I am timeless. I have no time. This is my official apology for not blogging very much these days. I want to. I need to. I just don't have time.
I have a new baby who wants to nurse a lot, 3 older kids with whom I am making penance for years of neglecting their formal writing skills by working with them ad infinitem on writing stuff for their classes, laundry to help with, diapers to wash and stuff, dishes to load, dinners to fix, my wife to murder and Gilder to frame for it. I'm swamped.
I wanted to write a long heartfelt blog about adopting my youngest daughter. But I couldn't even pull off a decent facebook status update on the subject. My phone and I are not getting along, and all the computers are busy writing article summaries and learning to speak Spanish and do 2 digit long division and type more than 20 words a minute.
I would love to write about seeking the Kingdom of God first in my eating habits, or an attempt in that direction. And fitting into size 18 jeans for the first time in well over a decade. And bingeing on raisins and sprouted whole wheat toast.
I could write about my internal debate regarding how to best love my African-American daughter's hair, and all the different schools of thought about how to keep it healthy. It's about parenting style, about racial identity, about my responsibility (or not) to make her look acceptable to the African Americans we encounter in our world, about adopting and wanting to make sure I'm doing right by the child I was given but didn't give birth to, about what is best for the hair and the head and the child, but also being consistent as a mother - I don't spend hours and hours on any other kid's hair. Does it take less time in the end to put her hair in a style once every few weeks than it would to keep it healthy and tangle free daily? For the next year, until she is old enough to express her desire and make a somewhat informed choice, how do we teach her to love her beautiful curls?
I could write about how hard it is to not interfere on behalf of children who are struggling with hard things and just nudge things in their direction, ease the pain, help them in a way that really doesn't help them at all. They have to struggle and fall and learn and grow and (gasp!) fail and repent and change and get up. I cannot grow their character for them.
I could write about my dream of going on a Mediterranean cruise for our anniversary next year.
Anyway, like I said, I just don't have time. I thought, with a laugh, about all the things I've done while nursing lately: flipping pancakes, stuffing diapers, cutting the little nubs off plastic 1:72 revolutionary war soldiers, mopping.
I've been listening to Alyn Jones talk about boundaries and hula hoops and how I am not responsible for other people's happinesses and having my brain circuits fry as I try to work out the ramifications of that little piece of truth. What does that mean in my relationships with my parents, my inlaws, my husband, my neighbors?
O.ver.whelmed. Not complaining. Living. Breathing. Surviving. Content. But no time to write. Baby is waking up.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Rant
(Take 2)
So I'm finishing my breakfast and starting the second spelling quiz of the morning when someone points out that #12 is without diaper. He is, in fact, completely naked, which is part of the problem. He has reached that marvelous and unavoidable age at which one removes one's diaper at will. He does this whether it is a cloth or disposable, which it was in this case because he was sporting a rather sore bum last night so I decided to lay the vaseline on pretty thick before bedtime.
I proceed to the foyer, which is where all stately manors such as ours keep their changing tables, completely covered with used, unprocessed bum genii, and am dismayed to observe what appears to be a Hansel and Gretel style convention site, with little piles of what I wrongly presume to be bread crumbs as far as the eye can see (and I have a pretty long foyer).
Alas! I was mistaken, and they are not breadcrums but the scattered guts of the previously discarded diaper, courtesy of the dog (why do we have him?).
(This is about where I deleted my first attempt at this blog entry a few minutes ago.)
There is a complete circle of diaper shrapnel from my large stately foyer through my extra large living room, and then on through the dining room and kitchen. This includes some carpeted floor, but as anyone who has ever cleaned up one of those nightmares can attest to, it makes precious little difference when you are cleaning it up - it doesn't sweep up off of hard floor or carpet. It doesn't clean up at all. It doesn't dry out, doesn't wipe up, doesn't evaporate, doesn't absorb. It is there forever.
Yes, my house smells like pee.
In other news, I think all mothers with twins, Irish, adopted or genuine, ought to also receive a temporary set of go-go-gadget arms for the express purpose of breaking up fights over the younger baby's pacifier or a contested bottle of milk or whatever other article they are disputing.
#11 has put toothpaste in her eyes twice this week. One of the 'twins' is on the kitchen table nearly all the time. There is toothpaste virtually all over the house.
Having closely spaced siblings, the new baby is always in the most danger from the child immediately preceeding him or her. I am learning this is doubly so with two preceeding. If they come upon the baby in his bed or otherwise unarmed, they start looking around for things he might need. Like a blanket the dog pooped on. Or several stuffed animals. Or a car. Or a pencil.
We do not have a swing or a bouncy seat or a bumpo. For one thing, it puts the baby in a very vulnerable position for the toddler(s) to kill or maim him. (Yes, I know I can teach them not to do that, but frankly, I'm not that good of a mother.)
The other reason we don't have those objects is that we don't really need them. We have people literally waiting in line to hold the new person. "I'm next in line," is what they say. Rarely does a newbie get to sleep out a whole nap in his bed without someone needing to snuggle him. We cherish the babies. (Of course, as I race to finish this, New Guy is screaming in the next room waiting for me . . ., never mind, #5 got him.)
All this just is to say that I am every bit as overwhelmed as I thought I might be and you knew I would be. Still loving all the humans, but this has indeed been a challenging week. And it's only Wednesday morning.
So I'm finishing my breakfast and starting the second spelling quiz of the morning when someone points out that #12 is without diaper. He is, in fact, completely naked, which is part of the problem. He has reached that marvelous and unavoidable age at which one removes one's diaper at will. He does this whether it is a cloth or disposable, which it was in this case because he was sporting a rather sore bum last night so I decided to lay the vaseline on pretty thick before bedtime.
I proceed to the foyer, which is where all stately manors such as ours keep their changing tables, completely covered with used, unprocessed bum genii, and am dismayed to observe what appears to be a Hansel and Gretel style convention site, with little piles of what I wrongly presume to be bread crumbs as far as the eye can see (and I have a pretty long foyer).
Alas! I was mistaken, and they are not breadcrums but the scattered guts of the previously discarded diaper, courtesy of the dog (why do we have him?).
(This is about where I deleted my first attempt at this blog entry a few minutes ago.)
There is a complete circle of diaper shrapnel from my large stately foyer through my extra large living room, and then on through the dining room and kitchen. This includes some carpeted floor, but as anyone who has ever cleaned up one of those nightmares can attest to, it makes precious little difference when you are cleaning it up - it doesn't sweep up off of hard floor or carpet. It doesn't clean up at all. It doesn't dry out, doesn't wipe up, doesn't evaporate, doesn't absorb. It is there forever.
Yes, my house smells like pee.
In other news, I think all mothers with twins, Irish, adopted or genuine, ought to also receive a temporary set of go-go-gadget arms for the express purpose of breaking up fights over the younger baby's pacifier or a contested bottle of milk or whatever other article they are disputing.
#11 has put toothpaste in her eyes twice this week. One of the 'twins' is on the kitchen table nearly all the time. There is toothpaste virtually all over the house.
Having closely spaced siblings, the new baby is always in the most danger from the child immediately preceeding him or her. I am learning this is doubly so with two preceeding. If they come upon the baby in his bed or otherwise unarmed, they start looking around for things he might need. Like a blanket the dog pooped on. Or several stuffed animals. Or a car. Or a pencil.
We do not have a swing or a bouncy seat or a bumpo. For one thing, it puts the baby in a very vulnerable position for the toddler(s) to kill or maim him. (Yes, I know I can teach them not to do that, but frankly, I'm not that good of a mother.)
