Nesting, phase 2

We painted the boys' room, and set it up.  All it lacks is the stars, the flag, and I'd like to hang some things on the wall - like a framed Gettysberg Address and the Declaration or something.  And some quotes from Spirit.
We painted their bathroom, all it needs is a shelf for their stuff, and maybe another towel rack, which I have.

We painted the girls' bathroom, hung the shower curtain.  It needs a shelf, more towel racks, and some rugs (I guess the boys could use rugs too).

We painted the nursery, needs the recliner taken up there, pictures hung, coats removed, baby bedding in place.

We painted my bathroom, needs a mirror hung and some storage help.  And I'd like a big picture of lilacs to hang above my bathtub.

That might be all we do right now.  My blood pressure is starting to climb, so unless I can enlist some big kid or husband help, I don't know if the other painting projects will happen anytime soon.  Oh well.  I am immensely pleased with the progress so far.  Now we have to clean up the mess. 

The other things I am giving my attention to are school prep and food storage.

School prep is mostly spitting in the wind, but it means coming up with chore assignments and charts for at least September, daily schedules (because most days will be more different than similar, and not the same for each kid), and a plan for my time - how to get through the day and get it all done and feed all the humans and not die.  We got our standardized test results back and the truth revealed therein is that I need to do more one on one with everybody, less delegating.  This will require a plan.  A loose plan, adjusted frequently, but a plan none the less.

Food storage is because we are anticipating hard times.  There is a drought.  Things are dying everywhere (including my dogwood, sigh).  Prices will go up.  Anything I can afford to buy and have room to store, I need to do it.  It is also easier when school starts to have small grocery lists and have much of what we need on hand. 

I'm also thinking about how to say, politely and thankfully, something like this:

Dear people bringing meals, you may or may not have noticed that the new mother has lost about 60 lbs in the last year.  Please do not bring your most delicious fattening comfort foods to reverse her efforts.  Also, she does not eat sugar (or sugar substitutes), so feel free to omit dessert, or just bring fruit, or simply bring enough for Dad and the kids to have one portion, but not lots and lots, no gallon sized vats of Death by Chocolate.  Finally, we know that providing food for such a large family is overwhelming, and that most people think of pasta dishes, but please also consider doing a salad (without fruit or sweet dressing) or soup or perhaps some breakfast muffins or something like that.  Thank you very much.

I'm not sleeping well - so hot and so active mind.  As usual, I am overwhelmed with the pre-baby suspense - when and how and how will I know.  I don't have the option of just knowing how everything will turn out, it never works the way I think it will anyway, so I have to put my effort toward trusting the Knitter of Babies to bring this one forth in His time and way. 

So much advice, so many opinions, but in the end, I just have to hide in Him.

Power tools and other firsts

We live in an old house, the kind people buy cheap and run down and fix up and live in.  Only we didn't fix it up.  Because we don't really do that sort of thing.

When we got married, my husband needed me to come sit with him for moral support for a half an hour while he did a minor toilet repair.  He is a computer guy, not a handy guy, by nature.  A shame, since his dad fixed things for a living, but it just didn't pass on.  Nineteen years later, he is able to do lots of things that have to be done, but is still not the guy other people call when something isn't working.  Unless it's their computer.

He does paint, though.  I don't.  At least, I haven't.  Haven't been allowed to.  Because if he is a less handy person, I'm pretty much inept.  The whole fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants way of living works okay with music and cooking, but not with mechanical things, not with a knowledge base of absolute zero.

But he has these seasons at work that we call busy, and by that we mean, crazy, completely focused, AWOL from life and home.  And I'm simultaneously in this season called nesting, which is a completely illogical thing that happens to pregnant women when they have the least amount of patience and energy but feel they must get their life ready for the coming child, who couldn't give a rat's backside what color the laundry room is painted.

So this week, I, the amazing supermom, painted.  I painted a small bathroom green.  It was only horrible and not a complete disaster.  Then, not satisfied, I also did a crappy job painting my sons' new bedroom.  It was not remotely as tragic as it might have been.  But (and this is the really exciting part) that was not enough for this completely unhandy chick.  I purchased and put together some shelves and (drumroll please) I hung a shelf/hanger rack. 

Perhaps you don't fully realize the wonder of that statement.  Let me 'splain.  No, it would take too long.  Let me sum up.  I put 7 holes in the wall.  WITH A DRILL.  That's right, me, Susie Homemaker.  I used a power tool.  Uh-huh, uh-huh.  And a level.  Not that it is level.  It's not.  But it'll do.  It will hold up shirts.  I picked up a power drill and made a shelf happen.  Kinda like magic, cept it's real.

I kept thinking about Bill Murray in What About Bob - did you see me?  I drill.  It wasn't that hard.  I just let the drill do the work.  I drilled.  It was my first time.  I think I just might be ready to drive a skidloader next.

Nesting

I'm nesting.  I want to paint and clean and organize my house. 

We're kicking the kids out of our bathroom.  "But wait," they say, "why do you get 2 sinks for the two of you and we 12 have to share just one?"  Good question, we say.  (My kids decided a long time ago that a "good question" is one I don't know the answer to.)

