I seriously never thought I'd have to say this. To anyone. Ever.
"Don't lick your hands!,
Don't lick the window!,
and Do NOT lick me!"
Motherhood changes a person.
I also never imagined having a small human screaming in demand: "WASH MY SHIRT!!!" after she spilled an entire cup of water on herself...after I told her not to get said water. Sorry, kid. Life's tough, and you'll dry.
I never fathomed calmly cleaning human pee up off what I had considered a once-nice wool rug, as if it was no longer a bio-hazard emergency. And then being able to wash my hands, and go back to making lunch.
I never knew how much reading a blog post about drowning would effect me. Or that later, I would have nightmares about it, and wake up pulling my husband's wrist up towards the ceiling, having imagined I was saving one of our children from the water. (Poor man. He endures a lot. Really, he does.)
I definitely never anticipated the frequency at which "This is why we can't have nice things." would exit my, or my husband's mouths. In one day we lost a crystal wine glass (which was a wedding gift), had the rug peed on (again), a small toy ripped to shreds, and my make-up bag invaded by a small, blush-compact destroying marauder.
This is why we don't have nice things.
I never anticipated how exhausting it would be to keep up with small children.
But...
I also never knew how much I would laugh after being told that chickens don't have lips. Or the delight I would having watching my girl flapping her wings and clucking around the yard. Because she wanted to be a chicken.
Or how my heart would swell when my little one, finally tired from a day of conquering the world, slowed down enough to say "I love you. Mommy, you are the Queen!".
Or how a chipper, early voice saying "Mommy! The sky is awake!" would be enough to summon me out of bed after a long night with the baby.
These are things I never knew.
This whole parenting bid'ness can be tough stuff. It certainly tests me every day. There are days when challenges abound, but inevitably, sweetness follows, and our participation in this insanity makes a bit more sense. Praise God for giving us strength in this season of "I never"s.
May 27, 2014
April 25, 2014
Fake it Til you Feel It
A couple weeks ago, when the girls went down for their naps, I went outside and sat in the chicken coop.
I guess I'll do anything for alone-time these days.
Now before you picture me sitting on a roost or in some mucky shavings, I can set you at ease and tell you that it's a cute little white building with a small porch surrounded by green grass, under a shade tree. In my opinion, it's pretty fancy-schmancy as far as rural chicken coops are concerned. The inside is divided in half, with the back part being where the chickens mill about, roost at night, and access the nesting boxes. The front half has a few salvaged cabinets, shelving for feed and whatever random gardening items I drag in, as well as an old 1970's orange plastic bucket-seated chair with metal legs. The previous owners left it behind, so it serves as HQ for nesting box watching.
While sitting in that bright orange chair, casually passing out hellos to a few of the hens who'd come to deposit their gems, the thought occurred to me that Andrew and I are chicken farmers. It struck me as odd, because I have had an image of a REAL chicken farmer being someone who has a huge farm, a red barn, and a million or so chickens in his possession. I realized that for some time I've felt like we're only playing at it, keeping chickens that is, when the truth of the matter is that we're really doing it.
When we acquired our first tiny flock 3 years ago, I couldn't tell you what a waddle was, what colors an Easter egger would lay, or why those baby chicks would someday want to sit on something high before they could properly go to bed at night. I certainly would have thought you were talking botany if you'd mentioned the "bloom" of an egg. What the world?! It's been a process, but we've learned a lot. The chicks grew up, and with them, our knowledge of how to care for them. I couldn't tell you at what point we moved out of novice chicken keepers, nor if that really matters. If you ask my Andrew, he will tell you that we became chicken farmers the moment we selected them to take home. And he would be right.
So, right there in the little white coop, amongst the quiet clucking, I realized that I've had some skewed thinking. In something as simple as keeping chickens, I didn't think it really counted until we'd been at it for a while. You know, until we had it down pat. Or at least had a red barn. The real truth is that the moment we begin doing something, we become it. This thought has been rolling around in the back of my head over the weeks, and has applied to other parts of my life.
Somewhere along the way, I picked up the phrase "Fake it til you feel it." This statement commands that if you don't feel/believe/like etc something, then act like you do until you genuinely do. While I don't support being fake or dishonest, there is something to to be learned from practicing something until we possess it. This makes me think of a believer's state of salvation. Christ has saved me, so I am saved, but since I'm still breathing and sinning, I am also continuing to be saved. Therefore, even when I may not feel like it, as I practice patience, I am being patient, also while growing in patience. Does that blow your mind?! It does mine. But that could be simply because there's little left of it at the end of the day. ;)
What I am suggesting is that for any area you or I need to grow in, let's fake it til we feel it. When Andrew and I were first married, I would start my day andavoid forget to make the bed. I later learned that if our bed was made, then Andrew felt like the house was clean. Realizing he could care less about dust bunnies lurking in the corners if the bed was made, this action became important to me. As a self-avowed non-maker of beds (who really likes to put decorator pillows in their just-so spots anyway?!), I had to fake it til I felt it. Sooner than not, as I daily owned this small task, I became....dun-dun-dunnnn...The Maker of the Bed. Subsequently, I now happen to love putting the pillows in their rightful places. Just ask my husband!
While this is a silly example, God has encouraged me that as I put on what I'd normally avoid, I'm growing. I am owning it. Be it parenting, cooking, listening, loving, cleaning; I am becoming that very thing which I put on. What's more is that what I practice can take on more meaning, a deeper character, or a greater richness. The act may end up becoming a skill.
It doesn't matter exactly when the transformation took place, rather, that something new and perhaps even beautiful exists where it didn't before. At some point, your and my titles begin to stack up. I become Jenna the patient Mama, Jenna the good listener, Jenna the puller of garden weeds, feeder of the hungry, washer of cloth diapersstill working on not loathing this one, maker of the bed, and yes, even keeper of chickens. I'm doing it. It's happening. And even when I'm not feeling it, practice makes perfect.
I'm encouraged that at whatever stage of development I'm in, if I'm doing it, I'm making ground. There is progress. For those things I want to do but lack the skill, I should just start doing them and grow from there. God is gracious to remind me of what I should be doing for the betterment of myself, my family, and those we're around, and He will do the same for you. He is faithful to grow His children. He gives rest to the weary (Mt 11:28), and offers inspiration in the strangest of places. Even in chicken coops.
I guess I'll do anything for alone-time these days.
Now before you picture me sitting on a roost or in some mucky shavings, I can set you at ease and tell you that it's a cute little white building with a small porch surrounded by green grass, under a shade tree. In my opinion, it's pretty fancy-schmancy as far as rural chicken coops are concerned. The inside is divided in half, with the back part being where the chickens mill about, roost at night, and access the nesting boxes. The front half has a few salvaged cabinets, shelving for feed and whatever random gardening items I drag in, as well as an old 1970's orange plastic bucket-seated chair with metal legs. The previous owners left it behind, so it serves as HQ for nesting box watching.
While sitting in that bright orange chair, casually passing out hellos to a few of the hens who'd come to deposit their gems, the thought occurred to me that Andrew and I are chicken farmers. It struck me as odd, because I have had an image of a REAL chicken farmer being someone who has a huge farm, a red barn, and a million or so chickens in his possession. I realized that for some time I've felt like we're only playing at it, keeping chickens that is, when the truth of the matter is that we're really doing it.
When we acquired our first tiny flock 3 years ago, I couldn't tell you what a waddle was, what colors an Easter egger would lay, or why those baby chicks would someday want to sit on something high before they could properly go to bed at night. I certainly would have thought you were talking botany if you'd mentioned the "bloom" of an egg. What the world?! It's been a process, but we've learned a lot. The chicks grew up, and with them, our knowledge of how to care for them. I couldn't tell you at what point we moved out of novice chicken keepers, nor if that really matters. If you ask my Andrew, he will tell you that we became chicken farmers the moment we selected them to take home. And he would be right.
So, right there in the little white coop, amongst the quiet clucking, I realized that I've had some skewed thinking. In something as simple as keeping chickens, I didn't think it really counted until we'd been at it for a while. You know, until we had it down pat. Or at least had a red barn. The real truth is that the moment we begin doing something, we become it. This thought has been rolling around in the back of my head over the weeks, and has applied to other parts of my life.