The other reason we don't have those objects is that we don't really need them. We have people literally waiting in line to hold the new person. "I'm next in line," is what they say. Rarely does a newbie get to sleep out a whole nap in his bed without someone needing to snuggle him. We cherish the babies. (Of course, as I race to finish this, New Guy is screaming in the next room waiting for me . . ., never mind, #5 got him.)
All this just is to say that I am every bit as overwhelmed as I thought I might be and you knew I would be. Still loving all the humans, but this has indeed been a challenging week. And it's only Wednesday morning.
Sunday, September 02, 2012
Day 11
So far, so good.
I weigh 194. That is the least, best I remember, I've weighed in 15+ years. When I got pregnant with second baby, first son, I believe I was 189 lbs. So in 5 lbs I'll be at my lowest in nearly 17 years. From then, I don't really know. We didn't have a scale for a while. Bad idea.
I have to say, when we got married, I wasn't much of a cook, but we were great at eating. We would go through a whole thing of frozen Salisbury steaks (6 portions) with mashed potatoes, eating the gravy, with a can of greenie beanies to make us feel less guilty. Our special Saturday breakfast was scrambled eggs, pigs in a blanket (probably 5 each) and a whole pack of cinnamon rolls (4 each). We plumped up pretty quickly.
And I ate as if I were incapable of getting full and somehow immune to calories. My favorite type of suicide was a box of Little Debbie zebra cakes. There were 10 in a box, and I would eat most if not all of them, guzzling half a gallon of milk (skim, of course) to wash them down.
In those days, I didn't have a real job. Okay, I've never had a real job. But I was teaching piano lessons and substitute teaching and playing secretary for a small pest control company and volunteering for the March For Jesus, while my beloved husband was working 70 hour weeks as a consultant. I was lonely. I filled my time with pretending to be a teenager working with the youth group, taking up too much time at the houses where I taught lessons (and other houses where I didn't have any real reason to be there), and, well, eating.
I made an effort from time to time to slim down or exercise or be more disciplined. Usually I started feeling like I was in a healthy place about an hour before I got pregnant again.
So here I am (and I let this one sit for a while, so today is actually day 20, and I've gained, not lost weight), still at the brink of being healthier and thinner and stronger than I've been for a long time, but also at the brink of going back to the way I've been for a long time. Funny thing about brinks - they go both ways.
I am struggling with my addiction, struggling with exhaustion, struggling with the desire to grow and change and conquer, and with the desire to just give up. But I can't, because I've come too far.
It doesn't feel like I've come very far. I feel fat. I feel ugly. I feel like I just had a baby and am not sleeping and want to eat the world. I feel like a failure, not a success, even though I've just succeeded. I'm over the elation of being smaller than I have been, and just in the trenches of still being bigger than anybody wants to be.
Jesus, I need Your help. I cannot walk near to You unless You hold me close. And I cannot walk in self-control unless You grow it in me. I am only a failure unless You shine and live in and through me. Please draw me near. Help me each day to turn to You, to stay close to You, to hear these words of Yours and obey. Thank You for loving me no matter what. Thank You for not rejecting me or accepting me based on my performance. Thank You for seeing me as Your bride, for calling me beautiful, for seeing the end from the beginning.
I weigh 194. That is the least, best I remember, I've weighed in 15+ years. When I got pregnant with second baby, first son, I believe I was 189 lbs. So in 5 lbs I'll be at my lowest in nearly 17 years. From then, I don't really know. We didn't have a scale for a while. Bad idea.
I have to say, when we got married, I wasn't much of a cook, but we were great at eating. We would go through a whole thing of frozen Salisbury steaks (6 portions) with mashed potatoes, eating the gravy, with a can of greenie beanies to make us feel less guilty. Our special Saturday breakfast was scrambled eggs, pigs in a blanket (probably 5 each) and a whole pack of cinnamon rolls (4 each). We plumped up pretty quickly.
And I ate as if I were incapable of getting full and somehow immune to calories. My favorite type of suicide was a box of Little Debbie zebra cakes. There were 10 in a box, and I would eat most if not all of them, guzzling half a gallon of milk (skim, of course) to wash them down.
In those days, I didn't have a real job. Okay, I've never had a real job. But I was teaching piano lessons and substitute teaching and playing secretary for a small pest control company and volunteering for the March For Jesus, while my beloved husband was working 70 hour weeks as a consultant. I was lonely. I filled my time with pretending to be a teenager working with the youth group, taking up too much time at the houses where I taught lessons (and other houses where I didn't have any real reason to be there), and, well, eating.
I made an effort from time to time to slim down or exercise or be more disciplined. Usually I started feeling like I was in a healthy place about an hour before I got pregnant again.
So here I am (and I let this one sit for a while, so today is actually day 20, and I've gained, not lost weight), still at the brink of being healthier and thinner and stronger than I've been for a long time, but also at the brink of going back to the way I've been for a long time. Funny thing about brinks - they go both ways.
I am struggling with my addiction, struggling with exhaustion, struggling with the desire to grow and change and conquer, and with the desire to just give up. But I can't, because I've come too far.
It doesn't feel like I've come very far. I feel fat. I feel ugly. I feel like I just had a baby and am not sleeping and want to eat the world. I feel like a failure, not a success, even though I've just succeeded. I'm over the elation of being smaller than I have been, and just in the trenches of still being bigger than anybody wants to be.
Jesus, I need Your help. I cannot walk near to You unless You hold me close. And I cannot walk in self-control unless You grow it in me. I am only a failure unless You shine and live in and through me. Please draw me near. Help me each day to turn to You, to stay close to You, to hear these words of Yours and obey. Thank You for loving me no matter what. Thank You for not rejecting me or accepting me based on my performance. Thank You for seeing me as Your bride, for calling me beautiful, for seeing the end from the beginning.
Saturday, September 01, 2012
What's it like?
What's it like, homeschooling 8 kids with 5 preschoolers?
Like being drug through a knot hole backwards.
Like having your gums scraped.
(those are both quotes from my dad)
Like being a Chinese acrobat, trying to keep all the plates spinning.
Like that kid in the fairy tale, trying to plug the holes in the dike.
It's hard.
Shazaam!
We haven't really started yet, not full force. We added one subject each day this week, except on Friday, we just did Thursday again. So after a week of barely half days, I can confidently say, we are in deep doo-doo. My older boys are going through puberty in equal and opposite ways. One is an early developer physically. Means he is, for the moment only, bigger and stronger than everybody else. He is also, incidentally, angrier and more frustrated. Goes with the testosterone. The other is extremely verbal. He thinks and talks a lot. And he's cocky. Actually, they're both pretty cocky. I have them doing Apologia Biology together. And the younger is going to drive the older to the brink of insanity. And then the older will pull a Cain and Abel, most likely. Because the younger is getting back at the older for being bigger and stronger by being quicker and more perceptive in academics. It's working.
Oldest son is also taking Algebra 2. Teaching Textbooks has a different order of things than most maths, doing Algebra 1 then 2, then Geometry. The reason most maths put Geometry in the middle is in case the student absolutely despises Algebra, he gets to take a little Geometry break, or vice versa. Oldest son is experiencing no such reprieve. Much growling and gnashing of teeth.
And then we have some outside-the-home classes beginning next week. Very challenging, lots of reading, lots of writing. First born daughter will do fine, she is more than ready. Second son, the chatty thinky one, will do grand. But #1 son is pretty sure he's going to die. And he might. Or I might. He has had some good years lately, but we're ratcheting up the pressure, asking him to really learn, not just get done. It's not going to be pretty.
And that's just one child.
