You don't have to pick up too many pregnancy magazines to hear about a babymoon, a popular trend in which couples take a vacation together to celebrate their last months of independence before baby arrives. The concept has merit-- after all, the introduction of a new life changes the dynamic of a couple's relationship forever and expands their focus. Rather than exclusively focusing on meeting one another's needs, now there is another demand on their attention, one that is loud, messy, and exhausting. Taking a trip to savor one-on-one time isn't a bad idea, but like many other areas of pregnancy preparation, the idea of a babymoon has been blown out of proportion by the commercial machine. Lavish vacations to Europe, the Carribean, grace the pages of the magazines, advertising extravagant resorts or ritzy cruises. The indulgence is excused because it's an escape from the impending reality of parenting.
Now, I'm all for a romantic getaway. My husband and I did just that a couple weekends ago. To celebrate the small window of time that we have a weaned toddler and no nursing infant, we sent my daughter to her grandparent's for a night and headed down to the beach. Eighth floor view of the ocean. Private balcony. Whirlpool tub. Dinner at a restaurant fancy enough to require a new dress. It was great fun and a refreshing chance to just be merely husband and wife for an day. But it wasn't extravagant and it wasn't an attempt to forget the "harsh" reality of parenting.
Throughout my pregnancy, but particularly in these last few months before Baby M makes his or her debut, I've been thinking about another definition of babymoon. It would read something like this--- babymoon: a time of celebrating the relationship between you and your child before your attention is divided by a new baby.
See, my daughter Ember and I are buddies and we do everything together. Since she's only 2 and 1/2 that goes with the territory but it's not merely baby-wrangling that I'm talking about. She gets all of my attention--- whether it's playing in the soapsuds after we wash dishes, cuddling on the couch for an impromptu snuggle, reading stories before we take a nap together, playing tea in the bathtub. We take trips to the library, to the merry-go-round, to Target for pizza and breadsticks or Panera for hot chocolate and a muffin. Just the two of us. As much as I anticipate the arrival of the new baby, as much as I rejoice in the expansion of our family, part of me will miss these days of special togetherness. She's going to have to learn to share me and I'm going to have to learn to share myself, which shouldn't be too much of a problem as soon as I hold that little one in my arms and fall in baby love.
To savor these last few months of Mama-Ember time, I've declared us to be on babymoon. We're not going to Europe but we have gone to Starbucks on a Big Girl Date. We've gone to the beach to get sand. We do small crafts together or snuggle a little longer before bedtime. We read more stories. Little, tiny things that not only celebrate the time we've had as peas in a pod but also celebrate the change that's coming. I have to say that I've enjoyed this far more than I would some break-the-bank trip meant to escape from parenting. My babymoon is a time of small, simple celebrations of the sweeter side of parenting, praising God for the daughter He's given me even as I make room in my heart-- and my lap-- for the child yet on its way.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
Stuffed Animals
Warning: this post contains explicit reference to stuffed animals, a known source of cuteness and even corniness, so go ahead and roll your eyes now
You never forget your stuffed animals.
We adults may not be able to remember most of the Christmas presents or birthday presents we received in our childhood, much less every toy we loved, but there seems to be a wrinkle in our brain reserved for our first-- and best? -- friends.
The queen of the nursery in my case was Red Baby Doll, so named for her red cotton braids and velvet red dress (with matching cap of course). She shared my cradle, my crib, and my bed for many years and naturally we did almost everything together. When I packed a tiny suitcase for my first trip away from home, she was with me. When I developed my bad habit of biting my nails, I chewed up her plastic fingers as well so we'd look alike.
While she was certainly the ruler of the roost, I had an entire collection of well-loved, well-used stuffed animals. My love for narrative surfaced at a very early age and the gallery of stuffed animals were characters in stories I made up for us to play. I remember once turning my entire room into a cave that was a secret hospital for wounded soldiers hiding from the Nazis. The animals, of course, were my soldiers and I was the brave army nurse, tending their wounds with the sound of German boots above my head.