Somewhere along the way, I picked up the phrase "Fake it til you feel it." This statement commands that if you don't feel/believe/like etc something, then act like you do until you genuinely do. While I don't support being fake or dishonest, there is something to to be learned from practicing something until we possess it. This makes me think of a believer's state of salvation. Christ has saved me, so I am saved, but since I'm still breathing and sinning, I am also continuing to be saved. Therefore, even when I may not feel like it, as I practice patience, I am being patient, also while growing in patience. Does that blow your mind?! It does mine. But that could be simply because there's little left of it at the end of the day. ;)
What I am suggesting is that for any area you or I need to grow in, let's fake it til we feel it. When Andrew and I were first married, I would start my day and
While this is a silly example, God has encouraged me that as I put on what I'd normally avoid, I'm growing. I am owning it. Be it parenting, cooking, listening, loving, cleaning; I am becoming that very thing which I put on. What's more is that what I practice can take on more meaning, a deeper character, or a greater richness. The act may end up becoming a skill.
It doesn't matter exactly when the transformation took place, rather, that something new and perhaps even beautiful exists where it didn't before. At some point, your and my titles begin to stack up. I become Jenna the patient Mama, Jenna the good listener, Jenna the puller of garden weeds, feeder of the hungry, washer of cloth diapers
I'm encouraged that at whatever stage of development I'm in, if I'm doing it, I'm making ground. There is progress. For those things I want to do but lack the skill, I should just start doing them and grow from there. God is gracious to remind me of what I should be doing for the betterment of myself, my family, and those we're around, and He will do the same for you. He is faithful to grow His children. He gives rest to the weary (Mt 11:28), and offers inspiration in the strangest of places. Even in chicken coops.
April 14, 2014
The Never Ending Story
Hello, again. It's been nearly three months since I last blogged. In that time we've been busy welcoming the arrival of spring, being giddy over our new hens laying their first eggs, getting a garden plot started again, and watching our girls grow like weeds. All of this has seemed to happen at lightning speed.
In the past three months, I've continued to deal with my own version of "The Neverending Story", known as potty training. We began back in January, and have slogged on. Like an uphill climb. Through mud. The "Potty train in a Day" how to's were a total joke. I wanted to throw toilet paper at those mothers who made it look so easy, but learned not to be a hater just because their kiddos were "ready". For any mothers yet to face this journey with your own wee-ones, I do not mean to discourage you. It's just that I've finally accepted that for all of the time, training, encouragement, incentivebribery , and guidance I've given my Olivia, she just isn't ready. She's not owning it yet. The irony of this fact is that she is potty trained. We have accident free days under our belts (after many accident filled ones), have run errands in big girl panties without disaster (although there have been many disasters), and for my highly verbal child, have had every possible discussion with her about being a big girl, using the potty, etc. Yes, she is fully potty trained, but only when I remind and take her to go. Like every 30 minutes. And as much as I cringe to admit this; her potty training is currently, likely a greater reflection of how "with it" I am on any given day. Perish the thought, because I am still in desperate search of my A-game. Until then, we slog on, because some day it's going to "click" and I'll have an independently potty trained child. Hopefully I'll find my A-game, too.
In the past three months, I've continued to deal with my own version of "The Neverending Story", known as potty training. We began back in January, and have slogged on. Like an uphill climb. Through mud. The "Potty train in a Day" how to's were a total joke. I wanted to throw toilet paper at those mothers who made it look so easy, but learned not to be a hater just because their kiddos were "ready". For any mothers yet to face this journey with your own wee-ones, I do not mean to discourage you. It's just that I've finally accepted that for all of the time, training, encouragement, incentive
January 20, 2014
"P" is for Poop
Today's post is brought to you by the letter "P".
Words that start with the letter "P" are: pears, patience, and poop. And did I mention poop???
Never in all my days did I foresee that I would become a blossoming expert on excrement. They don't tell you these things when you're a young girl, adore babies, and stalk tired young mothers after church to see if you could hold their precious ones. You become a favored young person because you lighten their load, and in return, they spare you the dark secret that might deter you from producing your own little pooping hobbits. This would be the fact that dealing with poop is a requirement of motherhood.
While I don't feel very young anymore, I am a "young mother". As such, I have experienced the baptism of a young mother. Water would be nice, and even preferable, but when you've got babies, you're immersed in milk, and poop. Lots of it. Add 2 cats and a dozen chickens to the mix, and you're up to your ears in it. Some tools of the trade are wipes, while other days require a shovel.
When Olivia was younger, she randomly found it necessary to remove her diaper during nap time, and silently color her crib. I would go about my brief time of freedom, cleaning house, or trying to rest myself, blissfully unaware of the biohazard artistry going on in the other room. That was until the smell would eek under the doorway, or she would begin to sing while she painted, alerting me that something was very, stinkily wrong. Bath first, toys to occupy the now clean child, then crib detoxifying. Some days were worse than others depending on the previous day's diet. Yuck.
It's also really fun when you have a baby and they pull the party trick of peeing or pooping on your clothing, while magically managing to not leave a trace of it in their diaper. Yes, this is why a prepared Mama will have a change of clothes for herself handy. Some mothers may not have the energy to remember such luxuries as this, and must go about in public with milk stains, pee, or poo smeared in the most obvious places. This eventually becomes a new normal, she refuses to change her shirt because it'll just happen again on the next one, and that evening's shower is a greatly anticipated, sacred time.
Recent extreme diaper rashes have had me delve into the realm of poop detective. A rash presents itself, and may worsen over the course of a couple of days. I examine the remains, hoping for clues as to what items need to be restricted from the menu. My younger self would have been appalled at the lengths I now go to in order to figure out how to make my child better. I didn't know it then, but I certainly know it now...this is just part of the job description. Since some messes are worse to deal with than others, my husband reminds me that these things are helping me "grow on the inside".
Before Andrew and I married, I held jobs that involved giving tours, cooking, and teaching. I felt like I had built a pretty decent resume, and for the most part, really enjoyed what I did. On this side of marriage and children, I have my dream job, but still struggle with the temptation than what I do doesn't add up to much. Andrew usually asks me how our day went, and what I did. My most recent, becoming standard answer is "I fed mouths and wiped butts." At this early point in my mothering, it can be hard to see the forest from the trees. Some days it seems that all I do is clean up tiny (and some not so tiny!) people's messes, but the truth is that it's not always going to be like this. These little people are growing up. I can see it happening, and at an alarming rate. We'll put Olivia to bed and the next morning she has quite obviously grown. Those 2T clothes aren't shrinking, she's just growing. Emma is over a month old now, is smiling and "talking" to us, and it's all happening so quickly. They are changing, learning, and growing up. This is a train that cannot be stopped.
So, while right now I'm spending an inordinate amount of time making food, feeding people, cleaning up after those meals, and then dealing with what comes after, I'm purposing to enjoy it. Time is going by so quickly, and though it seems menial, what I do is making a difference for my family. There will come a day when my girls won't need Mommy as much as they do now. This thought makes me excited, and sad all at the same time. My plan is to enjoy this time while it lasts, blog about poop so that I can laugh about this current reality, and be a secret keeper for those young ladies who like to hold my baby. I do this because I don't want to scare them off, and because one day they'll likely enjoy this time as much as I am. Poop and all.
P.S. I can also keep smiling because one day I'll only have to wipe my own butt. ;)
Words that start with the letter "P" are: pears, patience, and poop. And did I mention poop???
Never in all my days did I foresee that I would become a blossoming expert on excrement. They don't tell you these things when you're a young girl, adore babies, and stalk tired young mothers after church to see if you could hold their precious ones. You become a favored young person because you lighten their load, and in return, they spare you the dark secret that might deter you from producing your own little pooping hobbits. This would be the fact that dealing with poop is a requirement of motherhood.
While I don't feel very young anymore, I am a "young mother". As such, I have experienced the baptism of a young mother. Water would be nice, and even preferable, but when you've got babies, you're immersed in milk, and poop. Lots of it. Add 2 cats and a dozen chickens to the mix, and you're up to your ears in it. Some tools of the trade are wipes, while other days require a shovel.
When Olivia was younger, she randomly found it necessary to remove her diaper during nap time, and silently color her crib. I would go about my brief time of freedom, cleaning house, or trying to rest myself, blissfully unaware of the biohazard artistry going on in the other room. That was until the smell would eek under the doorway, or she would begin to sing while she painted, alerting me that something was very, stinkily wrong. Bath first, toys to occupy the now clean child, then crib detoxifying. Some days were worse than others depending on the previous day's diet. Yuck.