Every year every thing is harder, bigger, more challenging. Add a child, add a subject, add an expectation. I have never had 5 preschoolers before. And I've never had 8 in school before. It's kind of a lot. I am not really smarter, stronger, wiser, or more efficient than I was last year. I am not a better teacher. There are not more hours in the day than there used to be. I'm still just me. And just me is feeling a little overwhelmed, a little underqualified.
And that is just looking at the day to day. That is not looking ahead at things like college/jobs/marriage/stuff like that. I'm just trying to get to bedtime without a nervous breakdown.
But more than that nervousness, I have another kind of nervousness eating at me. I am nervous about what my kids see in me. Do they see a mom who is abiding in the Lord? Delighting in the Law, meditating day and night? Do they see me seeking the Kingdom first? Are we showing them a marriage they will want to emulate someday? Do they see Jesus in us?
Or do they see a compromising, time-wasting, food-aholic? Do they see the very image of overweight self centered mediocrity?
I know the end of the story: I come up from the wilderness leaning on my Beloved.
I am hungry for the Word. I want to know it deeply and well. I want to hide it in my heart. I want to understand the descriptions of Jesus in the Song of Solomon. I want to read Revelation and not be afraid for the future. I want to know the gospels so well that I can say I know the One they are about. I want to get past Paul's annoying grammar enough to grasp the grace of Romans.
I want to be His. Belonging to the Lord - that's my banner. If my children could look at me and see something of that journey, the one that ends with me "leaning on my Beloved". Even if it takes me longer than a lifetime to reach it, if they see me drawing nearer, not for their sake, but for His, for mine, then I will have lived well.
What's it like to try to homeschool 8 children and simultaneously love and nurture 5 preschoolers? Like butter scraped over too much bread. Like trying to make 5 loaves and 2 fishes feed 5,000 plus women and children. Like coming up from the wilderness leaning on my Beloved.
Like being drug through a knot hole backwards.
Like having your gums scraped.
(those are both quotes from my dad)
Like being a Chinese acrobat, trying to keep all the plates spinning.
Like that kid in the fairy tale, trying to plug the holes in the dike.
It's hard.
Shazaam!
We haven't really started yet, not full force. We added one subject each day this week, except on Friday, we just did Thursday again. So after a week of barely half days, I can confidently say, we are in deep doo-doo. My older boys are going through puberty in equal and opposite ways. One is an early developer physically. Means he is, for the moment only, bigger and stronger than everybody else. He is also, incidentally, angrier and more frustrated. Goes with the testosterone. The other is extremely verbal. He thinks and talks a lot. And he's cocky. Actually, they're both pretty cocky. I have them doing Apologia Biology together. And the younger is going to drive the older to the brink of insanity. And then the older will pull a Cain and Abel, most likely. Because the younger is getting back at the older for being bigger and stronger by being quicker and more perceptive in academics. It's working.
Oldest son is also taking Algebra 2. Teaching Textbooks has a different order of things than most maths, doing Algebra 1 then 2, then Geometry. The reason most maths put Geometry in the middle is in case the student absolutely despises Algebra, he gets to take a little Geometry break, or vice versa. Oldest son is experiencing no such reprieve. Much growling and gnashing of teeth.
And then we have some outside-the-home classes beginning next week. Very challenging, lots of reading, lots of writing. First born daughter will do fine, she is more than ready. Second son, the chatty thinky one, will do grand. But #1 son is pretty sure he's going to die. And he might. Or I might. He has had some good years lately, but we're ratcheting up the pressure, asking him to really learn, not just get done. It's not going to be pretty.
And that's just one child.
Every year every thing is harder, bigger, more challenging. Add a child, add a subject, add an expectation. I have never had 5 preschoolers before. And I've never had 8 in school before. It's kind of a lot. I am not really smarter, stronger, wiser, or more efficient than I was last year. I am not a better teacher. There are not more hours in the day than there used to be. I'm still just me. And just me is feeling a little overwhelmed, a little underqualified.
And that is just looking at the day to day. That is not looking ahead at things like college/jobs/marriage/stuff like that. I'm just trying to get to bedtime without a nervous breakdown.
But more than that nervousness, I have another kind of nervousness eating at me. I am nervous about what my kids see in me. Do they see a mom who is abiding in the Lord? Delighting in the Law, meditating day and night? Do they see me seeking the Kingdom first? Are we showing them a marriage they will want to emulate someday? Do they see Jesus in us?
Or do they see a compromising, time-wasting, food-aholic? Do they see the very image of overweight self centered mediocrity?
I know the end of the story: I come up from the wilderness leaning on my Beloved.
I am hungry for the Word. I want to know it deeply and well. I want to hide it in my heart. I want to understand the descriptions of Jesus in the Song of Solomon. I want to read Revelation and not be afraid for the future. I want to know the gospels so well that I can say I know the One they are about. I want to get past Paul's annoying grammar enough to grasp the grace of Romans.
I want to be His. Belonging to the Lord - that's my banner. If my children could look at me and see something of that journey, the one that ends with me "leaning on my Beloved". Even if it takes me longer than a lifetime to reach it, if they see me drawing nearer, not for their sake, but for His, for mine, then I will have lived well.
What's it like to try to homeschool 8 children and simultaneously love and nurture 5 preschoolers? Like butter scraped over too much bread. Like trying to make 5 loaves and 2 fishes feed 5,000 plus women and children. Like coming up from the wilderness leaning on my Beloved.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Success, er, maybe
My most healthy pregnancy. I weighed within 5 lbs when I delivered of what I weighed when I got pregnant. I achieved my goals of getting to have a spontaneous, epidural free, pitocin free delivery. It was marvelous.
As a result, I now weigh the least I've weighed in at least 15 years. I put on a pair of shorts today that were my "goal" shorts 2 years ago. A week after having a baby, I could button them. (I didn't look good, but I got them on easily)
Now I'm in that difficult phase of what is next. I am still in the continuous straddle between being a healthy eater and a binge ridden fool. I still am sometimes full of self control and am sometimes full of weakness, eating whatever I can get my hands on. Sometimes forsaking the things I'm not eating are my license to eat too much of what I am. Not having any chocolate chip cake? I'll have 4 pieces of Ezekiel bread with plenty of butter. Not having coffee? How about a large glass of whole milk?
You can get fat that way. Trust me, I know.
I waver between trusting my Maker to supply all my needs and the snarky desire to meet my emotional needs myself, my way. And that is hard to stop, once I start.
And it seems that when my eating is out of control, so is my mouth, in other ways. I am less kind with my words and my tone. I flap too much and pray too little.
And then being under 200 lbs doesn't really mean anything. I have to have discipline today. I have to walk in submission now. There is no coasting in the spirit. If my face and heart are turned toward Him, I have peace and rest. If they are not, I need to repent.
I repent. Change my heart God. Turn my spirit, fix my gaze on Your beauty. Draw me after You. Fill me with You until I want nothing else. Only You satisfy.
As a result, I now weigh the least I've weighed in at least 15 years. I put on a pair of shorts today that were my "goal" shorts 2 years ago. A week after having a baby, I could button them. (I didn't look good, but I got them on easily)
Now I'm in that difficult phase of what is next. I am still in the continuous straddle between being a healthy eater and a binge ridden fool. I still am sometimes full of self control and am sometimes full of weakness, eating whatever I can get my hands on. Sometimes forsaking the things I'm not eating are my license to eat too much of what I am. Not having any chocolate chip cake? I'll have 4 pieces of Ezekiel bread with plenty of butter. Not having coffee? How about a large glass of whole milk?
