one hand typing, hence, no caps.
it finally happened.
a man, a good man, a friend, said it out loud.
"well," he said, with an embarrassed sort of little chuckle, "you made your bed, you sleep in it."
you remember the old nursery rhyme, there was an old woman who lived in a shoe, she had so many children she didn't know what to do.
i'm her. i am the old woman who lived in a shoe. but i picked the shoe. i wanted the shoe, and i wanted so many children [in fact, truth be told, i'd really like to have or get several more], so, if i don't know what to do, i can't complain. it's my own fault!
that little recording plays in my head from time to time, comes across in the form of a raised eyebrow, or a less-than-enthusiastic response to a pregnancy announcement. but to hear someone actually say it out loud, oi-vey. bummer.
must i always guard my tongue and facebook status updates? never make it look bad. don't complain. people are watching. people are listening. don't give them another reason to believe children are a burden, not a blessing.
this is a valid point. it is true. it is right. i don't want to be the poster child for why people shouldn't have big families. it is better if my kids don't go out in public looking like they don't have parents. better to have hair combed, clothes matching, fitting, and appropriate to the season [5th son went to church Sunday wearing shorts, sandals and his last year's winter coat, what!?], nails trimmed, ear gunk removed (hand out the baby wipes, folks).
at the same time, my very existence is based on the fact that i live for an audience of One. if i truly cared what people think, i would never have had so many humans. having lots of children is not popular, not politically correct, not socially advancing.
of course, somewhere is wisdom. i suppose the thing the Bible says about fasting, not wearing sack cloth and looking like crap, getting dressed and looking good, and your Father who sees in secret, that whole thing applies somewhat. having thousands of children is kind of a fast. i'm fasting "normal".
but there is also an element of being real, that allows other people to be real. if you have 13 children, you don't have to be as perfect as the Duggars. you don't have to look camera ready. you don't have to always speak with a sweet gentle voice and have toddlers trained to stay on their blankets for an hour quietly while you teach school.
we have a joke at my house. i will frequently, after yelling or saying something horribly inappropriate, remark snidely, "and yes, that is exactly what Mrs. Duggar would say."
because i think some of the people watching are encouraged by how i treat my children even though they don't look perfect. and i think some parents are relieved to hear that i have hard days and feel overwhelmed and am behind on laundry. because if i have it all together with 13, where does that put them, sucking with only 2 or 3?
so, okay, i'll try not to whine too much, and i'll try to look presentable and bathe from time to time and i'll honor my husband by combing their hair and keeping the house more or less clean. ish. but i will not obsess with trying to make our family the model of the beauty of a large family. we're not. the Duggars are. that's why they're on TV.
i'm just me. the little ole amazing supermom, trying to have clean spoons, relatively matching socks, and kids that are kind and obey. sometimes.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Low Point
I have a tendency to only report when I'm doing well. Today I'm not. I carbed out last night. But I've just not been doing very well as a whole. I have this dilemma when nursing about how many calories I actually need. Is the baby getting enough? He was only 40th percentile at his checkup, and before he was 50th. Is it because I'm trying to lose weight? So I eat too much, for Baby's sake. And now I'm gaining again.
But it's not only that. I'm behind on laundry. It's been colder out, so people are wearing more clothing, so there is more to wash. We have to step it up.
My bedroom is a mess again. My clothes are on the floor by my bed where I drop them before going to sleep.
I feel genuinely overwhelmed by the smaller people in my life. The toilet stirrers. It feels as though I cannot get anything done. If they are with me, they are on me, and I have no arms. If they are not with me, they are doing something bad that I'm going to have to clean up. (This just in: the dog threw up on the carpet. Twice. Joy.)
I feel, perhaps mistakenly, that everyone around me is maxxed out, and that I cannot ask more of them, so I try to take it on myself, more laundry, more dishes, more everything. The big girls have a special talent for walking in the kitchen right after I finish supper prep and asking, "Do you need help?"
I haven't been reading my Bible. I found a nifty thing on my Bible reading program called "Catch Me Up". If I am behind, I just hit the catch me up button, and Boom! I am right on track. So I'm "caught up", except that I don't even remember what I'm supposed to be reading.
On the up side, I just had a conversation with my middle girls that is the kind of conversation that motivates me to home school. It is why we do this.
So, here we go. I'm going downstairs, and I will try to chip away at the immense piece of marble that is my life, beginning with cleaning up dog vomit, and try to make something beautiful from it.
But it's not only that. I'm behind on laundry. It's been colder out, so people are wearing more clothing, so there is more to wash. We have to step it up.
My bedroom is a mess again. My clothes are on the floor by my bed where I drop them before going to sleep.