It's also really fun when you have a baby and they pull the party trick of peeing or pooping on your clothing, while magically managing to not leave a trace of it in their diaper. Yes, this is why a prepared Mama will have a change of clothes for herself handy. Some mothers may not have the energy to remember such luxuries as this, and must go about in public with milk stains, pee, or poo smeared in the most obvious places. This eventually becomes a new normal, she refuses to change her shirt because it'll just happen again on the next one, and that evening's shower is a greatly anticipated, sacred time.
Recent extreme diaper rashes have had me delve into the realm of poop detective. A rash presents itself, and may worsen over the course of a couple of days. I examine the remains, hoping for clues as to what items need to be restricted from the menu. My younger self would have been appalled at the lengths I now go to in order to figure out how to make my child better. I didn't know it then, but I certainly know it now...this is just part of the job description. Since some messes are worse to deal with than others, my husband reminds me that these things are helping me "grow on the inside".
Before Andrew and I married, I held jobs that involved giving tours, cooking, and teaching. I felt like I had built a pretty decent resume, and for the most part, really enjoyed what I did. On this side of marriage and children, I have my dream job, but still struggle with the temptation than what I do doesn't add up to much. Andrew usually asks me how our day went, and what I did. My most recent, becoming standard answer is "I fed mouths and wiped butts." At this early point in my mothering, it can be hard to see the forest from the trees. Some days it seems that all I do is clean up tiny (and some not so tiny!) people's messes, but the truth is that it's not always going to be like this. These little people are growing up. I can see it happening, and at an alarming rate. We'll put Olivia to bed and the next morning she has quite obviously grown. Those 2T clothes aren't shrinking, she's just growing. Emma is over a month old now, is smiling and "talking" to us, and it's all happening so quickly. They are changing, learning, and growing up. This is a train that cannot be stopped.
So, while right now I'm spending an inordinate amount of time making food, feeding people, cleaning up after those meals, and then dealing with what comes after, I'm purposing to enjoy it. Time is going by so quickly, and though it seems menial, what I do is making a difference for my family. There will come a day when my girls won't need Mommy as much as they do now. This thought makes me excited, and sad all at the same time. My plan is to enjoy this time while it lasts, blog about poop so that I can laugh about this current reality, and be a secret keeper for those young ladies who like to hold my baby. I do this because I don't want to scare them off, and because one day they'll likely enjoy this time as much as I am. Poop and all.
P.S. I can also keep smiling because one day I'll only have to wipe my own butt. ;)
January 7, 2014
Karen
Olivia was happily playing in her room, until she came across a little stranger she discovered at the bottom of her toy basket. She had found a long forgotten cloth dolly that had never received much attention. With chickens and new toys from Christmas having recently been given proper names, something about this friend bothered Olivia deeply. This doll didn't have a name.
Running to me in a panic, Olivia called out "Mommy! Help! Help!". A bit confused about what could be wrong, I reached out to her as she bolted into the living room. With the doll in tow, she cried out once again for my help, and shoved it into my hands. I asked her what was wrong, and with sad eyes, she looked at the doll, then back at me, and cried: "Mommy! What's her naaaame?!" The way she asked that question tugged at my heart. She knew we hadn't named this doll, which meant that it didn't belong. In her eyes, it was lost.
Creativity failed me, so I threw out the first name that popped into my head: "Karen. The doll's name is Karen." Olivia's eyes lit up, and she quickly retrieved the doll from my hands. She hugged it and with joy in her voice, declared: "Your name is Karen! I am Olivia. I love you, Karen. You are my friend, Karen. It's gonna be okay, Karen..." As if to reassure little lost Karen, Olivia inserted her name into as many sentences as possible before traipsing back to her bedroom.
I sat down, a bit bewildered at what has just taken place. The scene caused me to think about the importance of names, and especially knowing who we are. Even at two and a half, Olivia knew that something was gravely wrong for a dolly of hers to be without a name. There are many stuffed animals and dolls under Olivia's care, but until that point, they were all loved, accounted for, and known. With a name, Karen was instantly accepted into Olivia's play-world family. She had a home, she had friends, and she belonged.
In comparison, how beautiful it is to belong to the Lord. We are no longer scraping around in darkness, lost, hopeless, and unknown. To know Christ is to become children of the Almighty, adopted into His family, loved and cared for, brought into communion with Him. He gives us a new identity; one that supersedes any name or title we ever held, or may have in the future. We are His and we belong.
Though my current mission field doesn't have me out and about as much as it used to, I'm still challenged to keep my eyes open for any Karens I may encounter. Maybe it's the clerk ringing up my groceries, or someone who admires my baby as I'm running errands...he or she may not have a name yet. Lord willing, I can point them to the One Who gives eternal names, and identities. To the One who in a sense, pulls us up from the forgotten bottom of the toy basket, and gives us a home, for no other reason that His good pleasure, and glory.
Running to me in a panic, Olivia called out "Mommy! Help! Help!". A bit confused about what could be wrong, I reached out to her as she bolted into the living room. With the doll in tow, she cried out once again for my help, and shoved it into my hands. I asked her what was wrong, and with sad eyes, she looked at the doll, then back at me, and cried: "Mommy! What's her naaaame?!" The way she asked that question tugged at my heart. She knew we hadn't named this doll, which meant that it didn't belong. In her eyes, it was lost.
Creativity failed me, so I threw out the first name that popped into my head: "Karen. The doll's name is Karen." Olivia's eyes lit up, and she quickly retrieved the doll from my hands. She hugged it and with joy in her voice, declared: "Your name is Karen! I am Olivia. I love you, Karen. You are my friend, Karen. It's gonna be okay, Karen..." As if to reassure little lost Karen, Olivia inserted her name into as many sentences as possible before traipsing back to her bedroom.
I sat down, a bit bewildered at what has just taken place. The scene caused me to think about the importance of names, and especially knowing who we are. Even at two and a half, Olivia knew that something was gravely wrong for a dolly of hers to be without a name. There are many stuffed animals and dolls under Olivia's care, but until that point, they were all loved, accounted for, and known. With a name, Karen was instantly accepted into Olivia's play-world family. She had a home, she had friends, and she belonged.
In comparison, how beautiful it is to belong to the Lord. We are no longer scraping around in darkness, lost, hopeless, and unknown. To know Christ is to become children of the Almighty, adopted into His family, loved and cared for, brought into communion with Him. He gives us a new identity; one that supersedes any name or title we ever held, or may have in the future. We are His and we belong.
Though my current mission field doesn't have me out and about as much as it used to, I'm still challenged to keep my eyes open for any Karens I may encounter. Maybe it's the clerk ringing up my groceries, or someone who admires my baby as I'm running errands...he or she may not have a name yet. Lord willing, I can point them to the One Who gives eternal names, and identities. To the One who in a sense, pulls us up from the forgotten bottom of the toy basket, and gives us a home, for no other reason that His good pleasure, and glory.
December 31, 2013
Beautiful Things out of Dust: The Story of Emma Shea
If 2013 has had a theme for me and my family, it would definitely be that of learning patience. It's not necessarily that we...urr...I, have an abundance of it, but rather, that the Lord has wanted to work greater amounts of it into my life. Though it felt like a great deal of pain going through the long move, followed by those first months of our housing problems, I guess it just wasn't enough for me to grasp all the lessons God wanted me to learn. There was more patience to be developed.
Olivia's birth taught me that babies do not always come on schedule. I went 6 days past "due" with her, so going over with baby girl #2 wasn't TOO much of a surprise. What did come as a shocker was going past week 41....then week 42...and approaching week 43. Our girl was due November 16th, but that day flew right on by and November turned into December. Several of my friends and acquaintances happened to be due about the same time, and it was exciting waiting for our babies...until everyone (and I do mean everyone) had theirs before me. Baby's due date came and went, and the days kept on going. And going. And going.
At 41ish weeks, our midwife discussed our options, as well as the reality that by law, her care for us could only extend to the start of week 43 before we'd end up in the hospital. I was pretty chill about waiting for baby to come on her own...that is until we had a deadline set before us. Still hoping for a home birth, I decided to take the plunge into natural induction methods to coax baby girl out. Thanksgiving day was spent putting a couple of miles on our walking shoes, followed by many more miles in the days that followed. I ate spicy foods, had an appointment with an accupressurist who practically anointed me with labor inducing essential oil. I did a tad bit ofwaddling jogging, walked curbs, drove down bumpy roads, took herbs, had my midwife attempt to sweep my membranes (twice!), and at 42w & 4days, finally took the infamous castor oil. After all of these attempts, nothing happened. Well, I did have a few decent contractions, but they came and went as if to say "Nice try. Not happening."