What if we put the boys in the previously spare bedroom in the attic and give them the attic bathroom for their very own and give the girls the bathroom on the second floor?  And we let them choose the paint color for both bathrooms?  The boys have chosen grasshopper green (according to Sherwin Williams - it'd have to be a very bright grasshopper) and the girls are painting their bathroom tangerine.  Both colors will make it easier to take contact lenses out.

So what happens to the boys' room?  I'm turning it into a nursery.  A room with a crib and a changing table and a rocking chair.  And maybe a bed.  Painting it my favorite color of yellow and hanging my classic Pooh things up. 

My bathroom needs a makeover too.  I want to put up a big mirror that I can see myself in, not just from the neck up.  I have learned from experience that I am more likely to try to take care of my body if I have to look at it from time to time.  But alas, my current bathroom has two oval "mirror, mirror on the wall" style mirrors that stop around my shoulders.  (For those of you who don't know me, I stand at a towering 5'1", maybe.) Not helpful.  And I want some kind of storage up above the height of the 3 year old so that she doesn't attempt to shave her beard off.

My laundry room deserves a cheerful color as well, and shelves for baskets of dirty clothes instead of a line of them in the hallway (blocking quick and easy entrance to the tangerine bathroom). 

All of this painting requires cleaning and organizing, because, well, you can't actually paint a room with a foot of clean laundry covering the floor.  So I've been moving the clean laundry back and forth between my room (a big hit, let me tell you) and the laundry room, trying to get it processed and hung up and put away.  There are at least 2 baskets of clothes that don't fit anybody and need put away, high away, and another two baskets of unmatched socks, because, well, you don't need socks in 108 degree weather.  But it's a work in progress, and if no one needs anything, I should be able to get it done in about a week.  Yeah.  Right.

Oh, yeah, the first floor bathroom wants to be the same lovely green color as the foyer, and the kitchen just wants to be the color it is, minus the white spackle splotches. 

We're hoping to put Psalm 1:1-3 on the wall in the foyer, using the vinyl wall stickers, because anything we hang there gets knocked off the wall by boys or the things boys play with.  And I'm having eldest daughter paint a tree in the living room for me to hang lots of family pictures over the top of.

The kitchen floor is ceramic tile and parts of it are coming up in pieces - best puzzle ever - because our floor is not and never will be level.  We are exploring options for replacing it with something more forgiving, because we need a lot of forgiveness around here.  Maybe a wood looking vinyl.  I also have dreams of someday not having to keep a bowl under my garbage disposal to catch (some of) the leaks and not having to keep the water running whenever the temps go below 20 degreees.



Lastly (I know, you're exhausted) I want to put up a chain link fence so that if we leave our doggie at home he can poop in the yard instead of on my carpet.  I know, not in 108 degrees, but if the temperature ever dips back into temperatures cooler than the surface of the sun. 

catching up . . . or starting over

Maybe a week ago I heard a guy speak and really what I mean is that I felt the Lord speak to me through that message that I am really not living the fasted lifestyle that I mean to or that He means me to. 

I have never liked artificial sweeteners.  I did a speech about it in college, how much better it was to eat real sugar rather than a chemically synthesized substitute.  But in the last several months I have taken in more artificial sweeteners than I have in my entire life, times 10.  And from my experience, I would say they are just as addictive (making a slave of me) as the real thing.  And they are really probably worse for me.

With caffeine, I have not had a real cup of actual coffee with caffeine in a while, but I have had decaf, which we all know has caffeine, chai, which also has caffeine, and chocolate (artificially or naturally sweetened), which also has caffeine.

None of those was what I wanted, but they were a substitute.

So here I am, living a fasted lifestyle, not having (real) sugar or (much) caffeine, calling myself a Nazirite, and really I'm just periodically binging on stuff that might give me cancer and definitely gives me the jitters and diarrhea.

A fasted lifestyle is, to quote Lou Engle, "foregoing legitimate earthly pleasures for the sake of heavenly treasures", or something like that.  I've been denying myself legitimate earthly pleasures and indulging in different, less healthy and less satisfying earthly pleasures.

So I have started over, I suppose.  I haven't had artificial sweeteners this week.  It's been a tough week.  And I'm out of fruit.  But I'm less of a slave to my appetite.  I've still had some white flour things, which are technically not part of the fast, but they do make my craving motor run.  And just now, I'm eating too much of my daughter's banana almond blueberry bread, also not something I'm fasting, but not something I should eat too much of.

But I'm celebrating.  Celebrating my 33 week doctor visit, having gained only 3 pounds for my entire pregnancy and with my blood pressure still in the very healthy range.  Celebrating making it through the week in a more faithful, more devoted, more healthy manner.  Celebrating the faithfulness of God to bring me through tough days.

Speaking of tough days, here's one.  Not exaggerating.  I came downstairs to a severe lack of milk in the house and a couple of crabby babies.  So I took daughter #2 to the grocery store and did a mid sized trip.  When we got home and were putting groceries away, all my sons who can talk were playing an old, stupid game wherein they try to get one kid to say the word "what".  I remember my brother playing it when we were kids.  I hated it then and hate it now.  It drove me bonkers.  So finally I got done with groceries and away from the game and at that moment, my husband, who was working from home, called me upstairs with that tone in his voice. 