I feel genuinely overwhelmed by the smaller people in my life. The toilet stirrers. It feels as though I cannot get anything done. If they are with me, they are on me, and I have no arms. If they are not with me, they are doing something bad that I'm going to have to clean up. (This just in: the dog threw up on the carpet. Twice. Joy.)
I feel, perhaps mistakenly, that everyone around me is maxxed out, and that I cannot ask more of them, so I try to take it on myself, more laundry, more dishes, more everything. The big girls have a special talent for walking in the kitchen right after I finish supper prep and asking, "Do you need help?"
I haven't been reading my Bible. I found a nifty thing on my Bible reading program called "Catch Me Up". If I am behind, I just hit the catch me up button, and Boom! I am right on track. So I'm "caught up", except that I don't even remember what I'm supposed to be reading.
On the up side, I just had a conversation with my middle girls that is the kind of conversation that motivates me to home school. It is why we do this.
So, here we go. I'm going downstairs, and I will try to chip away at the immense piece of marble that is my life, beginning with cleaning up dog vomit, and try to make something beautiful from it.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Laundry Pure
Disclaimer #1 As I've said before, this site is not monetized. I don't make money here. It is just for fun. So any product endorsements I write are genuine (not that monetized endorsements aren't). I have no skin in the game. In this case, I am telling you about a product my friend is selling. But that shouldn't weaken what I'm saying. For one thing, I already bought mine, in part because I trusted my friend. For another, she actually already likes me, and won't like me more or less because of what I say here.
Disclaimer #2 I am going to talk about gross stuff here. I'll try not to be too explicit, but read at your own risk. Ok?
Recently my friend bought a Laundry Pure system. And after she bought it and used it for a little while and loved it, I bought one from her. It is a box, about the size of a laptop computer (closed), that hangs on the wall above the washing machine. I won't try to tell you how it works, because, frankly, I don't understand it. It's rocket science. The water, cold, goes into the thing when I turn it on, there is a blue light that glows, it makes a whoosh sound like someone just opened up their lightsaber, and somehow, magically, something to do with ions, the clothes are clean. I don't put soap in, I don't put bleach in, nothing.
How do I know they are clean? Well, they did a study and published it on the news in Florida, you can google it. But really, they were just doing baseball playing dirt. We make real dirt. We make dirt that comes out of humans. We use mostly reusable cloth products here, diapers and feminine unmentionables. We also don't all always remember to use deodorant, or it doesn't always work. We make smells and nasty yuck.
So I was very skeptical. Very. But it works. It took me a while to decide, because I had a cold when we first got it, so I couldn't smell. You get a 30 day trial. And I took all 30 days making sure. The thing I was waiting on was stinky washclothes and towels. Our towels did finally get clean - it took a few washings. The washclothes were at the end of their useful life and needed replacing anyway. I cannot convince my people to rinse and hang up kitchen wash clothes. If I am gone for a couple days, I will find 18 of them in the bottom of the sink, wadded up with food in them and making big stink.
But I am convinced about the diapers and armpits and unmentionables and bath towels. They are honestly clean.
I wash my diapers twice on heavy, like I did before. They say if you would normally pre-treat something, you should still do that. Sometimes I run something through twice (like newborn poop stains - which normal soap doesn't get out either) and they do fade.
And the diapers are actually getting better. Bumgenius is the kind of diapers I use. They are all at least 3 years old and have been used on 4 different butts now. My diapers are pocket diapers, meaning there is an outside shell and inserts to stuff it with. My inserts are fluffing up (they normally get flatter with use) and my pockets are getting slicker on the inside (the water proof layer normally starts to get sticky after a while, making them harder to stuff). I suspect they will last longer because I'm using this.
I'm told that towels fluff up too, but mine haven't yet, and that colors brighten up, mine haven't yet. But what my stuff is doing is getting clean without soap or hot water. It doesn't smell. It doesn't smell like poop or pee or stinky pit or other nastiness. It doesn't smell like anything. In fact, if you are a person that likes your clean stuff to smell like something, you'd probably have to add the smell. I think you can do that, but I don't like perfume, so I don't want to, so I don't know how.
If you are interested, you can write a comment, and I won't publish it, but I'll give you my friend's contact info. Or if you have a question for me, you can ask me.
By the way, it is pretty expensive. If you can get a refurbed one, it is less, but still a bit of a jump, and I don't know how often those are available. But it's a buy once, cry once, and then you aren't heating your water or paying for laundry soap - for us, it'll pay for itself in a year or so.
So there it is, my Laundry Pure review.
Disclaimer #2 I am going to talk about gross stuff here. I'll try not to be too explicit, but read at your own risk. Ok?