It became a running joke that I felt like I was living in an episode of the Twilight Zone, where every night I'd go to bed certain I'd wake up in labor, but instead would wake up the next morning still pregnant. I had a couple of terrible, self-pity filled days after baby was due, but the Lord was working on my heart. I had to come to grips with the fact that this was totally out of my control (isn't everything?!), that I needed to wear my faith well, trust that God would bring the baby at the right time, and try to enjoy the last days of pregnancy. Great encouragement came through the prayers of family and countless friends, and even friends of friends who were praying for us. It was so touching to hear that people we didn't even know were praying for our delivery and a healthy baby.
Week 42 had me making a couple of trips to a hospital in a nearby town for sonograms and non-stress tests to make sure baby girl was doing alright. During the final sonogram, the hospital midwife discovered three cross-sections of baby's cord wrapped around her neck. "A necklace, not a noose, but still a possible concern." was what she said. With an ice storm heading our way that weekend, she suggested it would be best to come in for induction. Grateful for the technology that revealed the potential danger to our baby, Andrew and I planned to head to the hospital for induction at the end of the week. We both hoped I'd go into labor before then, but those days also came and went. The idea that we wouldn't have a home birth saddened me, but the real goal (within our power) was a healthy baby, not an experience or a place. We would do whatever needed to happen to bring our girl out safely, even if that meant saying goodbye to a drug-free, birth at home.
Wednesday the 4th, I made the call to summon my Mom to come up. That night I woke up with serious contractions. They were so convincing that I called my birth team, who came out in the middle of the night. Andrew sprang into action setting up the birth tub, and the ladies arrived...only for my contractions to subside. It was disheartening. My Mom arrived on Thursday, which was the same day the ice storm blew in. I had contractions all that day which made her pretty nervous. The idea of assisting in an emergency delivering of her grandchild didn't sit will with her, so she was extremely ready for us to take off for the hospital.
On Friday morning the 6th, we got packed up for every possible birthing scenario and length of stay imaginable. Once the truck was loaded, Andrew and I kissed Olivia goodbye, and headed down the very icy roads for the hospital an hour away. Even in Andrew's big 4x4 truck, the ice made driving difficult, and the ride a jolting, bumpy one. My contractions grew stronger as we drove on, and after admitting ourselves, I had to lean on Andrew to blow through a contraction on our way up to L&D. Being shown our room and meeting the nursing staff seemed a bit surreal. We were there to have our baby. The time had come. After such a long wait, one way or another, it was finally going to happen!
The nurse midwife on duty went over our induction options, but watched me through a few contractions said they might not be necessary. I was hopeful, without getting my hopes up too high. With a low dose of pitocin being our first option, I called my midwife Christy and birth team to come out to the hospital. They made the treacherous journey down while we filled out a million consent forms and a nurse put in my IV. My precious doula and friend, Leila, who helped us through Olivia's birth, arrived at the same time as the midwives. She had come into town on this baby's due date, and had patiently and graciously stuck around for three whole weeks waiting with us for baby girl to come. Talk about dedication!
When those ladies who had become such sweet friends walked into our room, I breathed a big sigh of relief and moved quickly into another contraction. Our awesome assistant midwife Jamie, and Leila jumped right into action with counter pressure on my lower back and hips. Talk about ministering angels! While they were helping me, midwife Christy and the hospital's midwife consulted about where I was in labor. The words "She's going on her own." were music to my ears. Three weeks extra wait, and changed plans had loosened our grip on what we wanted for the birth, and yet for some reason, once we'd given up on our design, the Lord delighted us. He had beautifully timed it for me to go into early labor as we arrived at the hospital, and active labor when my midwives arrived at 8pm. Induction wasn't necessary!
Having Olivia's 14 hour labor set in my mind, I felt like we were jumping the gun when Christy asked if I wanted to walk. If it would help labor progress, I told her why not?! We made several stops as I waddled and contracted down the hallway before I found a counter to rest on. I remember giving a cheesy smile to Andrew who had grabbed the camera for a few pictures before I needed to lean on him again. After a few more contractions, Christy asked if I thought the birthing tub sounded good. Looking back, I now see I was pretty clueless that things were progressing as fast as they were. I imagined a good half a day of labor still ahead of me, but the water sounded nice, so she gave the word for the tub to be filled up. We headed back to the room to grab my recovery clothes (again I was thinking it was too soon for that), Christy walking backward helping me to the room. After resting my forehead on hers after a contraction, I said something stupid like "You're the perfect height!".
Entering the water birthing room I felt at ease. The lights were dim, there was the scent of lavender diffusing, I had Andrew and my trusted birth team surrounding me, with praise and worship music playing softly in the background. I got in the water and practically melted into it's comfort. Contractions subsided for a bit before becoming incredibly intense, and then it took all of my attention to work through them. Jamie and Leila were on top of things with timely counter pressure, peppermint oil when I got hiccup-y and nauseous, and encouraging words as I dove into hard labor. As for Andrew, my beloved Andrew, he was the perfect picture of supportive husband, and rock-star birthing coach. He was my pillar to lean on when the pains came, held and cushioned my head as I labored on all fours in the tub, kept a fan on my face when I felt like I was melting, had a barf bag nearby when I was nauseous, and whispered into my ears coping techniques, encouragement, and prayers as I labored. He was incredible and I'm teary-eyed remembering his strength for me when I needed him most. I praise the Lord for my strong, tender warrior husband!
Not long before entering the pushing stage, I sat back on my legs with my eyes closed and listened to the song that was playing in the room. The chorus drifted into my ears: "You make beautiful things...You make beautiful things out of dust...". It was perfect, and after 20 minutes of pushing and roaring like I never knew I was capable of, our beautiful daughter, the Lord's perfect design made from dust, entered the world. Our Emma Shea. She is named after my Great-Grandmother Emma, and Shea, after our doula's middle name. After just 2.5 hours of labor, Emma was gently glided up to me where I was able to bring her up out of the water. A beautiful 8 lbs. 8 oz., Emma weighed only 2 oz more than Olivia did; being nearly 2 1/2 weeks older in gestation than her big sister! God truly knows better than anyone how to grow babies, and exactly when to bring them.
As I sit here typing and holding my 3 week old girl, I marvel at God's good and totally undeserved gifts to us. Struggling to recover from severe tearing, and breaking my tailbone weren't issues with this birth. The ice storm and road conditions on Friday evening likely would have kept our midwives from making it to us if we'd had Emma at home, but were doable getting to the hospital. The cord wasn't triple wrapped like the sonogram had shown the day before. I went into labor as we arrived at the hospital, so the drugs and interventions we didn't want but agreed to weren't necessary after all. Thanks to an incredible midwife group and excellent hospital, we were still able to have a water birth with our wonderful birthing team. The hospital midwife and nursing staff were also able to (many for the first time) witness an un-induced, drug-free, water birth. The Lord's care and orchestration over every detail of Emma's birth was perfect and so beautiful.
I have debated sharing some of the personal details of Emma's story on my blog, but have done so in order to tell you of our amazing God. He wrapped us in His peace, walked with us through every step of the pregnancy, and has given us more than our hearts could desire with a gorgeous, healthy little girl. We also received the incredibly rare bonus of a beautiful homebirth-like experience in a hospital. Our God is limited by nothing, and faithful to many generations. He works with impatient hearts, softening and growing them. He brings the increase at just the right time. And He makes such beautiful things out of dust.
Olivia's birth taught me that babies do not always come on schedule. I went 6 days past "due" with her, so going over with baby girl #2 wasn't TOO much of a surprise. What did come as a shocker was going past week 41....then week 42...and approaching week 43. Our girl was due November 16th, but that day flew right on by and November turned into December. Several of my friends and acquaintances happened to be due about the same time, and it was exciting waiting for our babies...until everyone (and I do mean everyone) had theirs before me. Baby's due date came and went, and the days kept on going. And going. And going.