The Littles had been loose in my room, for quite some time apparently.  An entire bottle of vitamin E oil had been emptied on my chair, my dresser, and my baby boy.  There was calamine lotion in the carpet.  Nothing had a lid on it.  Liquid foundation in daughter #5's new dress.  Little baby dissolvable teething tablets were everywhere, as was my entire box of recently organized recipe cards.  It was a disaster.  I spent the next 45 minutes cleaning it up. 

When I came downstairs, youngest daughter had a bowl of yogurt.  All over her.  All over the table and the chair.  I cleaned it up and fed her the rest.

Right when that ended, eldest son called my name in that same tone, and at this point I was honestly thinking of running away.  He was carrying youngest son by the trunk, sans diaper.  The diaper I could see, poop filled, a couple yards away.  Baby boy had poop everywhere.  No, really, everywhere.  He was covered with it down to his toes, hands, arms, legs. 

Now this kid is in the phase requiring what I like to call Greco-Roman diaper changing.  Where you have to put them in a wrestling hold, pinning one leg against your body with your armpit, one hand against his body with your elbow, holding his other hand and a foot with your hand and doing all the operational stuff with your free hand in order to get the diaper changed.  However, none of that carefully developed strategy works when the kid is completely covered in a layer of his own excrement. 

So it went like this:  wipe his hand, wipe my hand, wipe his foot, wipe my hand, wipe his hand again because he grabbed his stuff again, wipe my hand again, wipe his butt, wipe my hand, wipe his leg . . . you get the picture.  I sent eldest son to clean up the mess.  He assured me he did, but the dog's breath smelled really wrong later, and I'm not sure who actually did the cleaning up.

It's also been fun this week because my two oldest daughters got their ears pierced last weekend.  Nightmare.  One has an outgrown nickel allergy so we spent the big bucks on her.  The other didn't, so we got the cheap ones for her.  Regretting the whole operation at this point.  How do people do this with smaller people??

But really, I think the hard-ness of the week is about me learning to lean on Jesus more and my kids playing too much on the computer.  Which is another subject, and this post is long enough already.

Little Shop of Horrors

I've never seen it, actually.  It is the only musical my mother in law likes, but what I have seen of it in show choir competitions a thousand years ago was enough to convince me that I don't really want to watch it. 

But this morning I used it to prepare a mini musical for my husband's branch of the family tree to perform in the talent show at this weekend's family reunion. 

The family reunion is always a challenge because some of the people there have been related for their whole lives, and then some have only started hanging around more recently.  So there is this wierd melting pot thing that is supposed to happen.  But it is challenging when you share neither blood, nor history, nor common world view to really melt with people in a more or less positive way.  Challenging.

I was singing in my devo yesterday this little chorus I made up:
Wherever I go, whatever I do, let me be found hiding in You
Wherever I go, whatever I do, let me be found leaning on my Beloved

What I meant was,
At the family reunion this weekend, as I'm feeling socially awkward and counter cultural and freakish, and am trying not to eat piles and buckets of food that will do me no good whatsoever, please help me stay connected to the only One that can get me through my little crisis. 

I have a phrase I am pretty sure I invented:  fishbowl parenting.  When a goldfish lives in one of those glass fishbowls (think: Cat in the Hat), he has no privacy, except darting in that little castle thing.  He is on display.  I always call parenting in a situation where you are in continual close encounters of the unavoidable kind, "fishbowl parenting".  In a fishbowl parenting environment, if your kids misbehave, everyone knows.  If you discipline them, everyone hears and knows.  If you 'train' them, instruct them, indoctrinate them, brainwash them, everyone knows.  And if you train them in a wierd, countercultural way, well, everyone knows that too. 

And if your wierd, countercultural way is hypothetically different from the way the listeners are raising or did raise their children (including, hypothetically, the way they raised your husband, hypothetically) there exists the potential to offend or alienate or tick off in some way.

And it is also possible that this whole thing is mostly in my hypothetically paranoid and insecure brain and that no one gives pig snot how I raise my children.  Maybe.

But all of this insecure wierdness feeds my desire to eat crap, because everyone knows that highly processed carbohydrates and mostly hydrogenated lard and high fructose corn syrup makes insecurity and fear go away, right?  Well, in the moment, it seems like it would.

On the contrary, eating carrot sticks and hard boiled eggs and bunless hotdogs while washing s'mores off of lots of little sticky fingers always makes one feel so secure and confident and, just, happy.

What an opportunity to live out my fasted lifestyle and choose eternal pleasures rather than earthly and temporary anesthesics.  What a great time to build character.  What a beautiful moment to lean on my Beloved.

AAARRGGHH!