Recently my friend bought a Laundry Pure system. And after she bought it and used it for a little while and loved it, I bought one from her. It is a box, about the size of a laptop computer (closed), that hangs on the wall above the washing machine. I won't try to tell you how it works, because, frankly, I don't understand it. It's rocket science. The water, cold, goes into the thing when I turn it on, there is a blue light that glows, it makes a whoosh sound like someone just opened up their lightsaber, and somehow, magically, something to do with ions, the clothes are clean. I don't put soap in, I don't put bleach in, nothing.
How do I know they are clean? Well, they did a study and published it on the news in Florida, you can google it. But really, they were just doing baseball playing dirt. We make real dirt. We make dirt that comes out of humans. We use mostly reusable cloth products here, diapers and feminine unmentionables. We also don't all always remember to use deodorant, or it doesn't always work. We make smells and nasty yuck.
So I was very skeptical. Very. But it works. It took me a while to decide, because I had a cold when we first got it, so I couldn't smell. You get a 30 day trial. And I took all 30 days making sure. The thing I was waiting on was stinky washclothes and towels. Our towels did finally get clean - it took a few washings. The washclothes were at the end of their useful life and needed replacing anyway. I cannot convince my people to rinse and hang up kitchen wash clothes. If I am gone for a couple days, I will find 18 of them in the bottom of the sink, wadded up with food in them and making big stink.
But I am convinced about the diapers and armpits and unmentionables and bath towels. They are honestly clean.
I wash my diapers twice on heavy, like I did before. They say if you would normally pre-treat something, you should still do that. Sometimes I run something through twice (like newborn poop stains - which normal soap doesn't get out either) and they do fade.
And the diapers are actually getting better. Bumgenius is the kind of diapers I use. They are all at least 3 years old and have been used on 4 different butts now. My diapers are pocket diapers, meaning there is an outside shell and inserts to stuff it with. My inserts are fluffing up (they normally get flatter with use) and my pockets are getting slicker on the inside (the water proof layer normally starts to get sticky after a while, making them harder to stuff). I suspect they will last longer because I'm using this.
I'm told that towels fluff up too, but mine haven't yet, and that colors brighten up, mine haven't yet. But what my stuff is doing is getting clean without soap or hot water. It doesn't smell. It doesn't smell like poop or pee or stinky pit or other nastiness. It doesn't smell like anything. In fact, if you are a person that likes your clean stuff to smell like something, you'd probably have to add the smell. I think you can do that, but I don't like perfume, so I don't want to, so I don't know how.
If you are interested, you can write a comment, and I won't publish it, but I'll give you my friend's contact info. Or if you have a question for me, you can ask me.
By the way, it is pretty expensive. If you can get a refurbed one, it is less, but still a bit of a jump, and I don't know how often those are available. But it's a buy once, cry once, and then you aren't heating your water or paying for laundry soap - for us, it'll pay for itself in a year or so.
So there it is, my Laundry Pure review.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Adoption Update
Two years, 2 weeks, and 2 days ago, we brought home a gorgeous little 5 pounder with light brown skin and soft black curls. She was 10 days old. My husband had already driven home, not knowing how long the ICPC paperwork would take, so I got on a plane, a fat, white, visibly pregnant woman (or recently delivered??) with a newborn child who was obviously biracial. I received 2 kinds of responses as I walked through the Memphis airport changing planes - the kind of cold, quick glances people give to people they disapprove of, and the appropriately drooly melty coos that people give to a teeny, tiny, just hatched human, so new she still smells like God.
She is two now. Her skin is darker, her hair is still soft but coarser and her curls are much tighter. She is possibly a little more clingy, maybe a little more fearful than most of my other children, but not outside the range of normal, and maybe just because we have been slightly more likely to coddle her through strange situations than our others. She is, by my understanding, very well attached.
She sleeps well, better than some of my others. She jumps, talks, climbs out of her crib (Oh joy!), eats, fights, screams, laughs, and does precisely what 2 year olds are supposed to do.
She is big and strong, and will be tall, says the pediatrician. Maybe as tall as her dad, that is, her adopted dad, my husband. Of course, right now, he is all she knows about. But there will be a day, someday, that she will want to know about the other dad. And we won't have much to say. Her birthmom didn't say much about him.
A wonderful young woman at my church who has a heart for adoption asked me recently if there was anything she could do to help. She wanted to support people who were adopting. I said, "You know, at this point, it's just parenting." There is nothing, today, that makes being her mom very different than being anyone else's mom. Well, she needs lotion more than the others. And her hair, well, that's a blog of its own. But really, she is just another of my kids.