You can get fat that way. Trust me, I know.
I waver between trusting my Maker to supply all my needs and the snarky desire to meet my emotional needs myself, my way. And that is hard to stop, once I start.
And it seems that when my eating is out of control, so is my mouth, in other ways. I am less kind with my words and my tone. I flap too much and pray too little.
And then being under 200 lbs doesn't really mean anything. I have to have discipline today. I have to walk in submission now. There is no coasting in the spirit. If my face and heart are turned toward Him, I have peace and rest. If they are not, I need to repent.
I repent. Change my heart God. Turn my spirit, fix my gaze on Your beauty. Draw me after You. Fill me with You until I want nothing else. Only You satisfy.
Friday, August 17, 2012
My 13th birth story
Sunday evening, three days prior to my lmp due date, I was having contractions. Not at all regular or frequent. Not strong either. Strong enough to get my attention, but not strong enough to make me think a baby was on the way. I thought, this stupid red raspberry leaf tea stuff is for the birds. It makes false (pre) labor hurt. That is what I thought Sunday night.
I went out to dinner with my brother, my sister, my husband, and my parents. Cheesecake Factory (you know, the place people go to try to go into labor) (not). I got full and ate half my food. Had low carb cheesecake. Yum. Ate all my cheesecake.
I had contractions through dinner, maybe 6. Didn't clock them, but they got my attention.
On a notebook by my bed, I have a list of times that contractions started. 10:32, 10:47, 10:55. Went to sleep. Either they went away or weren't enough to wake me. Before I went to sleep I wrote the following in a journal entry, "I think I will not be pregnant for more than 17 more days."
And when I woke up sixty eleven times through the night (standard operating procedure for 9ish months pregnant) with contractions and the thorough emptying of my bowels and other possible clues, I thought, hmmn, maybe this will happen sooner than I think. But still, I mostly thought it would be a while.
So between 4 and 6a.m. I began to think, and say to my half asleep husband, if we are at the beginning of early labor, it would be good to confirm that the baby is pointing the right direction still. I couldn't tell. I was pretty sure the head was down, but wanted to confirm it. I also wanted to make sure the placenta was doing ok, because my only other experience with going into labor early was because of some early separation.
At 6 I called my doc and he agreed with my thoughts about making sure. My contractions were, I thought, about 15 minutes apart (I was only counting the REAL ones). So my husband finished a couple things, we told my family (who God had provided to be with my children during this time, He's so good to me) that we would be back in a couple hours, and we went to the hospital with this prepared statement: I know I'm probably just in very early labor, but we had a breech position before and wanted to make sure the baby is still right, and I wanted to make sure the placenta is ok.
I was 6-7 centimeters dilated.
Unbelievable. Sitting there a few minutes in the women's evaluation unit (the W.E.U., affectionately pronounced Wee-U) we learned a couple other interesting things. One, my contractions were really more like 4 minutes apart (and stayed like that through delivery) and two, my blood pressure was through the roof (and stayed like that through delivery). I was not going anywhere.
(Baby was still head down, and my labor did not indicate issues with the placenta, by the way.)
So that was around 7:30 in the morning. My water was broken maybe around 9, 9:30? and he was born at 10:11 a.m.
So, I owe a profound apology to red raspberry leaf tea. I think it probably does actually tone the uterus and make contractions more effective. I also think the couple week's worth of evening primrose oil I took helped soften the cervix (and maybe helped my rosacea, which is why I told myself I was taking it). I'm sure it helps that I gained 6 or so lbs instead of 30 some. And mostly, I feel the favor of the Lord who has blessed me again and again and again.
Little guy is healthy, no blood sugar or temperature issues, no jaundice, nursing well, and looks as different as can be from previous baby boy (who had fair skin, spikey blond hair and blue eyes, this one has lots of dark hair, a darker complexion, and will likely have brown eyes). We are in a state of stunned happiness here. I am 4 days postpartem, wearing my skinny pants, and feeling pretty great. The fam is helping grandly, and I have had minimal hormonal blowups (like when I found a full laundry basket of damp stinky clothes). I am enjoying the ability to go fall asleep when the need strikes me, which is less and less. I've taken less drugs for this post partem time, pooped sooner, and feel my humanity returning to me.
Thank You Jesus for a seventh son, for a healthy nursing and pooping and peeing baby boy, for elder children helping with diaper changing and food prep, for baby amazingly born with out of state family in town to welcome him, and for other gifts so wonderful besides. How delightful is Your favor Lord. Help me remember on hard days how wonderful Your love is, and how worthy You are of all my confidence.
I went out to dinner with my brother, my sister, my husband, and my parents. Cheesecake Factory (you know, the place people go to try to go into labor) (not). I got full and ate half my food. Had low carb cheesecake. Yum. Ate all my cheesecake.
I had contractions through dinner, maybe 6. Didn't clock them, but they got my attention.
On a notebook by my bed, I have a list of times that contractions started. 10:32, 10:47, 10:55. Went to sleep. Either they went away or weren't enough to wake me. Before I went to sleep I wrote the following in a journal entry, "I think I will not be pregnant for more than 17 more days."
And when I woke up sixty eleven times through the night (standard operating procedure for 9ish months pregnant) with contractions and the thorough emptying of my bowels and other possible clues, I thought, hmmn, maybe this will happen sooner than I think. But still, I mostly thought it would be a while.
So between 4 and 6a.m. I began to think, and say to my half asleep husband, if we are at the beginning of early labor, it would be good to confirm that the baby is pointing the right direction still. I couldn't tell. I was pretty sure the head was down, but wanted to confirm it. I also wanted to make sure the placenta was doing ok, because my only other experience with going into labor early was because of some early separation.
At 6 I called my doc and he agreed with my thoughts about making sure. My contractions were, I thought, about 15 minutes apart (I was only counting the REAL ones). So my husband finished a couple things, we told my family (who God had provided to be with my children during this time, He's so good to me) that we would be back in a couple hours, and we went to the hospital with this prepared statement: I know I'm probably just in very early labor, but we had a breech position before and wanted to make sure the baby is still right, and I wanted to make sure the placenta is ok.
I was 6-7 centimeters dilated.
Unbelievable. Sitting there a few minutes in the women's evaluation unit (the W.E.U., affectionately pronounced Wee-U) we learned a couple other interesting things. One, my contractions were really more like 4 minutes apart (and stayed like that through delivery) and two, my blood pressure was through the roof (and stayed like that through delivery). I was not going anywhere.
(Baby was still head down, and my labor did not indicate issues with the placenta, by the way.)
So that was around 7:30 in the morning. My water was broken maybe around 9, 9:30? and he was born at 10:11 a.m.
So, I owe a profound apology to red raspberry leaf tea. I think it probably does actually tone the uterus and make contractions more effective. I also think the couple week's worth of evening primrose oil I took helped soften the cervix (and maybe helped my rosacea, which is why I told myself I was taking it). I'm sure it helps that I gained 6 or so lbs instead of 30 some. And mostly, I feel the favor of the Lord who has blessed me again and again and again.
Little guy is healthy, no blood sugar or temperature issues, no jaundice, nursing well, and looks as different as can be from previous baby boy (who had fair skin, spikey blond hair and blue eyes, this one has lots of dark hair, a darker complexion, and will likely have brown eyes). We are in a state of stunned happiness here. I am 4 days postpartem, wearing my skinny pants, and feeling pretty great. The fam is helping grandly, and I have had minimal hormonal blowups (like when I found a full laundry basket of damp stinky clothes). I am enjoying the ability to go fall asleep when the need strikes me, which is less and less. I've taken less drugs for this post partem time, pooped sooner, and feel my humanity returning to me.