My daughter, at two and half, plays more simple games with her animals-- trips to the cookie store or horse riding lessons on her toy pony-- but it's already clear they have her heart. There's Daddy Monkey, who is currently Head Animal and the one most likely to cause meltdown if he's absent come bedtime. Daddy Teddy is newer, a thrift store find we brought home for a quarter, but he's also popular on the pillow circuit. We have a whole slew of baby animals-- Baby Monkey, Baby Teddy, Baby Bear, Baby Lamb, and Baby Tiger. (Baby Tiger, she informs me, is often mean to Baby Monkey and has to go into time out). Some of the animals, such as Mama Lamb, were mine when I was her age and have been called out of attic retirement to serve a second generation. All are loved and all have a unique role. Daddy Monkey is an essential sleeping buddy, now often joinred by Daddy Teddy. The Babies are her story-making friends-- she can spend forty-five minutes enacting her made-up narratives, which often mimic her life. She nurses them, puts them to sleep, pushes them in her stroller, disciplines them when they fight. Often our errands are not complete unless one of them is with her, along with his or her "diaper bag" of essentials. Some of them don't look quite as plush as when they entered our home-- Daddy Monkey, for instance, has weathered at least one bout of stomach flu---- but even the smallest animal is missed when he's not in his place at the end of the day.
Tonight I was cleaning up her little family, noticing how one looked worn out from washing or another had managed to (yet again) lose his shirt and the thought occurred to me--- this is a lot like the family of God. Some of us are missing a bit of fluff or a button nose; some of us have been through the washer a time or two. Our stitches show, evidence of loving repair jobs on the rips and tears we've accumulated along the way. We do different things, have different purposes, but we are all very much loved. We are all part of the story God is telling, and He has specific roles for each of us to play. At the end of the day, when He gathers up his family to bring them home, we'll all be in our places around His table.
The thought, while not terribly original or profound, made me smile. Sometimes the best role models for our daily walk are right under our noses, or in this case, on my daughter's pillow.
You never forget your stuffed animals.
We adults may not be able to remember most of the Christmas presents or birthday presents we received in our childhood, much less every toy we loved, but there seems to be a wrinkle in our brain reserved for our first-- and best? -- friends.
The queen of the nursery in my case was Red Baby Doll, so named for her red cotton braids and velvet red dress (with matching cap of course). She shared my cradle, my crib, and my bed for many years and naturally we did almost everything together. When I packed a tiny suitcase for my first trip away from home, she was with me. When I developed my bad habit of biting my nails, I chewed up her plastic fingers as well so we'd look alike.
While she was certainly the ruler of the roost, I had an entire collection of well-loved, well-used stuffed animals. My love for narrative surfaced at a very early age and the gallery of stuffed animals were characters in stories I made up for us to play. I remember once turning my entire room into a cave that was a secret hospital for wounded soldiers hiding from the Nazis. The animals, of course, were my soldiers and I was the brave army nurse, tending their wounds with the sound of German boots above my head.
My daughter, at two and half, plays more simple games with her animals-- trips to the cookie store or horse riding lessons on her toy pony-- but it's already clear they have her heart. There's Daddy Monkey, who is currently Head Animal and the one most likely to cause meltdown if he's absent come bedtime. Daddy Teddy is newer, a thrift store find we brought home for a quarter, but he's also popular on the pillow circuit. We have a whole slew of baby animals-- Baby Monkey, Baby Teddy, Baby Bear, Baby Lamb, and Baby Tiger. (Baby Tiger, she informs me, is often mean to Baby Monkey and has to go into time out). Some of the animals, such as Mama Lamb, were mine when I was her age and have been called out of attic retirement to serve a second generation. All are loved and all have a unique role. Daddy Monkey is an essential sleeping buddy, now often joinred by Daddy Teddy. The Babies are her story-making friends-- she can spend forty-five minutes enacting her made-up narratives, which often mimic her life. She nurses them, puts them to sleep, pushes them in her stroller, disciplines them when they fight. Often our errands are not complete unless one of them is with her, along with his or her "diaper bag" of essentials. Some of them don't look quite as plush as when they entered our home-- Daddy Monkey, for instance, has weathered at least one bout of stomach flu---- but even the smallest animal is missed when he's not in his place at the end of the day.
Tonight I was cleaning up her little family, noticing how one looked worn out from washing or another had managed to (yet again) lose his shirt and the thought occurred to me--- this is a lot like the family of God. Some of us are missing a bit of fluff or a button nose; some of us have been through the washer a time or two. Our stitches show, evidence of loving repair jobs on the rips and tears we've accumulated along the way. We do different things, have different purposes, but we are all very much loved. We are all part of the story God is telling, and He has specific roles for each of us to play. At the end of the day, when He gathers up his family to bring them home, we'll all be in our places around His table.