But that's my only option.  I can't go over it, can't go around it, can't go under it.  Gotta go through it.  If I make it to the other side without gaining 5 lbs, that will be evidence that God exists.  Not that I'm wondering.  And if I can get through the next several days leaning, clinging, abiding with some measure of joy because I (quoting Ann Kiemel) have a giant of a God in me and together, He and I, we're out to change our world, if I can do that, then I think maybe I can call myself a grown up, a bridal soul, a real Christian.

I'll let you know.

My heart, my choice

Have you ever heard somebody say something like, "You don't choose who you fall in love with."

Well, that's hogwash. You choose who you spend time with. You choose where you go and what you do. You choose who you sit by and when to answer the phone. You choose what to say and what not to say, what to think about and what not to think about, what to wear and watch and focus on.

If you don't choose who you fall in love with, what hope do us married folks have? We're just walking along and then, BANG! We fall in love with someone new. Stank! What happens to our current spouse? Our kids?

The Bible says, Philippians 4, whatsoever things are good, pure, lovely, right, excellent, worthy of praise (or something like that) think on these things. You have a choice, or else scripture wouldn't tell us to choose. It also talks about taking our thoughts captive. I'm not saying it isn't hard. In fact, I don't recommend trying to do what the Bible says to do without Jesus' help and His forgiveness - you'll get really discouraged.

I am saying that He gave us both guidelines and a means for our escape (He said He will provide an escape in any temptation). And even more impressive, He has walked this road, as a man, as a teenager, with zits and hormones. And he made it through. He was, like all of us should, saving His heart for His bride - the church. He kept Himself pure. He encountered every trial and temptation common to man, and He saved His heart for His one bride.

We are called to do the same. As a married woman, I am called to keep myself unto my man. But before I knew who that man would be, I was still called to keep everything that belonged to him for him. My body, my kisses, my fantasies, my affection, all belonged to him before I knew him.

Any gesture that says to a boy or a girl, "I belong to you" should be kept for the one you belong to. To hold hands with a boy tells him, "I belong to you." It tells everyone, "I am with this guy." The Bible says it is good for a man not to touch a woman. That doesn't mean bumping into her in the grocery store. It means not touching in a way that conveys feeling that is inappropriate.

An easy test for this for singles is to say, 'if I was married to someone else, would it be okay with my spouse for me to do this with another person?' If not, and if I am not sure this person is my spouse-to-be, then I am defrauding him. I am taking something that belongs to someone else. I am giving him something that belongs to someone else.

As a married woman, I belong to Jesus and my husband. If I were single, the same thing would be true. Being unmarried doesn't mean I can just do whatever I feel like doing until I get married. It means I don't know the whole story yet. But I still belong to the Lord and to my husband, should the Lord give me to one someday.

Same thing for guys. It would be NOT OKAY with me for my husband to hold hands with or kiss or give a nice long front hug with another woman. Not ok. So I am training my sons not to do any of those things with a girl until 1) they are both old enough to marry, 2) he is able to provide for her, 3) he has our blessing and 4) he has her father's permission. Unless those things are in place, he is taking something from her that very likely belongs to someone else.

[note, if young people are in a prayer situation and there comes a command from above to all hold hands, I still think, having been a young person, it is a good idea not to strategically place oneself next to the person you hope to marry in hopes of such an order, but neither do I think one is required to take a flying allergic leap from anyone of the opposite gender in that situation]

And honestly, I think our young people need to be wise, not just about their intent, but about the perceptions of a person of the opposite gender. This impacts the way we dress, of course, but it also includes the way we touch or don't touch each other, saving seats, even the way we talk to and tease and look at each other. I'm a big prude, ok. Just call it that. But a girl needs to be aware of the impression she is giving a boy. Vice versa. It's called Not-causing-your-brother-or-sister-to-stumble. It's also called not being a tease. We're responsible for our actions. If your intent is to keep your heart pure unto the Lord and save yourself, body, mind, and soul, for your mate, then do your level best not to give some poor soul any other impression.

Your heart is yours. My heart is mine. I choose everyday to keep myself for the Lord and for the husband He has given me. The rules are the same. Make good choices now; have good marriage later.

Lingering

We went to Kenya a few years ago, my husband and I. And one of my memories of the places we went and the people we spent time with was of entering various homes, hearing the greeting, "Karibu!" (welcome), being served chai and having this delightful unhurried visit in the afternoon. So much of life outside of America strikes us as so relaxed because we're in such a mad rush about everything.

Today my devotional set at the house of prayer reminded me of one of those visits. It was like a cup of chai. I lingered. I was in no hurry. I had a hour and a half to be with my Beloved, my Friend. I sang to Him whatever I wanted to sing. I flowed between a half dozen songs and the Song of Songs and Philippians 3 and other scriptures hidden in my heart.

I am my Beloved's and He is mine. It was a pleasant moment in the frenzy of life, that made me wonder why I don't make more like it. Lingering.

Wimped out

Yeah, I wimped out.