She needs to be. She needs to be treated like all of my kids. Even regarding her hair, it is more important right now that she be treated pretty much like the other girls, having her hair done in a way that requires as little holding-still-time as possible. I don't want her to feel singled out.
But someday I know, someday she will ask questions that the others won't. She will question our role in her life, what she has lost, what she has gained. She will wonder what might have been. But I hope that she will, bathed in our love and the Lord's, find peace with what is.
For now, she is just another of my incredibly marvelous and beautiful daughters. She is stunning. Her laughter is contagious, her smile is miraculous, her heart is delightful. She is twice a big sister, and is a great big sister, comforting and scolding her little brothers, sharing with, clobbering, or suffocating them as the situation demands. She is great.
I love when she calls me mom, or holds my hand, or snuggles a big kid when they read to her. I love her version of everyone's name, when mispronunciations become new nicknames. I love that she is here, with us, a part of us, as if grown in me like the others. I know there may be tough days ahead, but that's okay. Bring 'em on.
I'm not afraid.
She is two now. Her skin is darker, her hair is still soft but coarser and her curls are much tighter. She is possibly a little more clingy, maybe a little more fearful than most of my other children, but not outside the range of normal, and maybe just because we have been slightly more likely to coddle her through strange situations than our others. She is, by my understanding, very well attached.
She sleeps well, better than some of my others. She jumps, talks, climbs out of her crib (Oh joy!), eats, fights, screams, laughs, and does precisely what 2 year olds are supposed to do.
She is big and strong, and will be tall, says the pediatrician. Maybe as tall as her dad, that is, her adopted dad, my husband. Of course, right now, he is all she knows about. But there will be a day, someday, that she will want to know about the other dad. And we won't have much to say. Her birthmom didn't say much about him.
A wonderful young woman at my church who has a heart for adoption asked me recently if there was anything she could do to help. She wanted to support people who were adopting. I said, "You know, at this point, it's just parenting." There is nothing, today, that makes being her mom very different than being anyone else's mom. Well, she needs lotion more than the others. And her hair, well, that's a blog of its own. But really, she is just another of my kids.
She needs to be. She needs to be treated like all of my kids. Even regarding her hair, it is more important right now that she be treated pretty much like the other girls, having her hair done in a way that requires as little holding-still-time as possible. I don't want her to feel singled out.
But someday I know, someday she will ask questions that the others won't. She will question our role in her life, what she has lost, what she has gained. She will wonder what might have been. But I hope that she will, bathed in our love and the Lord's, find peace with what is.
For now, she is just another of my incredibly marvelous and beautiful daughters. She is stunning. Her laughter is contagious, her smile is miraculous, her heart is delightful. She is twice a big sister, and is a great big sister, comforting and scolding her little brothers, sharing with, clobbering, or suffocating them as the situation demands. She is great.
I love when she calls me mom, or holds my hand, or snuggles a big kid when they read to her. I love her version of everyone's name, when mispronunciations become new nicknames. I love that she is here, with us, a part of us, as if grown in me like the others. I know there may be tough days ahead, but that's okay. Bring 'em on.
I'm not afraid.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Technical difficulties
um, yeah, I got the picture up there, but I don't know how to make it smaller. sorry, I'll get somebody to help me.
The End of an Era
It has occurred to me, lately, that the "normal" I've been missing, with my 3 largest humans out and about part of the time, courtesy of the mystery of the driver's license we put so much time and effort into helping the eldest acquire, that normal is never coming back. The normal where we are all here together, or are all somewhere else, together. That normal where I am with them the vast majority of the time, talking to them and listening to them. It's not coming back.
They are all going to grow up. That is the plan. It is even the intention. It means, in some sick fashion, that we are successful, if they all grow up and have lives.
Oh, I could put my foot down. Deny them all opportunities. I could try to keep them here forever. But like a toenail you neglect to trim, there would still be a breaking away, but with a nasty ragged edge. No, better to groom them for it, train them, prepare them. Still, I'm just saying, it's a stupid idea.
Here's why:
#1 I like them. They are among my favorite people.
#2 They are pretty helpful to have around. I can afford to have this many children, in part, because they help each other. Well, the three most helpful people aren't here now! That is not helpful. Which means the smallest humans (the ones playing in the toilet and routinely - as if it were on their chore chart - putting the dog's food into the dog's water and standing on the kitchen table playing king of the mountain with food and dishes) WAY outnumber the mom and the other willing helpful staff.
Now I know what you're going to say here, that I have 10 others, and I just need to train them. But I've spent the last decade training these, and I did a good job and now I have to start all over. Could I have some cheese with this whine please?