The thought, while not terribly original or profound, made me smile. Sometimes the best role models for our daily walk are right under our noses, or in this case, on my daughter's pillow.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Baby Essentials
Pregnancy junk mail is sneaky, even more than its instant credit card and retailer coupon cousins. While credit cards or too good to be true discounts appeal to our more selfish instincts-- more money, more stuff, more consuming-- mommy mail often masquerades as earnest advice for confused newbie parents. My recent Baby Depot mailer promised to tell me what I really needed for my new baby....and conveniently they had all of it in stock for 60% off the regular price!
The list was as follows
Don't get me wrong....I'm all for nesting. Readying the home for the baby is an enjoyable aspect of pregnancy, and necessary too because of course the baby needs things. But don't let a baby store tell you what those things are. Before you shell out two hundred dollars for a bedding set or a thousand dollars for a crib, ask yourself if it is really going to benefit your baby or just your idea of a fairytale nursery.
When my daughter Ember was born, we didn't have much money to buy all the things we were "supposed" to have, and neither did we care. The church shower provided us with most of the essentials, and we scrounged thrift stores for a few pieces of baby equipment that we thought we'd need. My parents loaned us the cradle they'd used for me. Ironically, most of these items were never used. The stroller sat idle because we'd discovered the joys of babywearing, and the cradle was empty because we also figured out that co-sleeping worked best for an all-night nurser. She didn't like the baby swings, having figured out that the Mommy Swing-- snug in her pouch-- was much more to her taste. We fashioned a homemade co-sleeper out of some tubs and the top of a pack and play but most of the time she ended up in the bed. We never had matching bedding because so many of our friends had given us beautiful handmade blankets that it was more fun to use them all than just one or two. We used the baby tub twice then decided that the sink or a shared bath with Mommy or Daddy worked much better. The "changing table" turned out to be wherever was handiest to lay the changing pads.
I never felt deprived of what I needed to mother Ember, and she certainly didn't seem to notice that she was missing quite a few of the "baby essentials." I'm not saying that every parent needs to make do with as little as possible, or that every parent will need the some things. For some, a crib or a baby swing or a stroller might be absolutely necessary. All I'm advocating is a bit of mindfulness in the process of preparation.
As I said, everyone's "essential" list will be different but if I had to come up with one here's what it would be. I'm an at-home mom who intends to exclusively nurse so my needs are somewhat different than a working or bottle-feeding mom. I'm also omitting the obvious such as clothes, blankets, diapers, etc.
The list was as follows
- changing table
- crib
- crib bedding
- dresser
- rocker or glider and ottomon
- infant car seat
- travel system/stroller
- play yard
- bouncer seat
- stationary exerciser
- swing
- bottles
- breast pump
- nursing pillow
- high chair
- bath tub
- receiving blankets
- basic body suits
- layette
Don't get me wrong....I'm all for nesting. Readying the home for the baby is an enjoyable aspect of pregnancy, and necessary too because of course the baby needs things. But don't let a baby store tell you what those things are. Before you shell out two hundred dollars for a bedding set or a thousand dollars for a crib, ask yourself if it is really going to benefit your baby or just your idea of a fairytale nursery.
When my daughter Ember was born, we didn't have much money to buy all the things we were "supposed" to have, and neither did we care. The church shower provided us with most of the essentials, and we scrounged thrift stores for a few pieces of baby equipment that we thought we'd need. My parents loaned us the cradle they'd used for me. Ironically, most of these items were never used. The stroller sat idle because we'd discovered the joys of babywearing, and the cradle was empty because we also figured out that co-sleeping worked best for an all-night nurser. She didn't like the baby swings, having figured out that the Mommy Swing-- snug in her pouch-- was much more to her taste. We fashioned a homemade co-sleeper out of some tubs and the top of a pack and play but most of the time she ended up in the bed. We never had matching bedding because so many of our friends had given us beautiful handmade blankets that it was more fun to use them all than just one or two. We used the baby tub twice then decided that the sink or a shared bath with Mommy or Daddy worked much better. The "changing table" turned out to be wherever was handiest to lay the changing pads.
I never felt deprived of what I needed to mother Ember, and she certainly didn't seem to notice that she was missing quite a few of the "baby essentials." I'm not saying that every parent needs to make do with as little as possible, or that every parent will need the some things. For some, a crib or a baby swing or a stroller might be absolutely necessary. All I'm advocating is a bit of mindfulness in the process of preparation.