I got really overwhelmed before I made it out of my bedroom today, and the mass trip to Walmart was quick to get dropped from the critical list. Here's what I DID do:

I put medicine on Eight's wart
Changed diapers, found bottles, washed bottles, filled bottles with milk, fed breakfast
Ironed shirt, then lint removed the dog hair from it
I finished the testing for two kids and got a third child to within one
4 loads of laundry were run, not by me, but I'm taking credit
I buddy wrapped my broken toe
Fed 14 children smashed bread sandwiches, using up the last of the bread that I dropped a case of bottled water on
My niece, who has been visiting her bread-crust consuming cousins for several days, ate her crust (also something I didn't do but am totally taking credit for)and didn't choke, die or throw up
I did my devotional set at the house of prayer
I brought 10 kids, 2 guitars, 3 drumsticks, a backpack, 3 Bibles, lunch for 14, and a dog to pick up my older kids (if you're keeping track and the numbers confuse you, that's 12 of mine minus the 4 at leadership training, plus one niece, plus another 9 yr old girl that hangs with us on Tuesdays in the summer)
Fed kids spaghetti for supper and cleaned the babies up after
Took oldest 5 to Walmart (much easier than 14)

What can I say, I'm a lightweight.

Taking the show on the road

Tomorrow I shall attempt the impossible.

Today my four oldest are at a leadership training for a camp the kids attend. So I am at home with the youngest 8, plus a cousin we are delighted to have with us for a few days.

Tonight they will come home and sleep, and return for the rest of the camp in the morning. They have the option of sleeping over, but we are declining that option for various reasons, not the least of which is that I selfishly want them to sleep, because having my four besties dead to the world, grumpy, and exhausted isn't a great idea for anybody.

There are other reasons too. While the event is Christian, and the leaders are Christian, and the intentions are Christian, there will be a decent percentage of teenagers there who know about Jesus but don't know Him, and another decent percentage of kids who don't even know about Him. This is my kids going out into the world. Certainly the framework is church-ish. But even so, it is a somewhat worldly environment, partly because of who is there, and partly because it is designed to attract worldly kids. (The desire of the leadership is to get those kids to church and hopefully bring them into the Kingdom of God. I agree with the goal, and I don't necessarily have a problem with the method. But that doesn't mean having my kids sleep over is good or beneficial or necessary.)

Being there for 8-9 hours today and another 4-5 tomorrow is quite a jump for my gang. It is quite a dip in another pond. We may have a lot to talk about.

But spending the night is a whole nuther thing. I would be willing to wager a large number of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies that the entire populace of the leadership training event(unsaved and saved and somewhat saved) will not all drop right off to sleep at 12:00 a.m. And I have an opinion (conviction) that people get stupider with sleep deprivation. They (we) are more likely to say things and do things that otherwise they would think twice about or choose not to do.

Will my children someday have to make those choices on their own, when to sleep, who to hang with, what to say, what to do? Absolutely. Are they mature enough and old enough to be permitted to make those choices now? Maybe. But do I want to put them in an environment where the odds are potentially stacked against them? No.

I don't put myself in an environment where the odds are stacked against me. If it happens, it happens. But I don't choose it. And God forbid I choose it for them.

I'm not eating sugar. It's a committment I've made before the Lord. So I don't go to dessert nights. It isn't wise for me. As a woman who belongs to Jesus and my husband, I try not to spend time alone with other men. It is not wise for me. As a person who remembers everything I hear and see, I don't watch movies that probably contain content I'll remember for years to come or that direct my feelings and convictions away from Truth. Why? Because I know my weaknesses.

My children are young and weak. Spending 12-14 hours in a 24 hour period immersed in an environment of a mixed bag of their peers in a somewhat worldly setting will be challenge enough. Sleeping over and becoming sleep deprived in that same environment with that same crowd and making good decisions is setting them up for failure. So their dad will pick them up tonight and take them back in the morning.

Then, I will attempt the impossible.

I will pick up the four of them at noon and take 13 children to Walmart. Yep, I'm gonna do it. We have another appointment close by at 2, no point in returning home, and some things to do at Wally world. We need to try to find some more affordable material for making some skirts (sewing with my girls :) and a new BB gun (for my oldest son ;). Big stuff.

I'll try to let you know how it goes.

Boy or girl?

In this age of technology, when ultrasounds are frequent and there's even something you can pee on or in early in pregnancy that tells you a probable gender, we are counter cultural in a way that is totally not spiritual. We do not find out the gender of our babies ahead of time.

Why?

Well, for one thing, we never have. We can't start now!

Secondly, we don't really need to know. We go in with two names, two coming home outfits, and we're good. It's not like we're gonna paint a room pink or blue or anything. Yellow and green are my favorite colors, so even if I knew what the baby would be, that's the stuff I like anyway.

Finally, we (I) think it is a great way to get through and end labor. Making a phone call in the middle of the night saying, "It's a ____ !" is so much more fun than, "She's here."

We have some first names, and are entirely unsure of middle names, but have some good potential front runners, so I'm not too panicked. We picked the names, in part, related to meanings that have to do with things we are believing God for.

And sometimes I let myself think a little about what if it's a _______ ?

What if it's a boy? Well, that would be unbelievable. My favorite moms growing up were moms of boys. And, as a mom with 7, that would make me one of those kinds of moms. Great senses of humor, easy going, not freaked out with a little blood, snacks and bandaids flowing freely - that's the kind of mom I pictured myself being.