At 41ish weeks, our midwife discussed our options, as well as the reality that by law, her care for us could only extend to the start of week 43 before we'd end up in the hospital. I was pretty chill about waiting for baby to come on her own...that is until we had a deadline set before us. Still hoping for a home birth, I decided to take the plunge into natural induction methods to coax baby girl out. Thanksgiving day was spent putting a couple of miles on our walking shoes, followed by many more miles in the days that followed. I ate spicy foods, had an appointment with an accupressurist who practically anointed me with labor inducing essential oil. I did a tad bit of
It became a running joke that I felt like I was living in an episode of the Twilight Zone, where every night I'd go to bed certain I'd wake up in labor, but instead would wake up the next morning still pregnant. I had a couple of terrible, self-pity filled days after baby was due, but the Lord was working on my heart. I had to come to grips with the fact that this was totally out of my control (isn't everything?!), that I needed to wear my faith well, trust that God would bring the baby at the right time, and try to enjoy the last days of pregnancy. Great encouragement came through the prayers of family and countless friends, and even friends of friends who were praying for us. It was so touching to hear that people we didn't even know were praying for our delivery and a healthy baby.
Week 42 had me making a couple of trips to a hospital in a nearby town for sonograms and non-stress tests to make sure baby girl was doing alright. During the final sonogram, the hospital midwife discovered three cross-sections of baby's cord wrapped around her neck. "A necklace, not a noose, but still a possible concern." was what she said. With an ice storm heading our way that weekend, she suggested it would be best to come in for induction. Grateful for the technology that revealed the potential danger to our baby, Andrew and I planned to head to the hospital for induction at the end of the week. We both hoped I'd go into labor before then, but those days also came and went. The idea that we wouldn't have a home birth saddened me, but the real goal (within our power) was a healthy baby, not an experience or a place. We would do whatever needed to happen to bring our girl out safely, even if that meant saying goodbye to a drug-free, birth at home.
Wednesday the 4th, I made the call to summon my Mom to come up. That night I woke up with serious contractions. They were so convincing that I called my birth team, who came out in the middle of the night. Andrew sprang into action setting up the birth tub, and the ladies arrived...only for my contractions to subside. It was disheartening. My Mom arrived on Thursday, which was the same day the ice storm blew in. I had contractions all that day which made her pretty nervous. The idea of assisting in an emergency delivering of her grandchild didn't sit will with her, so she was extremely ready for us to take off for the hospital.
On Friday morning the 6th, we got packed up for every possible birthing scenario and length of stay imaginable. Once the truck was loaded, Andrew and I kissed Olivia goodbye, and headed down the very icy roads for the hospital an hour away. Even in Andrew's big 4x4 truck, the ice made driving difficult, and the ride a jolting, bumpy one. My contractions grew stronger as we drove on, and after admitting ourselves, I had to lean on Andrew to blow through a contraction on our way up to L&D. Being shown our room and meeting the nursing staff seemed a bit surreal. We were there to have our baby. The time had come. After such a long wait, one way or another, it was finally going to happen!
The nurse midwife on duty went over our induction options, but watched me through a few contractions said they might not be necessary. I was hopeful, without getting my hopes up too high. With a low dose of pitocin being our first option, I called my midwife Christy and birth team to come out to the hospital. They made the treacherous journey down while we filled out a million consent forms and a nurse put in my IV. My precious doula and friend, Leila, who helped us through Olivia's birth, arrived at the same time as the midwives. She had come into town on this baby's due date, and had patiently and graciously stuck around for three whole weeks waiting with us for baby girl to come. Talk about dedication!
When those ladies who had become such sweet friends walked into our room, I breathed a big sigh of relief and moved quickly into another contraction. Our awesome assistant midwife Jamie, and Leila jumped right into action with counter pressure on my lower back and hips. Talk about ministering angels! While they were helping me, midwife Christy and the hospital's midwife consulted about where I was in labor. The words "She's going on her own." were music to my ears. Three weeks extra wait, and changed plans had loosened our grip on what we wanted for the birth, and yet for some reason, once we'd given up on our design, the Lord delighted us. He had beautifully timed it for me to go into early labor as we arrived at the hospital, and active labor when my midwives arrived at 8pm. Induction wasn't necessary!
Having Olivia's 14 hour labor set in my mind, I felt like we were jumping the gun when Christy asked if I wanted to walk. If it would help labor progress, I told her why not?! We made several stops as I waddled and contracted down the hallway before I found a counter to rest on. I remember giving a cheesy smile to Andrew who had grabbed the camera for a few pictures before I needed to lean on him again. After a few more contractions, Christy asked if I thought the birthing tub sounded good. Looking back, I now see I was pretty clueless that things were progressing as fast as they were. I imagined a good half a day of labor still ahead of me, but the water sounded nice, so she gave the word for the tub to be filled up. We headed back to the room to grab my recovery clothes (again I was thinking it was too soon for that), Christy walking backward helping me to the room. After resting my forehead on hers after a contraction, I said something stupid like "You're the perfect height!".
Entering the water birthing room I felt at ease. The lights were dim, there was the scent of lavender diffusing, I had Andrew and my trusted birth team surrounding me, with praise and worship music playing softly in the background. I got in the water and practically melted into it's comfort. Contractions subsided for a bit before becoming incredibly intense, and then it took all of my attention to work through them. Jamie and Leila were on top of things with timely counter pressure, peppermint oil when I got hiccup-y and nauseous, and encouraging words as I dove into hard labor. As for Andrew, my beloved Andrew, he was the perfect picture of supportive husband, and rock-star birthing coach. He was my pillar to lean on when the pains came, held and cushioned my head as I labored on all fours in the tub, kept a fan on my face when I felt like I was melting, had a barf bag nearby when I was nauseous, and whispered into my ears coping techniques, encouragement, and prayers as I labored. He was incredible and I'm teary-eyed remembering his strength for me when I needed him most. I praise the Lord for my strong, tender warrior husband!
Not long before entering the pushing stage, I sat back on my legs with my eyes closed and listened to the song that was playing in the room. The chorus drifted into my ears: "You make beautiful things...You make beautiful things out of dust...". It was perfect, and after 20 minutes of pushing and roaring like I never knew I was capable of, our beautiful daughter, the Lord's perfect design made from dust, entered the world. Our Emma Shea. She is named after my Great-Grandmother Emma, and Shea, after our doula's middle name. After just 2.5 hours of labor, Emma was gently glided up to me where I was able to bring her up out of the water. A beautiful 8 lbs. 8 oz., Emma weighed only 2 oz more than Olivia did; being nearly 2 1/2 weeks older in gestation than her big sister! God truly knows better than anyone how to grow babies, and exactly when to bring them.
As I sit here typing and holding my 3 week old girl, I marvel at God's good and totally undeserved gifts to us. Struggling to recover from severe tearing, and breaking my tailbone weren't issues with this birth. The ice storm and road conditions on Friday evening likely would have kept our midwives from making it to us if we'd had Emma at home, but were doable getting to the hospital. The cord wasn't triple wrapped like the sonogram had shown the day before. I went into labor as we arrived at the hospital, so the drugs and interventions we didn't want but agreed to weren't necessary after all. Thanks to an incredible midwife group and excellent hospital, we were still able to have a water birth with our wonderful birthing team. The hospital midwife and nursing staff were also able to (many for the first time) witness an un-induced, drug-free, water birth. The Lord's care and orchestration over every detail of Emma's birth was perfect and so beautiful.
I have debated sharing some of the personal details of Emma's story on my blog, but have done so in order to tell you of our amazing God. He wrapped us in His peace, walked with us through every step of the pregnancy, and has given us more than our hearts could desire with a gorgeous, healthy little girl. We also received the incredibly rare bonus of a beautiful homebirth-like experience in a hospital. Our God is limited by nothing, and faithful to many generations. He works with impatient hearts, softening and growing them. He brings the increase at just the right time. And He makes such beautiful things out of dust.
November 19, 2013
Over-due and Waiting
I'm "over due". This would be the time, days or heaven help us, even weeks, that are left to wait AFTER baby has been expected. I guess some babies like to cook a little longer. I've heard some need more time for their lungs to develop. In my mind, my child currently in utero is happily scribbling away messages on the walls of my womb for any possible future inhabitants.
"Dear next baby...you can really get Mommy to jump if you kick here --->".
"You can forget your morning cuppa joe. Mommy thinks babies shouldn't have caffeine and drinks dandelions instead. Weird."