Thank You Jesus for a seventh son, for a healthy nursing and pooping and peeing baby boy, for elder children helping with diaper changing and food prep, for baby amazingly born with out of state family in town to welcome him, and for other gifts so wonderful besides. How delightful is Your favor Lord. Help me remember on hard days how wonderful Your love is, and how worthy You are of all my confidence.
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
The Unknown
The baby's head is down. Or was, yesterday at around 12:45. This was, I thought, somewhat miraculous, since early that morning I'm pretty sure there were all the wrong parts busy in all the wrong places. I now recognize (or at least I believe I do) what head down feels like, or at least what butt up feels like. And I don't know for sure that the baby is committed to staying there, but I am hopeful, since the child at least found it once, and not because I helped. I didn't really.
I tried. I went swimming and was upside down as much as I could be without passing out (didn't have a scuba tank on hand). I did pelvic elevations and inversions and mostly got a headache and felt like I was strangling. And we prayed. I didn't put bags of frozen peas on top of my stomach or burn incense between my toes. I didn't play classical music or shine a flash light on the bottom of my abdomen. We didn't really talk to the baby either because, well, frankly, I have children on the outside of me who speak English that don't necessarily do what I tell them to do. But we did pray. And that is what I think made the difference.
And we will continue to pray. In fact, we will pray often, without ceasing, so to speak. Because that is really what we can do.
I've been struggling with the UNKNOWN.
As a rule, I do not handle suspense well. I don't enjoy movies or television if I don't know what is going to happen at the end (I look up spoilers on my smart phone). My favorite movie to watch is one I just saw. Then I can enjoy the details. The first time for me is torture. I don't even really deal well with stupid kid tv. I like re-runs because I know the characters all survive.
So real life is sometimes overwhelming. To make it worse, I try to figure it out. By the calendar, my due date should have been August 15th. By my first ultrasound, the baby is due 8/22. By the second one, 8/17. My doctor, for my sake, went with the latest date so that we can wait as long as possible for me to go into labor spontaneously, which is what I truly want.
My blood pressure started to go up about a week and a half ago, but I started the medicine for that, so it's under control now, which should, in turn, keep the complications that go with high blood pressure at bay - placental abruption and liver enzyme problems. So far, so good.
But at 31 and 35 weeks baby is frank breech. "Come back in 2 weeks, if the baby is still breech, we'll do an external cephalic version." Week 37 baby is transverse. "This is much better, let's wait another week and see if baby figures it out." Week 38 (which might be week 39) baby is head down.
The All Wise, All Knowing, All Seeing Internet says the e.c.v. is most effective at 37 weeks and gets less effective each week. It also says once the baby is head down it will probably stay there, to the tune of 96%. But IT doesn't mean me. It doesn't mean when it's your 12th baby. It doesn't know that I could take my uterus out and use it as a tent, it's so stretched out.
And my doctor doesn't know for sure either. We went from "normally we would do a version this week and an induction next week" to "if you come into the hospital in labor we can try to turn the baby then". He isn't being unkind. He just doesn't know.
I don't know. I don't know anything. I make these weird chart/calendar things with all the possible dates I could have the baby, the 10th if the first version goes wrong, the 17th if an induction is necessary, as early as the 12th if I am really due the 15th, as late as the 30th if I am really due the 22nd.
Will baby stay head down? Would it be better to induce sometime when we know the head is down? Or better to wait for labor to happen on its own and hope the head happens to be down when that day comes? If the baby flips again and I'm sure of it, do I call and ask for a version at that point?
You see what I mean. Unknown.
It isn't a lack of control. It is the temptation to try to take control. I can take control. If the baby flips again I could call and say, please flip this kid and induce me. I'm well within range of that being acceptable. It would probably go fairly well and be as good as most of my labors. I know how to do a week early induction. Been there, done that.
But I have these desires for this pregnancy and labor and delivery. And so much of it has happened. My best pregnancy ever. My rings are still loose. I've NEVER worn my rings at the end of my pregnancy. I don't have carpal tunnel syndrome. Normally I have to wear my shoes or my feet hurt. I have been happily barefoot and pregnant most of the last 8 months. I can still wear my shoes too. The heartburn hasn't been bad. I feel great. I look pretty good, for me. I've gained something like 5 lbs, start to finish.
And a big part of my motivation for staying very near my starting weight is having the opportunity to go into labor on my own and have labor and delivery like normal people, just having contractions because my baby is ready to be born, no bed rest, no bleeding, no pitocin.
And no control. No induction means no control. It means suspense. It means I have a range of at least 10 days during which I could go into labor. And I don't know when it will be. Probably August. I don't think I will still be pregnant in September. But I guess even that is possible.
When it's all said and done (and me, being me, will have said it several more times prior to it being done), I'm leaning. I am staying near to the One who knows. I'm nearsighted and hard of hearing (figuratively)(okay, I really am nearsighted) and I have no choice but to stay very near to the One who sees and knows. The only peace to be found is leaning on my Beloved. I cannot know, I choose not to take control, all I can do is lean.
I tried. I went swimming and was upside down as much as I could be without passing out (didn't have a scuba tank on hand). I did pelvic elevations and inversions and mostly got a headache and felt like I was strangling. And we prayed. I didn't put bags of frozen peas on top of my stomach or burn incense between my toes. I didn't play classical music or shine a flash light on the bottom of my abdomen. We didn't really talk to the baby either because, well, frankly, I have children on the outside of me who speak English that don't necessarily do what I tell them to do. But we did pray. And that is what I think made the difference.
And we will continue to pray. In fact, we will pray often, without ceasing, so to speak. Because that is really what we can do.
I've been struggling with the UNKNOWN.
As a rule, I do not handle suspense well. I don't enjoy movies or television if I don't know what is going to happen at the end (I look up spoilers on my smart phone). My favorite movie to watch is one I just saw. Then I can enjoy the details. The first time for me is torture. I don't even really deal well with stupid kid tv. I like re-runs because I know the characters all survive.
So real life is sometimes overwhelming. To make it worse, I try to figure it out. By the calendar, my due date should have been August 15th. By my first ultrasound, the baby is due 8/22. By the second one, 8/17. My doctor, for my sake, went with the latest date so that we can wait as long as possible for me to go into labor spontaneously, which is what I truly want.
My blood pressure started to go up about a week and a half ago, but I started the medicine for that, so it's under control now, which should, in turn, keep the complications that go with high blood pressure at bay - placental abruption and liver enzyme problems. So far, so good.
But at 31 and 35 weeks baby is frank breech. "Come back in 2 weeks, if the baby is still breech, we'll do an external cephalic version." Week 37 baby is transverse. "This is much better, let's wait another week and see if baby figures it out." Week 38 (which might be week 39) baby is head down.
The All Wise, All Knowing, All Seeing Internet says the e.c.v. is most effective at 37 weeks and gets less effective each week. It also says once the baby is head down it will probably stay there, to the tune of 96%. But IT doesn't mean me. It doesn't mean when it's your 12th baby. It doesn't know that I could take my uterus out and use it as a tent, it's so stretched out.
And my doctor doesn't know for sure either. We went from "normally we would do a version this week and an induction next week" to "if you come into the hospital in labor we can try to turn the baby then". He isn't being unkind. He just doesn't know.
I don't know. I don't know anything. I make these weird chart/calendar things with all the possible dates I could have the baby, the 10th if the first version goes wrong, the 17th if an induction is necessary, as early as the 12th if I am really due the 15th, as late as the 30th if I am really due the 22nd.