My mom had one son. Her mom had one son. My dad's mom had one son. I kind of figured you only get one. And I have rejoiced greatly with each son. Sons are something special. I remember calling my dad after my second son was born, sitting on the couch, watching March Madness (basketball) with my SONS. "Dad," I said, "I'm just sitting here watching basketball with my boys. Just wanted to let you know." So very cool.

But then I think, what if I have a daughter? My daughters are my delight, my treasures. They sing with me and with each other. They draw and create and cook. Crayons and paints and colored pencils, scissors and glue and lots of paper. Fabric and ribbons, trying to remember how to sew again and experimenting with new recipes.

They are full of beauty and grace. They dance and worship and love the babies. And having another little girl when I have two little girls would be just pure sweetness. I'm not a person who eats desserts and says, that's too sweet, or too rich. No such of a thing.

I don't get tired of sweet girl-ness. I love matching outfits and cute hair (although, when it happens, it is more likely that my elder daughters did it to them). I especially love cute sleepy girls "uggling" with their daddy.

My girls are an expression of the better version of me. I see in them the person I wish I was, the person I try to be, the person I was once and try to get back to sometimes. Play the song In my Daughter's Eyes by Martina McBride. That's how I feel about daughters.

So am I hoping for one or the other? Well, for the sake of my youngest, who is a boy following two girls, I think another boy would be grand. But no. As the most blessed woman I know, I wouldn't dare to form a strong preference, when God knows so much better than I do who best to put in our family.

Sometimes when I have had a preference in a pregnancy, I pray specifically for God to prepare my heart for whatever He has made in me. And He has, marvelously.

So, boy or girl? I have no idea.

Testing 1 . . . 2 . . . 3

This falls under that category of "How You Do It" posts. We do standardized testing every other year at the end of the school year.

We order them from an internet company called Family Learning Organization. The testing we do is relatively cheap ($35 per kid) and relatively flexible (we do it at home, on our timetable). Once we receive the tests in the mail we have 2 weeks to complete them and send them back in the mail for grading. This has always been enough time.

Each child has 10 tests to complete. The younger grades (through 3rd) are done with a great deal of administrator involvement, for the most part. From 4th grade, I start them off with the samples and then we set the timer.

The tests are older tests, I know because they have questions about library card catalogs.

We do it because our state requires some sort of ambiguous "assessment" and because it lets us know how we are doing. It also gives my kids great practice on test taking, finishing within a time limit, not being able to get Mom's help, being quiet while others are working, those kinds of things.

It also gives my little kids plenty of time watching Backyardigans and other brain melting fluff that they may miss out on ordinarily.

Once we send the tests in, it is usually only a few weeks till we get the results back. They are the normal test results, raw score, percentile, what grade level they are approximately performing at. (I know, I'm not supposed to put a preposition at the end of a sentence, but this isn't my test.) We take all that with a grain of salt. But, when a certain son got 7 out of 28 on his spelling exam, we realized we needed to change our spelling program. We did. This time he missed 7 out of 30. Still not his best thing, but way better.

I have the olders do it together and the youngers (those that need my help) take turns watching tv (I mean, watching the babies) and takig tests with me. I could probably juggle them if needed, but they are already a distraction for the olders. So is my typing, probably. I'll stop now.

Running my race

Today I weigh the same number of pounds that I weighed when we went on our cruise 2 years ago, 207. I jogged a 5K on the deck of that ship (with strangers cheering me on). The difference is that I am 28 weeks pregnant now. Which translates into at least 10 lbs of pregnancy weight (virtual weight then being 197 or less, the range for weight gain at 28 weeks is 10-22 lbs).

So I am pleased but not satisfied. I have had several pig out days, and haven't been very committed to my goal. That happened with my 9th pregnancy as well - I did great for a while and then coasted to the end.

But I have a goal. It might be a little ridiculous, but I have a weight in mind that I would like to weigh when I deliver (187). If I don't get there, that's ok. But if I don't try, I won't get anywhere close.

Don't worry, I'm eating plenty of calories, plenty of protein, plenty of veggies, taking my vitamins (most days). I'm drinking lots of water. But I have an eating plan, and I'm charting it on the computer.

And the plan extends after baby. I want to be a healthy mom. I want to be a mom my kids can be proud of. I'm going for it.

My sisters and I have been working on this together. They are both thin and beautiful. My younger sister runs marathons. But they both have to fight for it. So my younger sister gave us both a copy of a book, "Made to Crave" and I'm maybe a 6th of the way through it. I think the gist of it is that God could have made us differently, but that our food cravings (or whatever we struggle with) are meant to turn us to Him. She talks about praying when you crave and "building a garden path one stone at a time".

I am loving that image. And I am trying. I am trying to turn to Him when I am wanting. And I am on a freeze right now. I am only eating what I need, nothing that isn't good for me, nothing that isn't necessary. That eliminates options and simplifies the decision process.

Today I had a peanut butter protein shake for breakfast, will have chicken salad on bell pepper for lunch, deviled eggs for a snack, and zucchini (subbed for spaghetti) and meatballs for supper. Doesn't that sound satisfying? That and lots of water, and I am content with my eating.

