, we haven't gotten that far yet. Right now we're calling the baby Lucky, since it's the lucky 13th baby. What?! 13 isn't lucky? Oh, well, I don't believe in luck. I believe in Jesus, and that He makes babies and that He calls them good gifts.
So there is great rejoicing in the land. God has said yes to our yes and trusted us with another treasure. How marvelous, how wonderful, and my song shall ever be, how marvelous, how wonderful is my Savior's love for me.
So there is great rejoicing in the land. God has said yes to our yes and trusted us with another treasure. How marvelous, how wonderful, and my song shall ever be, how marvelous, how wonderful is my Savior's love for me.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Waiting
Waiting for presents
Waiting to give
Waiting to receive
Waiting to know
Waiting to reveal
Waiting to see, to play, to open
Waiting to discover
Waiting to come
Waiting to go
Waiting for loved ones to arrive
Waiting for readiness
Waiting for news
Waiting for a hero
Waiting for something long awaited
Waiting for redemption
Waiting for resolution
Waiting for a Savior
For a Messiah
For the second Adam
For a Redeemer
Waiting for forgiveness
Waiting for a miracle
Waiting for deliverance
Waiting for healing
Waiting for Salvation
Waiting
Groaning
Longing
Yearning
Watching
Looking
Waiting
If your kids can't sleep, tell them the story. Adam and the serpent and the fall. The shedding of blood needed for the remission of sins. The increase of wickedness. The need for redemption. The longing and groaning of the creation for the Savior. The man Abraham. Isaac, Jacob and his sons. Moses and the Israelites. Joshua, the judges. The cycle of sin and judgement and repentence and rescue. The desire for a king and the getting of one. The repeated following of king after king in the worship of idols. The wickedness of man and the grace of God toward those who called on His Name. The desperate need of a people of a Savior. The prophets of old speaking for years of things like a virgin birth and a King to come, dying and laying dead for hundreds of years never seeing their words fulfilled.
Longing. Waiting. Messiah.
God become flesh, a tiny secret, a baby. But God told the secrets to unlikely hearers. Dirty stinky shepherds. Foreign pagan astrologers. A pregnant 60 year old barren woman with a dumb husband. Weird.
The most anticipated secret of the universe told to the most unlikely ears. Oh, and Mary. And Joseph. Now there are a couple unlikely heroes.
Tell them about the waiting for and the unlikely "wrapping" of the Greatest Gift Ever!
That'll give them something to think about, while they are waiting.
Waiting to give
Waiting to receive
Waiting to know
Waiting to reveal
Waiting to see, to play, to open
Waiting to discover
Waiting to come
Waiting to go
Waiting for loved ones to arrive
Waiting for readiness
Waiting for news
Waiting for a hero
Waiting for something long awaited
Waiting for redemption
Waiting for resolution
Waiting for a Savior
For a Messiah
For the second Adam
For a Redeemer
Waiting for forgiveness
Waiting for a miracle
Waiting for deliverance
Waiting for healing
Waiting for Salvation
Waiting
Groaning
Longing
Yearning
Watching
Looking
Waiting
If your kids can't sleep, tell them the story. Adam and the serpent and the fall. The shedding of blood needed for the remission of sins. The increase of wickedness. The need for redemption. The longing and groaning of the creation for the Savior. The man Abraham. Isaac, Jacob and his sons. Moses and the Israelites. Joshua, the judges. The cycle of sin and judgement and repentence and rescue. The desire for a king and the getting of one. The repeated following of king after king in the worship of idols. The wickedness of man and the grace of God toward those who called on His Name. The desperate need of a people of a Savior. The prophets of old speaking for years of things like a virgin birth and a King to come, dying and laying dead for hundreds of years never seeing their words fulfilled.
Longing. Waiting. Messiah.
God become flesh, a tiny secret, a baby. But God told the secrets to unlikely hearers. Dirty stinky shepherds. Foreign pagan astrologers. A pregnant 60 year old barren woman with a dumb husband. Weird.
The most anticipated secret of the universe told to the most unlikely ears. Oh, and Mary. And Joseph. Now there are a couple unlikely heroes.
Tell them about the waiting for and the unlikely "wrapping" of the Greatest Gift Ever!
That'll give them something to think about, while they are waiting.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
How we do Christmas
First of all, regarding Santa Claus, we tell our kids whenever it comes up that Santa Claus, or Saint Nicholas, is real, is dead, is in heaven worshipping Jesus. We tell them the reindeer flying, elf employing, North Pole dwelling version is for fun but sometimes gets in the way of people really celebrating Jesus.