"I keep hearing a really loud creature from outside this room. I think it's called an "older sister", and I don't know if I'm ready to meet her yet."
For whatever the reason baby Borne hasn't yet made her appearance, I'm still pregnant. I'm only a few days over due, and yet it feels like it's been forever when most of my friends expecting at this same time popped their kids out early, or had c-sections. I went almost a week over with Olivia, and up to this point had forgotten how the "Land of Over Due" makes a Mom just a bit touchy. Even well intentioned phone calls from family and friends (unless they call 4 times a day!) asking "So???" can start to wear on you a little bit. It's tough enough to manage your own anxieties and perhaps even disappointment, without others asking "Haven't you had that baby yet?!". Speaking as a very expectant mother, I can assure everyone that there is nothing one can do (short of surgery) to make the baby's birthday come any sooner than God has already planned. And so, we wait.
I've already shed a few tears this morning, standing in my
As much as we have been eagerly anticipating this baby, my heart has also been excited with thoughts about Thanksgiving and Christmas. When you're a kid, Christmas seems like it will never come, and then it finally does. While December 25th is a fixed date, I'm reminding myself that this baby's birthday will finally come as well. It's going to happen! In light of this fact, and so I don't become more of an emotional, lumbering, mama-monster, I'm purposing to say out-loud what I'm thankful for whenever the gremlin of past-due dates tempts me with misery. Gratitude does the heart good, and there is much to be thankful for.
For a little thankfulness starter practice:
- It's been nice waking up in the morning and walking into a spotless kitchen, knowing there isn't a dirty dish in the sink
- However much longer baby holds out is the exact amount of time I've got left with Olivia as my only baby to love on.
- Though some nights are rough, I'm grateful I can still manage to get a fairly decent night of sleep. **Andrew, I'm SO sorry for all the heavy snoring. This too shall pass.**
~ With as much excited expectation as we have waiting for this baby, I'm encouraged to apply these sames feelings toward waiting for Christ's return! Making an Advent calender may be just the perfect thing to help fill some time.
~ I'm grateful to have family and friends nearly as anxious as we are to meet our little girl!
With this, I'm off to go find some crafty Advent calender tutorial on Pinterest, have my last prenatal chiropractic adjustment, and enjoy my Olivia...just the two of us. I will still be waiting, hoping, wondering when our girl will finally maker her grand entrance into this world, but with the Lord's help, I can do so with joy.
October 29, 2013
Pumpkin Patch Reality Check
Today I took Olivia to a darling little pumpkin patch in the town next to us. I dressed her in cute clothes, and even pulled back her hair with a matching hair-tie. My energy level has taken a dive in these last week of pregnancy, so this was an accomplishment. Especially considering that yesterday I let her wear her pj's all day! Nevertheless, for today she was looking cute and picture-ready.
In my head I had visions of her frolicking around the pumpkins with a grin showing off her beautiful two year old smile. Yes, gorgeous Pinterest worthy photos would be made! The kind of photos that you frame or send to the grandparents to 'ooh and ahh' over. But then reality hit.
Reality is that my Olivia is two, and has been developing opinions of her own at a fierce rate. I'm all for her being herself, expressing her thoughts, making mistakes, and learning, but not when she's being ugly. She can be the most charming and lovely little person in the world, but after that she's demanding a snack, throwing her cup, or bossing her baby dolls. The girls got a 'tude, and isn't afraid to exercise it.
As it would happen, "The Tude" showed up just as we entered the pumpkin patch. Ignorant of this, I encouraged her to run around to discover all of the orange beauties while I took a few candid shots. After this I wanted her to look at the camera and smile. Riiiiight, Mom. Upon this instruction, the tude took over, and she would give me a millisecond side glance before turning away. More opportunities to cooperate showed that she was intentionally avoiding looking where I told her. Some swift justice was applied. It's after effects just don't make for "good" pictures. I snapped at what she was putting out (every parent needs some blackmail photos anyway, right?!), then threw in the towel.
Something about hearing my words "It's time to go." made Olivia's bones melt away; collapsing her into a heap on the gravel. My prodding her to get up produced indiscernible moans. Her hair-tie dramatically abandoned ship. Her boots began falling off for no reason. No reason other that is than she just didn't want to do what Mommy had asked. This kind of behavior is not allowed in our home, OR at the pumpkin patch. **More swift justice** Once home and looking over the photos, I decided that my favorite picture is one that captures the defiant look on her face as she gazed off into the distance...instead of Mommy's camera like instructed. It caught a glimpse of my daughter's sinful nature, and the reality that we don't always look like the pictures we see online.
With two and a half weeks to go before our littlest person is due, I'm starting to clue into the idea that God is wanting me to do a reality check of my own. I realize that I dream and think in ideals, but they are often no where close to reality. For example, in my head, the baby should come right after all of the laundry is washed and put away, the kitchen is spotless, a week's worth of meals are in the freezer, Andrew is home, and we've had a sound night's sleep. If I expect all of these things to come to pass, I'm deluding myself, not to mention setting myself up for grave disappointment. Why expect this when my current reality is that the sink is full of yesterday's dishes, sound sleep took off a couple weeks ago, and the washing machine just kissed it's last load goodbye. **It did this only after dumping 7 soaked-bath-towels-worth of water onto our floor. Not ideal. Reality is that more often than not, the product or outcome I expect doesn't look anything like how I'd imagined it.
So, what then is the solution? Find a nice gravel patch to melt onto and moan? Kick off my shoes and yank out my hairband? Maybe do a bit of moaning while making dramatic faces? While it sounds kind of fun, I know the Lord has called me to more than that.
It's time for a reality check. Time to stop comparing what appear to be other people's realities with my own, and joyfully accept what God has given me today. To be okay with pumpkin patch pictures that reveal a stinker-faced two year old, whom I dearly love, but sometimes need a break from. Time to remember that even when I do my best, I'm still going to forget something. It's time to set some reasonable expectations, and choose a right attitude regardless of the outcome.
After the washing machine died, I'm afraid I wasn't wanting to smile for any pictures. Nope. Don't even wanna look that direction. Smile? Not happening. I had laundry to do, and now I can't. This isn't fitting into my schedule very well. My need to nest is being severely held up. I'm just going to be grumpy instead of grateful for the million other things that are going well.
It's time to ask the Lord to help me set right expectations, ask Him for a right attitude when things go astray from my plans. It's also time for some action. As much fun as wallowing in some self-pity (or pumpkin patch gravel) may sound, it doesn't accomplish anything. The sink won't be emptied from that location, nor my heart and soul bettered for choosing joy in a disappointing moment.
Signing off to do some praying, tackle those dishes, and look on Craig's List for a new washing machine. I may also go find a frame for my new favorite photo. It's already been sent to the grandparents.
"Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth." Colossians 3:2
In my head I had visions of her frolicking around the pumpkins with a grin showing off her beautiful two year old smile. Yes, gorgeous Pinterest worthy photos would be made! The kind of photos that you frame or send to the grandparents to 'ooh and ahh' over. But then reality hit.
Reality is that my Olivia is two, and has been developing opinions of her own at a fierce rate. I'm all for her being herself, expressing her thoughts, making mistakes, and learning, but not when she's being ugly. She can be the most charming and lovely little person in the world, but after that she's demanding a snack, throwing her cup, or bossing her baby dolls. The girls got a 'tude, and isn't afraid to exercise it.
As it would happen, "The Tude" showed up just as we entered the pumpkin patch. Ignorant of this, I encouraged her to run around to discover all of the orange beauties while I took a few candid shots. After this I wanted her to look at the camera and smile. Riiiiight, Mom. Upon this instruction, the tude took over, and she would give me a millisecond side glance before turning away. More opportunities to cooperate showed that she was intentionally avoiding looking where I told her. Some swift justice was applied. It's after effects just don't make for "good" pictures. I snapped at what she was putting out (every parent needs some blackmail photos anyway, right?!), then threw in the towel.
Something about hearing my words "It's time to go." made Olivia's bones melt away; collapsing her into a heap on the gravel. My prodding her to get up produced indiscernible moans. Her hair-tie dramatically abandoned ship. Her boots began falling off for no reason. No reason other that is than she just didn't want to do what Mommy had asked. This kind of behavior is not allowed in our home, OR at the pumpkin patch. **More swift justice** Once home and looking over the photos, I decided that my favorite picture is one that captures the defiant look on her face as she gazed off into the distance...instead of Mommy's camera like instructed. It caught a glimpse of my daughter's sinful nature, and the reality that we don't always look like the pictures we see online.