I have the eye of the tiger. I am not giving up. I have 12 short weeks left in what may be my last pregnancy (because people my age don't necessarily get pregnant, unless of course, God gives them more gifts, and in that case, bring 'em on!) and I want to give it everything I've got.

It is possible that I could, when the baby is a couple weeks old, weigh less than I have weighed in 19 years (170?). It is possible I could, when the baby is a year old, weigh the appropriate weight for my not-very-substantial height (132 or so). It could happen. I might be not very toned with 17 years of baby blab hanging on me, but I could get there. And I have the equipment and knowledge to tone at least some of that beauty up.

Just because I haven't been healthy in many years doesn't mean I can't be, and soon (a year is soon). I've been chasing this goal for a very long time, and it actually seems a little bit attainable. And that, friends, is a new and incredible feeling.

There's no place like home

My children are playing some wild variation of the princess and the pea, only, instead of a princess feeling a pea under 20 mattresses, it's a dozen or so children trying to find a red marble under, um, each other. I keep suggesting it might be time to stop, and they keep asking to continue.

Today I took my 6 year old daughter to what I thought was a pediatric dermatologist. My phone thinks it's in a different time zone, so I keep realizing I have an appointment in 10 minutes that is 20 or more minutes away. That was the case today, so I went blazing out of the garage at 2:21 in a blaze of minivan glory, hoping the police wouldn't notice me flying over (through) the park with its 20 mph speed limit. They didn't, although I did have to pause briefly to close the hatch.

I tried calling a few times, but the message I heard said they're closed and will open tomorrow at noon. Hmmn. Do I keep going? Decided to show up late to an office that was probably closed because my daughter is desperate to get rid of a couple warts on her knee. Wart remover stings and we can't get duct tape to stay on. So off we go.

Turns out, it's not a pediatric dermatologist. Just a regular one. And they have two workers doing the job of four so that's why they're not answering the phone. The gal at the window is defensive, and I'm trying to apologize for being late, and it wasn't that pleasant, until she saw my daughter.

The kid has curly blond hair, huge blue eyes, a scrumptious smile and stunningly bright countenence, and is wearing her ruby slippers. The staff at the doctor's office have obviously not seen anything this cute in way too long. They were falling all over themselves trying to make her comfortable. (Oh, and the doctor was so congratulatory over us having a 13th child - came from a big family.)

Then I took the same child to Aldi, and she was the belle of the rent-your-cart-for-a-quarter ball. Fifteen people oogled over Mommy's Helper. It was delightful. (so different from going to the same store with my two littlest, looking like I've shacked up with 2 or 3 different men in the last 2.5 years, trying to populate the earth personally, since #11 looks like she's at least 10 months older than #12 and obviously has a different father, and I look at least 10 months pregnant with #13)

So those were good times. So was my devotional set at the local house of prayer the day before (despite my constant yawning into the mike). And the party we attended the day before that (the one with 7 families and 47 children - 1/4th of which were ours), and the church picnic the day before that.

The truth is, I'm glad to have done most of the things I leave my house to do. But I am not glad to go. I do not want to go. I do not want to do anything. I want to stay home. I want to do laundry and dishes and organize the linen closet. I want to paint the bathrooms and hang up toothbrush holders on the wall. I want to clean out the mountain of crap in the basement my mom created during her post partem visit about 3 kids ago.

I'm nesting and I want to be left alone, for the most part. I feel so vulnerable and small and fat and ugly (yes it is possible to feel small AND fat). And leaving the house is a huge act of will.

So my dilemna is this: how much do I honor that instinct, and how much do I force myself to suck it up and get my butt out there to whatever it is, knowing it will be good for me, or my children, or both?

Life with 2

What's it like with a dozen kids, people wonder. This week I'm down to the youngest two, the babies, the one year olds. So today I can tell you what life with a dozen is NOT like.

It's Tuesday and I just am running the dishwasher (singular) for the first time.

We can eat anywhere and anything we want. They don't care.

The boy goes back to sleep in the morning and I'm having to get him up, which means I haven't gotten dressed before 8 two days in a row. (As opposed to having a big kid drop a crying baby on me at 6:15 every morning.)

Going in and out of places carrying two babies and a diaper bag strengthens biceps and hips.

For breakfast today they shared a bagel. Unbelievable.

We went through Taco Bell the other day for well under 10 dollars and it took seconds to give us our food. (Normally we can't even go drive through there, someone has to go in, it costs 35 dollars, and takes 20 minutes to fill our order. So we don't do it very often.)

Neither of them speaks enough English to interrupt a grown up conversation, so my husband and I have been able to have some of those. The flip side is that neither of them get my jokes or are very interested in my stories.

Not getting, um, walked in on. Nuf said. Weird.

I can listen to whatever radio station I want!

The house that Jack built

I'm laying awake in bed on a night that I desperately need to be sleeping, thinking about ways I can send one of my dearest friends to the other side of the world. My cherished friend, Mary Lyn Noeth, and her husband Peter are simply two of the godliest people I have ever known. Their long time dream of being part of the Wycliffe team of Bible translators is near fulfillment, or not. The only thing stopping them is a piddly little thing called money.