As I said, everyone's "essential" list will be different but if I had to come up with one here's what it would be. I'm an at-home mom who intends to exclusively nurse so my needs are somewhat different than a working or bottle-feeding mom. I'm also omitting the obvious such as clothes, blankets, diapers, etc.
- Some type of soft baby carrier, be it a sling, pouch, wrap, or mei tai. The one thing I could not live without.
- A boppy or some other type of nursing pillow
- A baby seat
- Swaddling blankets
- La Leche League's The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding
Thursday, December 25, 2008
The Weaning Path
If I say it very softly, maybe my daughter won't hear-- she's weaning.
When I found out I was pregnant, I decided that we would attempt to wean Ember at night, to prepare for the nighttime nursing marathons that no doubt will arrive with the new baby. Tandem nursing during the day was always on the table, if that's what she wanted, but I was surprised and delighted at how much she took charge of the process.
I say she because while I've encouraged her and led her down the path of weaning, she's the one who's made the decision. At first it was a few less nursings during the day-- after all, there are so many things to do-- then it was a few less at night. Nursing to sleep, whether at nap or bedtime, was the last to go, once she discovered how much fun it was for Mommy to make up stories about horses. They are our special stories, told only when it's time to go to sleep, and most of them end with Baby Horse being tucked into bed or snuggling up with Mommy and Daddy Horse. She loves it.
I thought I would be heartbroken when she stopped nursing, but instead I'm pleased at how naturally it's gone and how she's chosen other forms of closeness in its place. Physical contact with the "na nas" is still important to her, and we snuggle or cuddle often during the day. At night she often reaches for them if she's waking from a nightmare, seeking the reassurance she needs to fall back to sleep. Instead of emptiness, I feel great satisfaction that we've journeyed this long together as mother and nursling, and now she's changing roles to independent big sister as I prepare for another hungry little one.
Once I wasn't sure whether or not I believed that child-led weaning was a reality. I'd read about it and the concept rang true with my mothering instincts but so many other mothers I knew talked about deliberate and artificial weaning processes. I didn't want that for Ember but wasn't sure if I was just being idealistic. As it turns out, I didn't have to pry her from the breast. She's letting go, as she's ready. Since the "end" of her nursing, she's nursed once during an illness, and I'll nurse her again if that's what she asks. Weaning is a path not a one-stop destination. I thank God for every single nursing-- even the ones that made me cry, gave me chapped nipples, woke me up every hour of the night. I thank Him for the chance to do it all over again with my second child and for the blossoming of my first, from newborn all the way now to little girl.
Weaning, just like breastfeeding, is its own gift, given in its own time. It's a path I can say I'm happy to walk without knowing exactly where or how it's going to end.
When I found out I was pregnant, I decided that we would attempt to wean Ember at night, to prepare for the nighttime nursing marathons that no doubt will arrive with the new baby. Tandem nursing during the day was always on the table, if that's what she wanted, but I was surprised and delighted at how much she took charge of the process.
I say she because while I've encouraged her and led her down the path of weaning, she's the one who's made the decision. At first it was a few less nursings during the day-- after all, there are so many things to do-- then it was a few less at night. Nursing to sleep, whether at nap or bedtime, was the last to go, once she discovered how much fun it was for Mommy to make up stories about horses. They are our special stories, told only when it's time to go to sleep, and most of them end with Baby Horse being tucked into bed or snuggling up with Mommy and Daddy Horse. She loves it.
I thought I would be heartbroken when she stopped nursing, but instead I'm pleased at how naturally it's gone and how she's chosen other forms of closeness in its place. Physical contact with the "na nas" is still important to her, and we snuggle or cuddle often during the day. At night she often reaches for them if she's waking from a nightmare, seeking the reassurance she needs to fall back to sleep. Instead of emptiness, I feel great satisfaction that we've journeyed this long together as mother and nursling, and now she's changing roles to independent big sister as I prepare for another hungry little one.