Will baby stay head down? Would it be better to induce sometime when we know the head is down? Or better to wait for labor to happen on its own and hope the head happens to be down when that day comes? If the baby flips again and I'm sure of it, do I call and ask for a version at that point?
You see what I mean. Unknown.
It isn't a lack of control. It is the temptation to try to take control. I can take control. If the baby flips again I could call and say, please flip this kid and induce me. I'm well within range of that being acceptable. It would probably go fairly well and be as good as most of my labors. I know how to do a week early induction. Been there, done that.
But I have these desires for this pregnancy and labor and delivery. And so much of it has happened. My best pregnancy ever. My rings are still loose. I've NEVER worn my rings at the end of my pregnancy. I don't have carpal tunnel syndrome. Normally I have to wear my shoes or my feet hurt. I have been happily barefoot and pregnant most of the last 8 months. I can still wear my shoes too. The heartburn hasn't been bad. I feel great. I look pretty good, for me. I've gained something like 5 lbs, start to finish.
And a big part of my motivation for staying very near my starting weight is having the opportunity to go into labor on my own and have labor and delivery like normal people, just having contractions because my baby is ready to be born, no bed rest, no bleeding, no pitocin.
And no control. No induction means no control. It means suspense. It means I have a range of at least 10 days during which I could go into labor. And I don't know when it will be. Probably August. I don't think I will still be pregnant in September. But I guess even that is possible.
When it's all said and done (and me, being me, will have said it several more times prior to it being done), I'm leaning. I am staying near to the One who knows. I'm nearsighted and hard of hearing (figuratively)(okay, I really am nearsighted) and I have no choice but to stay very near to the One who sees and knows. The only peace to be found is leaning on my Beloved. I cannot know, I choose not to take control, all I can do is lean.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Survival mode
It's what we do when we are in a crisis. It's what we do when we are overwhelmed and can't do everything that really needs done so we just do what we have to do. It's the way I've lived most of my parenting life.
My first born was 9 months old when I found out I was pregnant with my second. That was the beginning. Closely spaced siblings are challenging. Being pregnant with a baby when you have a baby is hard. So it began.
When child number 2 was roughly 8 months old, we found out number 3 was on the way. As I've said before, I was pretty sure life was over at that point and that I would never leave the house again. But he came, and it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Partly because survival mode had become a way of life by then.
15 months and 3 weeks later child number 4 arrived. 15 months and 3 weeks after that, number 5. 16 months and 3 weeks later, number 6. You get the picture. A friend told me once that it took his wife about a year to really get back to herself after having a baby. Only 2 of my children have had a first birthday before a new sibling was on the way. I haven't been normal in 17 years.
So there are ways of doing things that are not good ways and certainly not ideal ways but that we have come to see as normal over the years, to the point that now, when I see someone doing it "right", I'm surprised by it, and have to think for a minute to realize, no, that's just good parenting.
For example, I went with some girl friends to a Chinese buffet yesterday with a few of our children. Our older kids were all at camp together, so I had 4 small people with me, while one friend was kidless, and two friends had a single child with them. They both gave their children a normal balanced meal, complete with fruits and vegetables. I was struck by this. I fed my children food I knew they would eat, get full, and be content. Their plates were full of chicken nuggets, fries, and pizza. My goal was full and quiet. Healthy and well balanced never entered my mind!
Other mothers play with, engage, read to their preschoolers regularly. I do those things from time to time, but not because I really intend to. It's more of a reaction, because they ask, or because they need my involvement. Having been pregnant or postpartem for all of their lives, I have it in my head as acceptable to just lay around and do as little as possible.
Our education is basic. Although I have a degree in music education, my children know very little about music and have not been properly trained to read it or play it, for the most part. I mean to. But I don't. It takes all I have in me to get through the day, to get everyone through school, some basic chores, fed, and in bed at the end of the day. Everything else is fluff, extra, not necessary.
Now you might say, well, you use cloth diapers, don't you? That is not a survival mode necessity. Yes, and no. I use them when I can and take a break when I get overwhelmed. And they are somewhat of a financial necessity. It costs a lot of money to keep 2-3 butts in disposables. I've had at least one in diapers for 16+ years, usually 2, and frequently 3.
But it is also true that even in survival mode, there are choices and options and priorities. For example, I blog because it helps my sanity, maintains the slender thread of mental consciousness that I remember having. I don't have to. But I do. And there are other things I do well because they are that important. And there are things I don't do well, using my crazy life as an excuse, but if I really wanted to do well, I guess I'd find a way.
In my defense, I think I do a lot of things that are important, but invisible. Conversations had with children, hugs and kisses, character training. But I could do so much better in all those types of things also.
It is always a little overwhelming when I'm a few weeks from having a new human, to do a little assessing and see the weak points and know that, to whatever degree I think I stink right now, it's only going to get worse. At least for a while.
But I also look at my older kids and think that God is, through me and/or in spite of me, doing some pretty great things in them. Under close speculation, I'm not very impressive, and maybe they're not either, but impressive is not our goal.
I suppose that's what it comes down to. What is our goal? Our goal is that they know Jesus. Our parenting looks like this, "Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness and all these things will be added unto you (hallelujah)." That seems to be true. We're still at the very beginning of our parenting experience. We are a long way from finishing anything, from having any good advice to give. If we are purposing to focus on one thing, we're not doing a great job at that one thing either. Do they see us reading our Bibles? Sometimes. Do they see consistency? Not so much. But, forgetting what is behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, we press on. And we hope that God, Who is faithful, will fill in the many, many gaps of weakness laden parenting, into a firm foundation of children who have seen the faithfulness of, if not their parents, at least their parents' God.
That's all we got, folks.
My first born was 9 months old when I found out I was pregnant with my second. That was the beginning. Closely spaced siblings are challenging. Being pregnant with a baby when you have a baby is hard. So it began.
When child number 2 was roughly 8 months old, we found out number 3 was on the way. As I've said before, I was pretty sure life was over at that point and that I would never leave the house again. But he came, and it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Partly because survival mode had become a way of life by then.
15 months and 3 weeks later child number 4 arrived. 15 months and 3 weeks after that, number 5. 16 months and 3 weeks later, number 6. You get the picture. A friend told me once that it took his wife about a year to really get back to herself after having a baby. Only 2 of my children have had a first birthday before a new sibling was on the way. I haven't been normal in 17 years.
So there are ways of doing things that are not good ways and certainly not ideal ways but that we have come to see as normal over the years, to the point that now, when I see someone doing it "right", I'm surprised by it, and have to think for a minute to realize, no, that's just good parenting.
For example, I went with some girl friends to a Chinese buffet yesterday with a few of our children. Our older kids were all at camp together, so I had 4 small people with me, while one friend was kidless, and two friends had a single child with them. They both gave their children a normal balanced meal, complete with fruits and vegetables. I was struck by this. I fed my children food I knew they would eat, get full, and be content. Their plates were full of chicken nuggets, fries, and pizza. My goal was full and quiet. Healthy and well balanced never entered my mind!
Other mothers play with, engage, read to their preschoolers regularly. I do those things from time to time, but not because I really intend to. It's more of a reaction, because they ask, or because they need my involvement. Having been pregnant or postpartem for all of their lives, I have it in my head as acceptable to just lay around and do as little as possible.
Our education is basic. Although I have a degree in music education, my children know very little about music and have not been properly trained to read it or play it, for the most part. I mean to. But I don't. It takes all I have in me to get through the day, to get everyone through school, some basic chores, fed, and in bed at the end of the day. Everything else is fluff, extra, not necessary.