#3 If they go away, then the others will get the idea that they too can grow up and pretty soon it'll be an epidemic and even the newborn I'm nursing at this very second will grow up and leave and I'll be left with just me and the SuperDad, who is also a super introvert. I may go crazy.
So we have upped the date nights, in hopes of still liking each other when they abandon us, and to try to help release the deluge of emotion and brain activity caused by the absence of big kid conversation, lest I explode from acute verbal constipation. I should probably blog more, not less, in this season. Don't you agree, Trace?
And now, I am going to attempt to change the picture to include littlest guy. This may create an explosion of a different sort, or may take a few days, but here goes.
They are all going to grow up. That is the plan. It is even the intention. It means, in some sick fashion, that we are successful, if they all grow up and have lives.
Oh, I could put my foot down. Deny them all opportunities. I could try to keep them here forever. But like a toenail you neglect to trim, there would still be a breaking away, but with a nasty ragged edge. No, better to groom them for it, train them, prepare them. Still, I'm just saying, it's a stupid idea.
Here's why:
#1 I like them. They are among my favorite people.
#2 They are pretty helpful to have around. I can afford to have this many children, in part, because they help each other. Well, the three most helpful people aren't here now! That is not helpful. Which means the smallest humans (the ones playing in the toilet and routinely - as if it were on their chore chart - putting the dog's food into the dog's water and standing on the kitchen table playing king of the mountain with food and dishes) WAY outnumber the mom and the other willing helpful staff.
Now I know what you're going to say here, that I have 10 others, and I just need to train them. But I've spent the last decade training these, and I did a good job and now I have to start all over. Could I have some cheese with this whine please?
#3 If they go away, then the others will get the idea that they too can grow up and pretty soon it'll be an epidemic and even the newborn I'm nursing at this very second will grow up and leave and I'll be left with just me and the SuperDad, who is also a super introvert. I may go crazy.
So we have upped the date nights, in hopes of still liking each other when they abandon us, and to try to help release the deluge of emotion and brain activity caused by the absence of big kid conversation, lest I explode from acute verbal constipation. I should probably blog more, not less, in this season. Don't you agree, Trace?
And now, I am going to attempt to change the picture to include littlest guy. This may create an explosion of a different sort, or may take a few days, but here goes.
Friday, October 05, 2012
Not giving up.
We might be settling into a groove.
Maybe.
Baby is sleeping more. He slept till 5:30 this morning. I can live on that much sleep. Not giving up.
It is Friday, and I have laundry to process and shirts to iron and diapers to wash. But it is Friday. That is a good thing. Not giving up.
When everyone is awake, and the big kids are occupied, and the toddlers are on the loose, and I'm nursing, I sometimes feel very overwhelmed. Go-Go-Gadget arms would come in SOOOO handy. But I don't have those. And the moment passes. And we clean up whatever was dumped, comfort whoever was smacked or bitten, salvage whatever was soaked in whatever was left behind. We recover. Not giving up.
I just printed out a couple recipes on line because I actually feel like cooking. Well, more because I feel like eating, but you get the picture. Not giving up.
I have a Bible reading plan. I'm behind, but not beyond what I could catch up on the weekend. Not without hope. Not giving up.
I haven't lost weight lately, but haven't really gained, either. Within range. Not giving up.
In each moment of failure or weakness, I am convinced and can see that Jesus is at work in me. I am becoming a Bride. I am a Bride. Not giving up.
1 Cor. 4:7 But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. 8 We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; 9 persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.
Maybe.
Baby is sleeping more. He slept till 5:30 this morning. I can live on that much sleep. Not giving up.
It is Friday, and I have laundry to process and shirts to iron and diapers to wash. But it is Friday. That is a good thing. Not giving up.
When everyone is awake, and the big kids are occupied, and the toddlers are on the loose, and I'm nursing, I sometimes feel very overwhelmed. Go-Go-Gadget arms would come in SOOOO handy. But I don't have those. And the moment passes. And we clean up whatever was dumped, comfort whoever was smacked or bitten, salvage whatever was soaked in whatever was left behind. We recover. Not giving up.
I just printed out a couple recipes on line because I actually feel like cooking. Well, more because I feel like eating, but you get the picture. Not giving up.
I have a Bible reading plan. I'm behind, but not beyond what I could catch up on the weekend. Not without hope. Not giving up.
I haven't lost weight lately, but haven't really gained, either. Within range. Not giving up.
In each moment of failure or weakness, I am convinced and can see that Jesus is at work in me. I am becoming a Bride. I am a Bride. Not giving up.
1 Cor. 4:7 But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. 8 We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; 9 persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Timeless
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.
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.
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.
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