Once I wasn't sure whether or not I believed that child-led weaning was a reality. I'd read about it and the concept rang true with my mothering instincts but so many other mothers I knew talked about deliberate and artificial weaning processes. I didn't want that for Ember but wasn't sure if I was just being idealistic. As it turns out, I didn't have to pry her from the breast. She's letting go, as she's ready. Since the "end" of her nursing, she's nursed once during an illness, and I'll nurse her again if that's what she asks. Weaning is a path not a one-stop destination. I thank God for every single nursing-- even the ones that made me cry, gave me chapped nipples, woke me up every hour of the night. I thank Him for the chance to do it all over again with my second child and for the blossoming of my first, from newborn all the way now to little girl.
Weaning, just like breastfeeding, is its own gift, given in its own time. It's a path I can say I'm happy to walk without knowing exactly where or how it's going to end.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Out of The Cave
It's been quiet around here because I've spent the first three months of my pregnancy in hiding. If I could have holed up in a dark, secluded cave for the last twelve weeks, believe me, I would have! But of course, there is still a house to tend and a toddler who needs her Mommy, pregnant or not.
Since this pregnancy was deliberate-- not only planned but longed for-- I thought it would be smoother than my first. After all, I wasn't a surprised rookie. I had been through morning sickness, fatigue, the whole nine yards. No sooner did I put down my positive pregnancy test did I plan my pregnancy strategy in detail-- I would soldier on, making sure to keep the house together, exercise daily, restrict my diet, and spend extra time teaching Ember all the things I wanted her to know before the baby got here. I bought sewing patterns for maternity clothes and infant clothes, determined to make my own pregnancy wardrobe as well as the baby's layette. I would be a Uber-Capable Mom!
A week later, I was on the couch, convinced I would never move again short of flood or fire. I couldn't drink anything but bottles of water tinged with ginger ale and didn't want to eat anything that wasn't a carbohydrate. The exhaustion surprised me with its sheer....exhaustiveness... as I often found myself unable to function longer than thirty minutes without collapsing on the couch for a cat nap. I didn't remember being that tired with the first pregnancy but then again, I didn't have a toddler. (Ember, for the record, was heroic. She tucked her baby doll blankets around me when I was tired and patted my head or my tummy. Once she learned what my anti-nausea drops were, she'd bring me one every time I started to gag. I couldn't believe that my two year old little girl was mothering me.)
As for my sewing plans, I found that I could even look at material or yarn without getting sick. My husband had to pack all my craft supplies away in the garage, where I couldn't go anyway due to the smell of the cat's litter box, which is practically mustard gas to my pregnant-lady nose. Ah, maternal bliss!
But the most unexpected and difficult aspect of the trimester was the emotional upheaval that caught me completely off guard. In my first pregnancy, I was actually less emotional because I was no longer on birth control pills (which made my hormones wonky) and I expected little to no change with the new baby. Wrong. I found myself smack in the middle of a completely irrational depression that stuck to me like a rock in my chest no matter what I did. It didn't make sense, I told the Lord. I wanted the baby. I was amazed and grateful for His timing and for the new life in me. I had family support and a network of fellow moms who all would help me in any way I needed. More than that, I had the Holy Spirit and His daily grace to sustain me. Why couldn't I shake the black dog on my heels? The experience was very similar to my post-partum depression after Ember's birth, which was hormonally influenced and disappeared once my body got back into sync. I hadn't expected to face that battle again until after the baby, and certainly not for an entire three months!
Sometimes we can't lift ourselves out of a valley. We have to walk on through, stubborn in our faith that the path we are on is right even if everything about it is going wrong. One part of me knew that I had to do whatever I could to order my thoughts then just grit my teeth and get through the days until my body worked out the hormones. Another part of my was disgusted at my failure to live up to my self-made idol of Capable Mom that I'd fashioned at the beginning of the pregnancy. Capable Moms do not crouch in the stall of the church bathroom sobbing for no apparent reason! They keep up their exercise programs and count their calories! They spend their first trimesters in a state of calm resolve, dealing with the physical and emotional upheaval with one hand behind their backs!
God let me beat myself up for a while (I insisted) before He put the question in my mind-- whose standard are you using to judge yourself? What you think other moms expect of you? What you think will give you the most control or pride in your ability to keep juggling all the balls? What about what He wants or expects of me? His yoke is easy and his burden is light, a far cry from all the rocks I piled on my back only to be confused when I couldn't carry them. I gladly exchanged my idea of a perfect pregnant mom for a simpler, more God-honoring goal: do what I can with each day and no more.