We wrap up pieces of the nativity set we have and open each of them, including the manger, minus the Baby Jesus, on Christmas Eve, with our youngest person (not baby) opening the last piece. Then we look around, throw up our hands, and ask, mysteriously, where is Baby Jesus??? Oh, we all realize together, He isn't born yet, tomorrow is His birthday. We leave cookies, milk and carrots out for the imaginary Santa, and go to bed.
During the night, my husband and I (and any any older kids that can't sleep) take all the presents to the tree and fill the stockings with candy and a poptart and/or granola bar in hopes that something breakfasty might enter their mouths between Reese cups.
This year, we'll open the stockings before church, and the rest after lunch. Our children exchange names and "buy" each other gifts from the Awana store. They also divy up the parents and grandparents and buy for them as well.
We don't try to buy the same number of gifts for each, nor do we honestly spend the same amount of money for each. We don't want their lists. They can use Christmas money from grandparents to buy things they want. We are buying gifts for our children, so we choose what we think will delight them and encourage them to be who they are in the things they like and are good at. So exciting to think and talk together about our children and who they are becoming, as they get older.
For the oldest we got a green . . . oh wait, she might read this!
We will read the Christmas story again, and either on Christmas or before, each child will choose a gift for Jesus for His birthday - a Matthew 25, for the least of these, kind of gift. Blankets for a child, a goat for a family, that sort of thing. Samaritan's Purse is my favorite.
The rest of the day will be spent, I hope, playing games together, enjoying each other and our new things, cooking, napping, reading, singing, hugging.
And that is Christmas at our house, in a nutshell.
We wrap up pieces of the nativity set we have and open each of them, including the manger, minus the Baby Jesus, on Christmas Eve, with our youngest person (not baby) opening the last piece. Then we look around, throw up our hands, and ask, mysteriously, where is Baby Jesus??? Oh, we all realize together, He isn't born yet, tomorrow is His birthday. We leave cookies, milk and carrots out for the imaginary Santa, and go to bed.
During the night, my husband and I (and any any older kids that can't sleep) take all the presents to the tree and fill the stockings with candy and a poptart and/or granola bar in hopes that something breakfasty might enter their mouths between Reese cups.
This year, we'll open the stockings before church, and the rest after lunch. Our children exchange names and "buy" each other gifts from the Awana store. They also divy up the parents and grandparents and buy for them as well.
We don't try to buy the same number of gifts for each, nor do we honestly spend the same amount of money for each. We don't want their lists. They can use Christmas money from grandparents to buy things they want. We are buying gifts for our children, so we choose what we think will delight them and encourage them to be who they are in the things they like and are good at. So exciting to think and talk together about our children and who they are becoming, as they get older.
For the oldest we got a green . . . oh wait, she might read this!
We will read the Christmas story again, and either on Christmas or before, each child will choose a gift for Jesus for His birthday - a Matthew 25, for the least of these, kind of gift. Blankets for a child, a goat for a family, that sort of thing. Samaritan's Purse is my favorite.
The rest of the day will be spent, I hope, playing games together, enjoying each other and our new things, cooking, napping, reading, singing, hugging.
And that is Christmas at our house, in a nutshell.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Merry Christmas
I haven't written for a while, and I'm not sure when I will again. It's been a little crazy.
We got a dog. I mean, we received a dog. That is fun and not as life altering as I expected. It is just another creature to love in my house, another mouth to feed, another potty training to accomplish. But there is room in my heart to love him. Plenty.
We're trying desperately to get a little more school squeezed in before we give up completely for the holiday season. Very difficult. Very.
I have enjoyed greatly the anticipation of having gifts to give to my children this year.
I am greatly blessed, and I know it.
Both the babies are walking, one with more skill than the other. The eldest is driving, cooking and painting. The second is carving, shooting, and crafting cardboard into the Roman Coliseum. The third is writing a book and playing the piano and singing. Loudly. The fourth is reading. The fifth is loving the dog. The sixth is giggling and wrestling. The seventh is quoting movies and memorizing scripture. The eighth is drawing. The ninth is biting and hitting and apologizing for biting and hitting. The tenth is uggling and elbowing the 11th out, or dragging the 11th around by the arms. The eleventh is dancing and singing. The twelfth is chasing the dog.
We put up our tree, lights on the banisters, Christmasy things in the window sills. We shopped and shopped and found treasures to delight. I've been planning meals that feel special and holiday-ish.
And the waiting until Christmas morning is tangible. 12 people know something wonderful is happening soon. 2 don't suspect anything. They'll learn, soon enough.