Now you might say, well, you use cloth diapers, don't you? That is not a survival mode necessity. Yes, and no. I use them when I can and take a break when I get overwhelmed. And they are somewhat of a financial necessity. It costs a lot of money to keep 2-3 butts in disposables. I've had at least one in diapers for 16+ years, usually 2, and frequently 3.
But it is also true that even in survival mode, there are choices and options and priorities. For example, I blog because it helps my sanity, maintains the slender thread of mental consciousness that I remember having. I don't have to. But I do. And there are other things I do well because they are that important. And there are things I don't do well, using my crazy life as an excuse, but if I really wanted to do well, I guess I'd find a way.
In my defense, I think I do a lot of things that are important, but invisible. Conversations had with children, hugs and kisses, character training. But I could do so much better in all those types of things also.
It is always a little overwhelming when I'm a few weeks from having a new human, to do a little assessing and see the weak points and know that, to whatever degree I think I stink right now, it's only going to get worse. At least for a while.
But I also look at my older kids and think that God is, through me and/or in spite of me, doing some pretty great things in them. Under close speculation, I'm not very impressive, and maybe they're not either, but impressive is not our goal.
I suppose that's what it comes down to. What is our goal? Our goal is that they know Jesus. Our parenting looks like this, "Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness and all these things will be added unto you (hallelujah)." That seems to be true. We're still at the very beginning of our parenting experience. We are a long way from finishing anything, from having any good advice to give. If we are purposing to focus on one thing, we're not doing a great job at that one thing either. Do they see us reading our Bibles? Sometimes. Do they see consistency? Not so much. But, forgetting what is behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, we press on. And we hope that God, Who is faithful, will fill in the many, many gaps of weakness laden parenting, into a firm foundation of children who have seen the faithfulness of, if not their parents, at least their parents' God.
That's all we got, folks.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Hypothetical thoughts on walking with integrity
I have trained my humans, thus far, to see any romantic interaction that happens outside the context of either marriage or leading up to a desirable marriage as being a bad idea. It might be lawful, but it isn't usually profitable. Ideally, we save our bodies, our minds and our feelings for the person we will give ourselves to in marriage. Certainly, at an age that is too young to get married (which applies to all of my offspring at the time of this writing) no romance is profitable or helpful in our pursuit of a future Godly marriage. I talked about that before, and won't beat you up with it now. I don't know how to link to that blog, and I don't even remember what it was called.
But let's say you, and I, and my children buy into that concept. We are saving our hearts, bodies, and imaginations for an appropriate time and person. Then what? What does that look like? What do we do with that in practical reality?
For example, how do you communicate with a young man or woman that while you are honored by their interest in you, you are not interested in a love connection at your current phase of life. Do you avoid them like the plague? Do you just say, "My mom and dad won't let me date," and leave it at that? Might they read that as, I want to but my parents are in the way? What if they continue to pursue you, since everybody knows true love doesn't let a little thing like parents stop it?
I know that in my romantic history I did not honor some of the guys who expressed some interest in me, telling "white lies", or just being rude. That may have been more effective, but the result was not honoring to the young men or to the Lord.
What would Jesus do? What did Jesus do? We don't know. But I think He walked in integrity. He would not have wronged them in His pursuit of doing what was right.
So I have been thinking about this subject lately, and I can say I'm pretty sure I have none of the answers. It's a tough subject. How do you even know when to say something? And what do you say?
To complicate matters, I also think there are at least two categories to would be suitors. There are the ones that you hope would not be interested in you or even live on the same hemisphere as you ever, and there are the ones that you think, if the time was right, might just be the right kind of guy/girl. And probably some in between, some that make you feel special, but if you're honest, aren't probably what you really want in a mate.
Do you handle all of them the same way? Hopefully, yes, I think. The answer, if they are classy enough to ask a question, needs to be something like, Thank you, but I am saving my heart and myself for the person I will marry someday. If I were old enough to get married, I would tell you to go and talk to my father, but since I'm only xx, the answer is just no.
I think if the other person is not classy enough to ask and just presumes and goes the normal cultural manipulative route, flirting, inserting him/herself into your situations, then probably it is ok to use unspoken avoidances to communicate that you don't reciprocate their intentions. But that is just me thinking in a hypothetical, nonspecific kind of way.
Those would be the other hemisphere people. But what about the ones you like to have around, the friends, the maybe someday people? How do you say, You're a good one, but now is not the right time? I think you can't say that. Because even then, you may be giving false hope. Here's why: You don't know who he or she will be when that time comes. It's like playing the stock market or blackjack. You are betting your emotions and that person's emotions on an assumption that who they look like they are or seem to be now will grow into someone you want to be connected to later. You are planting seeds of hope in them that could grow into something that could eventually mess up a right relationship for you or them because one or both of you has internally given a piece of your heart to them.
No, better to leave it all in Jesus' hands. Thank you, but I have entrusted my future to Jesus and my dad, and until I am old enough to choose a mate, I'm not shopping or trying anything on. I only have one heart and I am going to wait to give it until the appropriate time comes. I'm glad to be your friend.
Walking in integrity means I am treating each suitor the way I want my future mate to be treated by others. I don't want to receive a rejected heartbroken spouse who has been mistreated at other's hands on his/her way to me. I'm treating them the way I want to be treated. It might be messy, embarrassing or awkward. It will not be culturally appropriate, and I will probably look like a fool, but my Savior made Himself of no reputation for my sake. I can be a fool for Him.
But let's say you, and I, and my children buy into that concept. We are saving our hearts, bodies, and imaginations for an appropriate time and person. Then what? What does that look like? What do we do with that in practical reality?
For example, how do you communicate with a young man or woman that while you are honored by their interest in you, you are not interested in a love connection at your current phase of life. Do you avoid them like the plague? Do you just say, "My mom and dad won't let me date," and leave it at that? Might they read that as, I want to but my parents are in the way? What if they continue to pursue you, since everybody knows true love doesn't let a little thing like parents stop it?
I know that in my romantic history I did not honor some of the guys who expressed some interest in me, telling "white lies", or just being rude. That may have been more effective, but the result was not honoring to the young men or to the Lord.
What would Jesus do? What did Jesus do? We don't know. But I think He walked in integrity. He would not have wronged them in His pursuit of doing what was right.
So I have been thinking about this subject lately, and I can say I'm pretty sure I have none of the answers. It's a tough subject. How do you even know when to say something? And what do you say?
To complicate matters, I also think there are at least two categories to would be suitors. There are the ones that you hope would not be interested in you or even live on the same hemisphere as you ever, and there are the ones that you think, if the time was right, might just be the right kind of guy/girl. And probably some in between, some that make you feel special, but if you're honest, aren't probably what you really want in a mate.
Do you handle all of them the same way? Hopefully, yes, I think. The answer, if they are classy enough to ask a question, needs to be something like, Thank you, but I am saving my heart and myself for the person I will marry someday. If I were old enough to get married, I would tell you to go and talk to my father, but since I'm only xx, the answer is just no.
I think if the other person is not classy enough to ask and just presumes and goes the normal cultural manipulative route, flirting, inserting him/herself into your situations, then probably it is ok to use unspoken avoidances to communicate that you don't reciprocate their intentions. But that is just me thinking in a hypothetical, nonspecific kind of way.