Now that I'm into my second trimester, the clouds have definitely started to clear. My body is settling into the pregnancy, physically and emotionally, but more importantly, I've gotten rid of the idea that I am the one in control of all of this. Pregnancy and birth, more than anything I've encountered in my life so far, demands surrender. I can cling to my illusion of control but God brought this life into the world and He's the one growing it every day. In His way, not mine. It is the same for the birth-- I can plan and hope and work towards a certain labor but only God knows how He wants this baby to come into the world. And what He choses will be best. Why do I keep having to re-learn that simple truth?
My job is faithfulness in walking the path, not steering the course. Every time I take over the map, I end up lost.
So it's out of the cave, back to the fresh air and sunshine. I don't regret my time there, or what it's taught me. I'm happy that I can now eat oranges without getting sick, go for a walk with Ember without collapsing on the couch, and look at the day with hope in my heart and strength in my bones. Because it's not about my strength anymore. What freedom! Who knows, I may even knit something.
Since this pregnancy was deliberate-- not only planned but longed for-- I thought it would be smoother than my first. After all, I wasn't a surprised rookie. I had been through morning sickness, fatigue, the whole nine yards. No sooner did I put down my positive pregnancy test did I plan my pregnancy strategy in detail-- I would soldier on, making sure to keep the house together, exercise daily, restrict my diet, and spend extra time teaching Ember all the things I wanted her to know before the baby got here. I bought sewing patterns for maternity clothes and infant clothes, determined to make my own pregnancy wardrobe as well as the baby's layette. I would be a Uber-Capable Mom!
A week later, I was on the couch, convinced I would never move again short of flood or fire. I couldn't drink anything but bottles of water tinged with ginger ale and didn't want to eat anything that wasn't a carbohydrate. The exhaustion surprised me with its sheer....exhaustiveness... as I often found myself unable to function longer than thirty minutes without collapsing on the couch for a cat nap. I didn't remember being that tired with the first pregnancy but then again, I didn't have a toddler. (Ember, for the record, was heroic. She tucked her baby doll blankets around me when I was tired and patted my head or my tummy. Once she learned what my anti-nausea drops were, she'd bring me one every time I started to gag. I couldn't believe that my two year old little girl was mothering me.)
As for my sewing plans, I found that I could even look at material or yarn without getting sick. My husband had to pack all my craft supplies away in the garage, where I couldn't go anyway due to the smell of the cat's litter box, which is practically mustard gas to my pregnant-lady nose. Ah, maternal bliss!
But the most unexpected and difficult aspect of the trimester was the emotional upheaval that caught me completely off guard. In my first pregnancy, I was actually less emotional because I was no longer on birth control pills (which made my hormones wonky) and I expected little to no change with the new baby. Wrong. I found myself smack in the middle of a completely irrational depression that stuck to me like a rock in my chest no matter what I did. It didn't make sense, I told the Lord. I wanted the baby. I was amazed and grateful for His timing and for the new life in me. I had family support and a network of fellow moms who all would help me in any way I needed. More than that, I had the Holy Spirit and His daily grace to sustain me. Why couldn't I shake the black dog on my heels? The experience was very similar to my post-partum depression after Ember's birth, which was hormonally influenced and disappeared once my body got back into sync. I hadn't expected to face that battle again until after the baby, and certainly not for an entire three months!
Sometimes we can't lift ourselves out of a valley. We have to walk on through, stubborn in our faith that the path we are on is right even if everything about it is going wrong. One part of me knew that I had to do whatever I could to order my thoughts then just grit my teeth and get through the days until my body worked out the hormones. Another part of my was disgusted at my failure to live up to my self-made idol of Capable Mom that I'd fashioned at the beginning of the pregnancy. Capable Moms do not crouch in the stall of the church bathroom sobbing for no apparent reason! They keep up their exercise programs and count their calories! They spend their first trimesters in a state of calm resolve, dealing with the physical and emotional upheaval with one hand behind their backs!
God let me beat myself up for a while (I insisted) before He put the question in my mind-- whose standard are you using to judge yourself? What you think other moms expect of you? What you think will give you the most control or pride in your ability to keep juggling all the balls? What about what He wants or expects of me? His yoke is easy and his burden is light, a far cry from all the rocks I piled on my back only to be confused when I couldn't carry them. I gladly exchanged my idea of a perfect pregnant mom for a simpler, more God-honoring goal: do what I can with each day and no more.