With two and a half weeks to go before our littlest person is due, I'm starting to clue into the idea that God is wanting me to do a reality check of my own. I realize that I dream and think in ideals, but they are often no where close to reality. For example, in my head, the baby should come right after all of the laundry is washed and put away, the kitchen is spotless, a week's worth of meals are in the freezer, Andrew is home, and we've had a sound night's sleep. If I expect all of these things to come to pass, I'm deluding myself, not to mention setting myself up for grave disappointment. Why expect this when my current reality is that the sink is full of yesterday's dishes, sound sleep took off a couple weeks ago, and the washing machine just kissed it's last load goodbye. **It did this only after dumping 7 soaked-bath-towels-worth of water onto our floor. Not ideal. Reality is that more often than not, the product or outcome I expect doesn't look anything like how I'd imagined it.
So, what then is the solution? Find a nice gravel patch to melt onto and moan? Kick off my shoes and yank out my hairband? Maybe do a bit of moaning while making dramatic faces? While it sounds kind of fun, I know the Lord has called me to more than that.
It's time for a reality check. Time to stop comparing what appear to be other people's realities with my own, and joyfully accept what God has given me today. To be okay with pumpkin patch pictures that reveal a stinker-faced two year old, whom I dearly love, but sometimes need a break from. Time to remember that even when I do my best, I'm still going to forget something. It's time to set some reasonable expectations, and choose a right attitude regardless of the outcome.
After the washing machine died, I'm afraid I wasn't wanting to smile for any pictures. Nope. Don't even wanna look that direction. Smile? Not happening. I had laundry to do, and now I can't. This isn't fitting into my schedule very well. My need to nest is being severely held up. I'm just going to be grumpy instead of grateful for the million other things that are going well.
It's time to ask the Lord to help me set right expectations, ask Him for a right attitude when things go astray from my plans. It's also time for some action. As much fun as wallowing in some self-pity (or pumpkin patch gravel) may sound, it doesn't accomplish anything. The sink won't be emptied from that location, nor my heart and soul bettered for choosing joy in a disappointing moment.
Signing off to do some praying, tackle those dishes, and look on Craig's List for a new washing machine. I may also go find a frame for my new favorite photo. It's already been sent to the grandparents.
"Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth." Colossians 3:2
September 24, 2013
Hot showers and Nesting
Dear friends, lest any of you were wondering, you will be relieved to know that this woman has kissed the backyard camping shower goodbye and has re-embraced the civilized life. Yes, our appliances have been reunited with propane, and we've had ourselves some indoor cooking and showering. Hallelujah! I totally cried a few tears of joy while making coconut pancakes with the gas range that first night. It's been over a month since we became operational, and the convenience of our working appliances has felt like pure luxury.
While we've had propane for a month, the calendar tells me that we've been back in Texas for two! This blows me away. It's gone by quickly, but then again we've been pretty preoccupied and the days have slipped by. With what appears to be the major/urgent projects behind us, Andrew has been able to tackle unpacking his man-cave, and I've been able to turn my thoughts towards having this baby. I am 32 weeks along and can safely say some nesting instincts are kicking in. I know this because during Olivia's regular afternoon nap, it's unusual for me to go out in the rain to burn trash in the burn barrel, clean out the laundry room, wash the washing machine, dust everything in sight, and rearrange a few pieces of furniture. Not. normal.
I've had a few of these whirlwind drives to clean-decorate-organize "all the things", and though very tired when I finally sit down, the sense of accomplishment I get is quite satisfying. There are roughly 8 weeks to go til the due date (okay, so it's actually 7 weeks and a few days...but who's counting?). It seems like a long time to be pregnant when I'm up several times a night waddling to the bathroom, having my hips start to hurt, experiencing heartburn, and feeling like a fat kid when even my maternity shirts aren't completely covering my belly.
And yet, 8 weeks seems like an unbelievably short amount of time when I think of the great changes that will take place. Soon we will be a family of 4! Olivia won't be the only child, and will take on the role of big sister. There will be a precious one keeping us up at night as she adjusts to life outside the womb. I'll get to make the transition from pregnant lady to new Mommy of two. My strong man will soon have THREE women under his care! So many changes!
When my mind tries to process everything that's about to happen, it's like my brain has jumped into the spin cycle of my washing machine. It's dizzying and far too much for me to handle. I'm taking great comfort from Ecclesiastes 3: "For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven". Despite my need to process and prepare for what's to come, I'm challenged to be present. To live today for what it is and where God has me right now. I am Andrew's wife, Olivia's mommy, and carrier of a 4ish lb. little one. I have a home to keep, a toddler to train, a family to feed and clothe. Today I am "living large" as a woman in her eighth month of pregnancy. Parts of my life will change; some things quickly becoming a distant memory. My challenge is to live in the now, do my best with what the Lord has given me for today, and trust Him for the grace to make it through whatever is to come.
Signing off for today - Jenna
While we've had propane for a month, the calendar tells me that we've been back in Texas for two! This blows me away. It's gone by quickly, but then again we've been pretty preoccupied and the days have slipped by. With what appears to be the major/urgent projects behind us, Andrew has been able to tackle unpacking his man-cave, and I've been able to turn my thoughts towards having this baby. I am 32 weeks along and can safely say some nesting instincts are kicking in. I know this because during Olivia's regular afternoon nap, it's unusual for me to go out in the rain to burn trash in the burn barrel, clean out the laundry room, wash the washing machine, dust everything in sight, and rearrange a few pieces of furniture. Not. normal.
I've had a few of these whirlwind drives to clean-decorate-organize "all the things", and though very tired when I finally sit down, the sense of accomplishment I get is quite satisfying. There are roughly 8 weeks to go til the due date (okay, so it's actually 7 weeks and a few days...but who's counting?). It seems like a long time to be pregnant when I'm up several times a night waddling to the bathroom, having my hips start to hurt, experiencing heartburn, and feeling like a fat kid when even my maternity shirts aren't completely covering my belly.
And yet, 8 weeks seems like an unbelievably short amount of time when I think of the great changes that will take place. Soon we will be a family of 4! Olivia won't be the only child, and will take on the role of big sister. There will be a precious one keeping us up at night as she adjusts to life outside the womb. I'll get to make the transition from pregnant lady to new Mommy of two. My strong man will soon have THREE women under his care! So many changes!
When my mind tries to process everything that's about to happen, it's like my brain has jumped into the spin cycle of my washing machine. It's dizzying and far too much for me to handle. I'm taking great comfort from Ecclesiastes 3: "For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven". Despite my need to process and prepare for what's to come, I'm challenged to be present. To live today for what it is and where God has me right now. I am Andrew's wife, Olivia's mommy, and carrier of a 4ish lb. little one. I have a home to keep, a toddler to train, a family to feed and clothe. Today I am "living large" as a woman in her eighth month of pregnancy. Parts of my life will change; some things quickly becoming a distant memory. My challenge is to live in the now, do my best with what the Lord has given me for today, and trust Him for the grace to make it through whatever is to come.
Signing off for today - Jenna
August 24, 2013
The Valleys and the Mountain Tops
Not so long ago, as an unattached woman in my early twenties, I had the privilege of doing a little life in Colorado. I was cooking for a Christian family camp, and during my day(s) off, got to enjoy some hiking and exploring. On one extended weekend off, a couple friends and I took a camping and hiking trip. We spent the coldest night of our lives camping in the San Isabella National Forest; someone neglected to lay a tarp down before the dew hit the ground, so the other girls and I very nearly froze to death. I’m told I spent most of that night chattering: “Soo cold! Soooooo cold!” in what little sleep I was able to get. The following morning, we mustered enough resolve to make a run for the truck to thaw out before going to hike Mt. Sherman, a nearby 14er.
One thing I remember well from that hike was getting above tree line and sensing that we were nearing the peak. We would climb and climb only to discover the spot we’d been striving for was only just a false peak. After so many hopeful, assumed summit experiences, we began to tease that there surely must be 47 false peaks! The climb took much longer than I’d imagined. False peak after false peak, I began to wonder if we’d ever reach the end of our journey. We kept on climbing, and hit a spot where we had to carefully scramble on a tiny ridge (able to tumble down the mountainside if we fell either direction), before finally laying eyes on the summit. Though my mind had played games with me, doubting the peak was truly there, we were in the home stretch! After that final ridge, it was an easy walk along the top, and we had made it to the summit! Hiking with friends made the experience fun as well as doable. I can’t imagine ever doing something like that alone.