Those would be the other hemisphere people. But what about the ones you like to have around, the friends, the maybe someday people? How do you say, You're a good one, but now is not the right time? I think you can't say that. Because even then, you may be giving false hope. Here's why: You don't know who he or she will be when that time comes. It's like playing the stock market or blackjack. You are betting your emotions and that person's emotions on an assumption that who they look like they are or seem to be now will grow into someone you want to be connected to later. You are planting seeds of hope in them that could grow into something that could eventually mess up a right relationship for you or them because one or both of you has internally given a piece of your heart to them.
No, better to leave it all in Jesus' hands. Thank you, but I have entrusted my future to Jesus and my dad, and until I am old enough to choose a mate, I'm not shopping or trying anything on. I only have one heart and I am going to wait to give it until the appropriate time comes. I'm glad to be your friend.
Walking in integrity means I am treating each suitor the way I want my future mate to be treated by others. I don't want to receive a rejected heartbroken spouse who has been mistreated at other's hands on his/her way to me. I'm treating them the way I want to be treated. It might be messy, embarrassing or awkward. It will not be culturally appropriate, and I will probably look like a fool, but my Savior made Himself of no reputation for my sake. I can be a fool for Him.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Nervous
I know I've mentioned this already, but I'm going to whine a bit here. I'm nervous about this school year.
First of all, the number of preschoolers is up. I will have an almost (but not quite) kindergartner who will sort of do some math and handwriting (without tears) and (rocket) phonics, at will, when someone has time and he's in the mood. He's not the problem.
We will also have a new, new, newborn. He, or she, will, if I remember correctly, want to nurse a lot, be changed a lot, be held quite a bit and cry some. That person is also not the problem.
It's the terrorists. The Three, the Almost Two and the One-and-a-Half. The G3. The Three Musketeers, sans muskets.
Example: yesterday after breakfast I headed upstairs to spit in the wind (a.k.a. clean something) and as I walk, I encounter some bumgenius diapers here and there which had been hanging on my drying rack upstairs (the bannister). This is my first indication that all is not well in the Land of Happy Children. As I continue my course, picking up the diapers, I see a bread-crumb like trail of unused, unwrapped, unusable sanitary napkins, the disposable kind. Hmmn, I think, I wonder what else they've gotten into. I go in my room. Dad's coin bucket has been emptied, as has my trash can (which had some used baby wipes, you can imagine what they were used for) and as I get up from a moment of solitude on my porcelain throne, I see that, along with the deposit I made, there is also something that did not come out of me - a flat head screwdriver.
I'm in trouble.
My older boys are starting high school biology (apologia). This is a huge step up from our elementary/middle school group science (God's design series). Lots of reading and responsibility. My oldest three are also beginning a year of going to a separate location for a whole day a week and taking 2 and then 3 challenging courses not taught by me. They will have lots of reading and writing and, I'm afraid, some genuine thinking. They will also have a significant amount of freetime which they will need to use wisely, not to mention, they will be responsible for behaving themselves out of my circle of influence (within earshot of my mad yelling voice). They'll be on their own, pretty much.
Wow.
In spite of the increased work load, extra reading, writing, thinking and dissecting, 5 middle and elementary students, and 5 preschoolers, we are maintaining what we normally do - Awanas, worship training set, soccer. Eldest is adding a different house of prayer set, different time. We are just graduating from doing pretty much everything together to a season of people being in different places doing different things at different times. This means more responsibility for everyone to get all their stuff done, and more responsibility for Mom to encourage said responsibility, since I am responsible for all their responsibility.
Did I mention I'll have a newborn for all this?
And, this just in, there is a possibility of having a C-section recovery on top of it all. That's right, baby number 13 is comfortably breech. The last few ultrasounds have shown our sweetie kicking him (her) self in the face. Hopefully, baby will turn. With help or without. Certainly there is ample room in my well used uterus for the child to drive a small car around. But in the context of nervousness about next year, this is certainly a factor in my forward thinking brain.
I am going back and forth between faith-filled, prayerful, worshipping supermom and pouring over the internet/crystal ball trying to figure out my future and to decide how to proceed in trying to encourage Thirteen to get into the right position. There are some lovely ideas on spinningbabies.com about how to turn said child. My family shrieked with laughter at the sight of me with my elbows on the floor, knees on the couch and butt up in the air. My old ironing board barely holds up my iron, let alone me at a tilt. But I'm trying. Sort of.
And besides, there are other things on my mind. Like how to deal with little children dismantling the humidifier in the baby's room.
First of all, the number of preschoolers is up. I will have an almost (but not quite) kindergartner who will sort of do some math and handwriting (without tears) and (rocket) phonics, at will, when someone has time and he's in the mood. He's not the problem.
We will also have a new, new, newborn. He, or she, will, if I remember correctly, want to nurse a lot, be changed a lot, be held quite a bit and cry some. That person is also not the problem.
It's the terrorists. The Three, the Almost Two and the One-and-a-Half. The G3. The Three Musketeers, sans muskets.
Example: yesterday after breakfast I headed upstairs to spit in the wind (a.k.a. clean something) and as I walk, I encounter some bumgenius diapers here and there which had been hanging on my drying rack upstairs (the bannister). This is my first indication that all is not well in the Land of Happy Children. As I continue my course, picking up the diapers, I see a bread-crumb like trail of unused, unwrapped, unusable sanitary napkins, the disposable kind. Hmmn, I think, I wonder what else they've gotten into. I go in my room. Dad's coin bucket has been emptied, as has my trash can (which had some used baby wipes, you can imagine what they were used for) and as I get up from a moment of solitude on my porcelain throne, I see that, along with the deposit I made, there is also something that did not come out of me - a flat head screwdriver.
I'm in trouble.
My older boys are starting high school biology (apologia). This is a huge step up from our elementary/middle school group science (God's design series). Lots of reading and responsibility. My oldest three are also beginning a year of going to a separate location for a whole day a week and taking 2 and then 3 challenging courses not taught by me. They will have lots of reading and writing and, I'm afraid, some genuine thinking. They will also have a significant amount of freetime which they will need to use wisely, not to mention, they will be responsible for behaving themselves out of my circle of influence (within earshot of my mad yelling voice). They'll be on their own, pretty much.
Wow.
In spite of the increased work load, extra reading, writing, thinking and dissecting, 5 middle and elementary students, and 5 preschoolers, we are maintaining what we normally do - Awanas, worship training set, soccer. Eldest is adding a different house of prayer set, different time. We are just graduating from doing pretty much everything together to a season of people being in different places doing different things at different times. This means more responsibility for everyone to get all their stuff done, and more responsibility for Mom to encourage said responsibility, since I am responsible for all their responsibility.
Did I mention I'll have a newborn for all this?
And, this just in, there is a possibility of having a C-section recovery on top of it all. That's right, baby number 13 is comfortably breech. The last few ultrasounds have shown our sweetie kicking him (her) self in the face. Hopefully, baby will turn. With help or without. Certainly there is ample room in my well used uterus for the child to drive a small car around. But in the context of nervousness about next year, this is certainly a factor in my forward thinking brain.
I am going back and forth between faith-filled, prayerful, worshipping supermom and pouring over the internet/crystal ball trying to figure out my future and to decide how to proceed in trying to encourage Thirteen to get into the right position. There are some lovely ideas on spinningbabies.com about how to turn said child. My family shrieked with laughter at the sight of me with my elbows on the floor, knees on the couch and butt up in the air. My old ironing board barely holds up my iron, let alone me at a tilt. But I'm trying. Sort of.
And besides, there are other things on my mind. Like how to deal with little children dismantling the humidifier in the baby's room.
Friday, July 20, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, July 07, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, July 06, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, June 18, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 05, 2012
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.
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.
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.
Monday, June 04, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, June 03, 2012
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.
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.
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