Now that I'm into my second trimester, the clouds have definitely started to clear. My body is settling into the pregnancy, physically and emotionally, but more importantly, I've gotten rid of the idea that I am the one in control of all of this. Pregnancy and birth, more than anything I've encountered in my life so far, demands surrender. I can cling to my illusion of control but God brought this life into the world and He's the one growing it every day. In His way, not mine. It is the same for the birth-- I can plan and hope and work towards a certain labor but only God knows how He wants this baby to come into the world. And what He choses will be best. Why do I keep having to re-learn that simple truth?
My job is faithfulness in walking the path, not steering the course. Every time I take over the map, I end up lost.
So it's out of the cave, back to the fresh air and sunshine. I don't regret my time there, or what it's taught me. I'm happy that I can now eat oranges without getting sick, go for a walk with Ember without collapsing on the couch, and look at the day with hope in my heart and strength in my bones. Because it's not about my strength anymore. What freedom! Who knows, I may even knit something.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Labor of Love
My two-year old daughter is out on a walk with her Grandma and I'm spending my few precious moments of solitude making a pumpkin bag for her first Harvest festival. The pumpkin print is making me sea-sick, thanks to my pregnancy nausea, and I'm not sure why I'm doing this when I can be curled up on the couch reading a book or-- wonderful thought-- sleeping. It's not like we're short on tote bags or old grocery bags around here; she'd be happy to lug anything around the festival as long as it was filled with candy. I wonder, for a moment, why I'm doing this when she isn't even old enough to appreciate the difference between a special Mommy-made treat bag and a Food Lion reject.
The answer is the same as so many other aspects of mothering--- it's a labor of love. We gift our children with so much of ourselves and our time but we don't expect them, in the young toddler years, to be overtly grateful. At least not in so many words. Our delight comes from their delight; our joy from their joy. Ember's smile when she sees her "candy purse" will be worth the half hour of rest I gave up to sew for her. No question about it.
I was pressing the seams in the finished tote bag when I realized that it's the same with God. When He gives our family something good-- a raise at my husband's job, a pregnancy after months of prayer-- I instantly worry that He'll take His blessings away if I don't "keep up the hard work" required to deserve such gifts. But He doesn't work like that. He gives good things to His beloveds for many reasons, one of which I believe is simply to see us smile. As with a mother and daughter, our joy is His joy. We're not toddlers--- we should know how to be grateful-- but even our most sincere gratitude is insufficient compared to His overwhelming goodness. Rather than diminish His kindness by expecting it to come with conditions, we should rejoice in what He has given.
It makes His heart glad when we bask in His lovingkindness.
Thanks be to God for His unspeakable gifts!
The answer is the same as so many other aspects of mothering--- it's a labor of love. We gift our children with so much of ourselves and our time but we don't expect them, in the young toddler years, to be overtly grateful. At least not in so many words. Our delight comes from their delight; our joy from their joy. Ember's smile when she sees her "candy purse" will be worth the half hour of rest I gave up to sew for her. No question about it.
I was pressing the seams in the finished tote bag when I realized that it's the same with God. When He gives our family something good-- a raise at my husband's job, a pregnancy after months of prayer-- I instantly worry that He'll take His blessings away if I don't "keep up the hard work" required to deserve such gifts. But He doesn't work like that. He gives good things to His beloveds for many reasons, one of which I believe is simply to see us smile. As with a mother and daughter, our joy is His joy. We're not toddlers--- we should know how to be grateful-- but even our most sincere gratitude is insufficient compared to His overwhelming goodness. Rather than diminish His kindness by expecting it to come with conditions, we should rejoice in what He has given.
It makes His heart glad when we bask in His lovingkindness.
Thanks be to God for His unspeakable gifts!
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Nesting
A little over a month ago, I wrote this poem...
Empty Nest
come, little soul,
rest in my womb.
leave off now your long journey of skies,
dwell on my bough.
my branches are sturdy,
my nest is warm with birch bark,
with pine needles and stolen yarn.
i will nourish you with breadcrumbs
and lullabies,
i will warm you through snowfall and wind,
i will cradle you with evergreen.
i will be your shelter
and you
my promise of spring.
-------------------------------------
Now my womb is indeed become a nest, my prayer child a
tiny flesh and blood miracle, and my heart an overflow of joy.
Sleep well, my little bird. Sleep in peace and grow strong.
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