What they want to do sounds a little like the story of the house that Jack built. Maybe something like this:
This is the man who keeps the planes running to take the supplies to the missionaries up in the jungle who translate the Word for a people who haven't heard that the God of creation speaks the language of their heart.

Or, this is the woman who teaches the children of the people who lay down their lives learning and translating the Bible into languages not yet written so that all may know that God so loved them, that He gave His Son to save then and gave His Word to them in the language their heart speaks.

Now, they didn't ask me to do this. In fact, I may be disobeying some godly Wycliffe rule by writing this up, but I thought, laying in my bed, that I might be able to get back to sleep better if I use my blog tonight to, instead of whining about some aspect of motherhood or weight loss or whatever, to invite you to be part of their team of senders and prayers.

I don't know about you, but we have more Bibles than people in my house. And we have a lot of people! But there are those who have yet to know Him, yet to hear Him, and we can help. Pray about it. What is God saying? If you want to know more or jump in, here is their blog: www.thenoeths.blogspot.com (you have to go to the web version to connect with them, the mobile version doesn't tell you)

Mother's Day Recap

So here's how the parade went down.

Saturday morning my expectations were gruesomely low. (sorry)

Saturday afternoon, husband and oldest six went shopping, ostensibly for me for mother's day, and came back with what seemed to be stuff for them. Hmmn.

Saturday evening, the eldest kicks me and husband out of the house, so they can prepare. I should mention that on Friday, she made a loaf of whole wheat French bread and won't let anyone touch it. We go to dinner, have a good chat, and go to Home Depot to talk about how to make our bathroom a happier, more functional place.

Saturday night, I go to bed knowing that something special awaits me for breakfast.

Sunday morning, I awaken to a child asking if he can have his second computer turn. I tell him that waking up your mother on Mother's Day to ask to have a computer turn is evil and to go talk to Dad.

But when I come downstairs to a beautiful blueberry breakfast casserole, I really did feel pretty cherished. By the end of the day, I ate probably 2/3rds of it myself. I got great home made cards, a necklace made by same daughter, and a gift from my husband that I really wanted but did not need (I was afraid he was going to get me a crock pot to replace my broken one). I was home with my family most of the day and they all did lots of helping so that I didn't have to do much.

It was a great day and I was thankful.

Wrap this, if you can

What do I really want for mother's day?

It's a tough list, really. I'll tell you, and see if you can grab it at Walmart and wrap it up. I doubt it.

I want to not feel lonely in the midst of a bunch of people.

I want to hear my husband's heart and have his full attention.

I want to enjoy the company of my children without fighting, hormonal outbursts, and ugly words. (and it would be nice if they would also behave)

I want to feel like what I'm doing matters, like I am having some success and not just spinning my tires and spitting in the wind.

I want to look at the future without anxiety and fear, to believe that I am preparing them adequately for what is ahead.

I want to go to bed at night and sleep until I'm not tired anymore.

I want the dog to stop crapping on the floor when we leave him at home alone.

I want to believe that my husband likes the look of me, the smell of me, the feel of me, the sound of me, the thought of me, and that he's not just putting up with a choice he made 20 some years ago.

I want to be beautiful and strong and healthy.

No flowers can do this. No gifts, no chocolates, no cookies, no breakfast in bed can make these things happen. No one day, no holiday can make a woman feel loved and appreciated. Either she does, and the gifts and cards supplement and affirm the feeling, or she doesn't, and what does or doesn't happen on that day remind her.

I am a talker. A writer. A verbal processor. I think too much and say or write most of it. Journaling and blogging serve as an outlet because I have too many words, more than anyone really wants to hear or read.

My husband works with people, many of them women, who (because it is their job to do so) talk all day. He listens to and talks to people all day, every day. When he comes home, he wants silence. Or at least, white noise. He doesn't want/need to hear my bajillion thoughts about everything from the kids trip to Grandma's to how much the cloth diapers are holding to labor and delivery to how I felt about what somebody said on the radio yesterday.

Usually by about Saturday afternoon he begins to recover from the verbal assault that is his life, and starts to be in a place where he doesn't mind if I say a thing or two.

The point is, I'm needy and he's needy and often times our needs are not friends. I'm glad for my friends and children and journal and blog, so I don't have to tell him everything. But the point here is, my husband cannot meet all my needs (no man could), and some women have husbands who are far less able or no husbands at all, and where does that leave us on 'special' days like Mother's Day except empty?

It leaves us at the cross.

I can feel beautiful because the One Who made me calls me beautiful. I can feel like I'm doing well because He says, 'well done'. I can have a wonderful mother's day because I can enjoy the gifts God has lavished on me, gifts I don't deserve and am not worthy of. I can have joy because of His love that fills me and heals me and makes me a daughter of the King.

And, well, I'll just keep cleaning up the dog doo until he figures out that we come back every time.

Honoring Mothers

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.)

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.)

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.

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.

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.