Today I find myself in a very different season of life than I was in just a few years ago. The adventures I’m living now involve being married to my wonderful Andrew, raising (and growing!) munchkins, and lately, picking up and moving back down south. The latter has seemed much like my mountain climbing experience. Our transition started in May, and has been a long and arduous journey up to this point. Some of our false peaks have included our house taking 3 weeks to list, selling for much less than we’d hoped because the appraiser refused to include the square footage of our sunroom, diligently searching for 2 months and not finding a home to move into. These and others, on top of being a pregnant mommy, chasing a toddler, and only having Andrew home from work on the weekends.
**beginning of the climb**
Other calamities included getting rid of those pesky roosters a week before our move, the shifting of closing dates, and jeopardy of the only house we had pursued being a no-go…even days before we were supposed to move. It was chaotic, but even when we were down to the wire; the Lord always worked things out. He provided timely messages from our pastor calling us to hold fast through trials and remain faithful, dear friends to help me through the week while Andrew was away, family to visit or call daily to encourage us, and a corporate move than included the packing and loading of our belongings.
**breaths of fresh air**
With all of the pains that it took to finally move, we were anxiously anticipating the downhill slope once we arrived. Only days after we moved into our new-to-us home, the propane tank ran dry, and a leak was detected in the line. Not having propane to fuel our water tank or gas range meant no indoor cooking, or warm water for showers (or the laundry or dishes). Several remedies to fixing our problem were pursued, but in the end, we were told the only solution would be to lay brand new propane lines…at our expense. Despite diligence to handle the situation as quickly as possible, I have learned that home warranty and repair folks are in little hurry. The days without propane have turned into weeks. Three weeks to be exact.
**keep climbing**
As if to discourage us further, the propane drama was quickly followed by the decommissioning of a belt-eating riding lawn mower, the filter on the pool breaking, the discovery that our house’s water filter isn’t working, and the electric oven beginning to malfunction. And all of this has occurred in less than a month of our arrival!!! Scriptures like “Do not grow weary”, and “Count it all joy” have become recurring favorites, some even sung in operatic tones during cold showers.
It’s going to take a while to get everything up and running around here, but the Lord has been gracious and allowed us to remain (mostly) cheerful through these unexpected trials. The pool has a new filter and looks fabulous, the home warranty will cover the oven repair, and as of the phone call yesterday morning, our contractor will be able to start work on the new propane line on Tuesday. Hot showers and indoor cooking may only be just a few days away!
**an end in sight**
While this season of life hasn’t been as easy as we’d hoped, it’s not going to waste. God is growing greater thankfulness in my heart. I’m thankful for my family’s great health, for dear friends who’ve kindly offered their power and showers. Thankful that the propane issue happened now and not in the winter, or when we’re welcoming a new baby! I’m also thankful for my creative husband who, a week into our “going without”, rigged up a solar powered camping shower over our patio so I wouldn’t have to hit the high notes in order to fully wash my hair! His thoughtfulness during this time has been so endearing, and his great attitude such an awesome example to me.
I would love to be able to tell you that we can see the top of this mountain, and will soon be done climbing, but I can’t. I don’t know what a day may hold, or what circumstances may change. What I do know, for sure and for certain, is that God is caring for us, and He always does a beautiful job of providing. Someday soon that provision may include hot indoor showers, and cooking on more than one pan, on one burner on the grill outside. In the meantime, I’ve been reminded that hot water is a blessing, not a right. That indoor cooking is a fabulous convenience, but not a necessity to still feed one’s family well. Also, that we can do with far less of the things we take for granted, and still function. But more importantly, that we can be joyful and praise our faithful Father, who will see us through the valleys as well as the mountain tops.
One thing I remember well from that hike was getting above tree line and sensing that we were nearing the peak. We would climb and climb only to discover the spot we’d been striving for was only just a false peak. After so many hopeful, assumed summit experiences, we began to tease that there surely must be 47 false peaks! The climb took much longer than I’d imagined. False peak after false peak, I began to wonder if we’d ever reach the end of our journey. We kept on climbing, and hit a spot where we had to carefully scramble on a tiny ridge (able to tumble down the mountainside if we fell either direction), before finally laying eyes on the summit. Though my mind had played games with me, doubting the peak was truly there, we were in the home stretch! After that final ridge, it was an easy walk along the top, and we had made it to the summit! Hiking with friends made the experience fun as well as doable. I can’t imagine ever doing something like that alone.
Today I find myself in a very different season of life than I was in just a few years ago. The adventures I’m living now involve being married to my wonderful Andrew, raising (and growing!) munchkins, and lately, picking up and moving back down south. The latter has seemed much like my mountain climbing experience. Our transition started in May, and has been a long and arduous journey up to this point. Some of our false peaks have included our house taking 3 weeks to list, selling for much less than we’d hoped because the appraiser refused to include the square footage of our sunroom, diligently searching for 2 months and not finding a home to move into. These and others, on top of being a pregnant mommy, chasing a toddler, and only having Andrew home from work on the weekends.
**beginning of the climb**
Other calamities included getting rid of those pesky roosters a week before our move, the shifting of closing dates, and jeopardy of the only house we had pursued being a no-go…even days before we were supposed to move. It was chaotic, but even when we were down to the wire; the Lord always worked things out. He provided timely messages from our pastor calling us to hold fast through trials and remain faithful, dear friends to help me through the week while Andrew was away, family to visit or call daily to encourage us, and a corporate move than included the packing and loading of our belongings.
**breaths of fresh air**
With all of the pains that it took to finally move, we were anxiously anticipating the downhill slope once we arrived. Only days after we moved into our new-to-us home, the propane tank ran dry, and a leak was detected in the line. Not having propane to fuel our water tank or gas range meant no indoor cooking, or warm water for showers (or the laundry or dishes). Several remedies to fixing our problem were pursued, but in the end, we were told the only solution would be to lay brand new propane lines…at our expense. Despite diligence to handle the situation as quickly as possible, I have learned that home warranty and repair folks are in little hurry. The days without propane have turned into weeks. Three weeks to be exact.
**keep climbing**
As if to discourage us further, the propane drama was quickly followed by the decommissioning of a belt-eating riding lawn mower, the filter on the pool breaking, the discovery that our house’s water filter isn’t working, and the electric oven beginning to malfunction. And all of this has occurred in less than a month of our arrival!!! Scriptures like “Do not grow weary”, and “Count it all joy” have become recurring favorites, some even sung in operatic tones during cold showers.
It’s going to take a while to get everything up and running around here, but the Lord has been gracious and allowed us to remain (mostly) cheerful through these unexpected trials. The pool has a new filter and looks fabulous, the home warranty will cover the oven repair, and as of the phone call yesterday morning, our contractor will be able to start work on the new propane line on Tuesday. Hot showers and indoor cooking may only be just a few days away!
**an end in sight**
While this season of life hasn’t been as easy as we’d hoped, it’s not going to waste. God is growing greater thankfulness in my heart. I’m thankful for my family’s great health, for dear friends who’ve kindly offered their power and showers. Thankful that the propane issue happened now and not in the winter, or when we’re welcoming a new baby! I’m also thankful for my creative husband who, a week into our “going without”, rigged up a solar powered camping shower over our patio so I wouldn’t have to hit the high notes in order to fully wash my hair! His thoughtfulness during this time has been so endearing, and his great attitude such an awesome example to me.
I would love to be able to tell you that we can see the top of this mountain, and will soon be done climbing, but I can’t. I don’t know what a day may hold, or what circumstances may change. What I do know, for sure and for certain, is that God is caring for us, and He always does a beautiful job of providing. Someday soon that provision may include hot indoor showers, and cooking on more than one pan, on one burner on the grill outside. In the meantime, I’ve been reminded that hot water is a blessing, not a right. That indoor cooking is a fabulous convenience, but not a necessity to still feed one’s family well. Also, that we can do with far less of the things we take for granted, and still function. But more importantly, that we can be joyful and praise our faithful Father, who will see us through the valleys as well as the mountain tops.
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