I don't have anything special to write. I love Christmas. I love buying gifts with my husband, for my children. I love that my husband is going to home for 5 days straight. I love decorating and wrapping and giving gifts to people I love. I love that God became a man, a baby, an embryo, a fetus, a fertilized egg. I love that He was a secret in a young woman's heart. I love that Elizabeth knew. I love that He humbled Himself to become a newborn, an infant, a toddler, a teenager. I love that He submitted Himself to human parents. I love that He understands, because He lived it, life here, veiled in flesh.
I love Christmas carols and all the marvelous truth embedded in them. I don't even mind snow carols and Santa carols. But I love the Jesus carols the best. And I love presents and parties and lights and ornaments. But I love Jesus the best. There is no conflict for me about this season. Jesus is Christmas. Christmas is Jesus. The Word become flesh and dwelt among us. The Incarnation. Emanuel. God with us.
I heard a friend say it well recently. Some people don't celebrate Christmas because Jesus wasn't really born then. But if not now, when? Because there are very few things in the history of the universe more worthy of celebrating than God become man. I cannot fathom anything more worth a party than that, except that He died and rose again for us.
And sharing that marvelous gift with my children and giving them gifts as well is delightful. I can teach them in the process that Christmas is about Jesus. God gave Jesus. Jesus gave Himself, His life. They get it. He is the best gift.
Anyway, this has been pretty rambly, sorry, I'm scattered. I have presents to wrap, a house to clean, and I am seriously not caught up on laundry from Thanksgiving travels. I've gotten within a couple loads, but then people keep wearing clothes!
Blessings! May your heart be pregnant with His love, full and overflowing! Joy to the world! Let every heart prepare Him room. Let Heaven and nature sing!
We got a dog. I mean, we received a dog. That is fun and not as life altering as I expected. It is just another creature to love in my house, another mouth to feed, another potty training to accomplish. But there is room in my heart to love him. Plenty.
We're trying desperately to get a little more school squeezed in before we give up completely for the holiday season. Very difficult. Very.
I have enjoyed greatly the anticipation of having gifts to give to my children this year.
I am greatly blessed, and I know it.
Both the babies are walking, one with more skill than the other. The eldest is driving, cooking and painting. The second is carving, shooting, and crafting cardboard into the Roman Coliseum. The third is writing a book and playing the piano and singing. Loudly. The fourth is reading. The fifth is loving the dog. The sixth is giggling and wrestling. The seventh is quoting movies and memorizing scripture. The eighth is drawing. The ninth is biting and hitting and apologizing for biting and hitting. The tenth is uggling and elbowing the 11th out, or dragging the 11th around by the arms. The eleventh is dancing and singing. The twelfth is chasing the dog.
We put up our tree, lights on the banisters, Christmasy things in the window sills. We shopped and shopped and found treasures to delight. I've been planning meals that feel special and holiday-ish.
And the waiting until Christmas morning is tangible. 12 people know something wonderful is happening soon. 2 don't suspect anything. They'll learn, soon enough.
I don't have anything special to write. I love Christmas. I love buying gifts with my husband, for my children. I love that my husband is going to home for 5 days straight. I love decorating and wrapping and giving gifts to people I love. I love that God became a man, a baby, an embryo, a fetus, a fertilized egg. I love that He was a secret in a young woman's heart. I love that Elizabeth knew. I love that He humbled Himself to become a newborn, an infant, a toddler, a teenager. I love that He submitted Himself to human parents. I love that He understands, because He lived it, life here, veiled in flesh.
I love Christmas carols and all the marvelous truth embedded in them. I don't even mind snow carols and Santa carols. But I love the Jesus carols the best. And I love presents and parties and lights and ornaments. But I love Jesus the best. There is no conflict for me about this season. Jesus is Christmas. Christmas is Jesus. The Word become flesh and dwelt among us. The Incarnation. Emanuel. God with us.
I heard a friend say it well recently. Some people don't celebrate Christmas because Jesus wasn't really born then. But if not now, when? Because there are very few things in the history of the universe more worthy of celebrating than God become man. I cannot fathom anything more worth a party than that, except that He died and rose again for us.
And sharing that marvelous gift with my children and giving them gifts as well is delightful. I can teach them in the process that Christmas is about Jesus. God gave Jesus. Jesus gave Himself, His life. They get it. He is the best gift.
Anyway, this has been pretty rambly, sorry, I'm scattered. I have presents to wrap, a house to clean, and I am seriously not caught up on laundry from Thanksgiving travels. I've gotten within a couple loads, but then people keep wearing clothes!
Blessings! May your heart be pregnant with His love, full and overflowing! Joy to the world! Let every heart prepare Him room. Let Heaven and nature sing!
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