I always have fancied myself something of a feminist. I come by it honestly; I was raised by one. She raised us to be fiercely independant, emphasizing self-reliance and education. She planted the seed that my sisters and I could be anything we wanted to be: have any career, explore any field, take on the world. She is a strong, empowered woman and she raised three of us in her image. I'm very grateful to my mom and often a little in awe of her.
Another nice thing about my mom is that in the panoply of "things I could be if I wanted to be," homemaker was among them. She might not have been as cool with it if I had launched into my current career choice fresh out of high school or even mid-college, but she is not one of those who think I have somehow squandered my education or demeaned myself by choosing to raise my kids. In fact, she is very supportive and I'm grateful for that as well.
Being a feminist homemaker is harder than it sounds though. Or maybe it's not since it sounds like an oxymoron. The child rearing part is not a problem. I like taking the responsibility for teaching my kids and hopefully molding them into delightful, enlightened, maybe a little non-conforming members of society. It's the whole "making a home" thing. It invokes images of June Cleaver and Betty Draper (season one Betty, I mean). It involves a vacuum cleaner. Whenever I am preparing dinner from one of my antique Betty Crocker cookbooks I look at the pictures and shudder a little at the happy stick-figures in flouncy skirts holding out steaming casserole dishes to their seated husbands. Seated! It strikes a primordial chord deep within me that threatens to incite rebellion.
As I hope you all have guessed from reading this blog, my goal in life is to be closer to God. To live in His will. And so, in recent years, I have tried to read up on some Christian marriage and family books in the hopes that they will offer me a solution to the feminisit housewife dichotomy. After all, I have read a lot of Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, etc, etc. It's only right to approach these things from a balanced perspective.
I'm struggling. I did a Bible study on the book "The New Eve" by Robert Lewis. It has some good stuff in there and I really enjoyed the time with ladies I studied with. I got to hear some perspectives that were very different from my own. I learned; I grew. All of that being said, I cannot say I liked the book. Because when it comes down to it, the idea of teaching my daughter that her purpose in life is to find a husband and start popping out babies makes me vomit. And while that is not 100% of what Lewis is saying...it's in there.
So now I'm reading "The Power of the Praying Wife" by Stormie Omartian. At least I'm trying to. It's slow going. Not because it's poorly written...it's not. Not because the chapters are long...they're actually very short. But rather because as I'm reading happily along I run into something about staying attractive for our husbands or anticipating their needs and the bile rises in the back of my throat. I have a sudden and almost overwhelming urge to grow out my underarm hair and burn my bra.
My husband, by the way, is innocent in all of this. He does not expect me at the door wearing a dress involving a petticoat and holding a piping hot lasagna. In fact, that would totally freak him out. He insists he knew what he was getting when he married me. But it hasn't been all music and roses in our marriage and, like a good recovering alcoholic, I'm trying to figure out my side of the street in all this and do the next right thing. Like a good Christian, I'm trying to figure out God's will for my life and what being a Christian wife looks like.
Like everything else, there is no easy answer. Phillip and I are never going to be Ozzie and Harriet, if only for the fact that I never iron...anything. There has to be a balance, though, between needing him, as Steinem would say, "like a fish needs a bicycle" and joyfully picking up his dirty socks in a Stepford-wife, possibly lithium-induced, trance. So it's back to the drawing board (aka the library) for me. Because I know there is hope for us, we the Christian feminists. Hear us roar.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
The Power of the Words
I'm doing a Bible study right now called "Me, Myself, and Lies" by Jennifer Rothschild. It's about the self-talk we have, the things we say to ourselves that aren't God's truths and that break us down rather than build us up. It sparked a conversation among some of the ladies about sayings in our families about the things we speak, not to ourselves, but out loud. Like if you say your kid is a holy terror and your mother says: "Don't speak that over her!" Or if you say that you are getting sick, it's: "Don't confess it!" In our family, we talk about not "claiming" things. It's all the same thing. It seems like bad luck to speak evil, or even just potentially uncomfortable, "truths" over your life.
I know some people think this is a form of superstition, but I disagree. Our words definitely have power. In a Toltec wisdom book I once read the author talked about our words being spells and that we are always weaving magic. The only question is whether it is good or bad magic. The Bible puts it like this: "Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it shall eat its fruits." That is some serious stuff.
So I have a little litany of things I say to my kids on a regular basis. When we are snuggling, I often ask them, "Do you know that you are fearfully and wonderfully made? That you are Mommy's blessing? That Jesus loves you? That you are the best ever you?" There are some variations but you get the general picture. One day I was saying these things to Baby Girl and she nodded sagely and declared, "I'm Baby Girl." It was thrilling. It made my day that she would define herself according to the perfect creation she is in Christ.
It is a practice I started with Eddie. I already was convinced by the time of his birth that the words you spoke over your children had power. Dramatic, tangible power either for good or for evil. And the words spoken over him were, in general, horrific. Sickness, struggle, hopelessness, death. To combat it we made a rule early on that if visitor could not be positive when they came into his room, if they had to cry or scream or carry on, if they could not speak love and hope to him that, sadly, they just could not come in the room. Anyone. Family, friend, pastor, whatever. It was a "love only" zone.
Of course, we could not help what was spoken over him by the medical staff. Some of it, admittedly, was necessary conversation. But I tried to counteract it. After rounds or after an update about his condition, I would tell Eddie he was beautiful. That he was perfect. That God had created him and that he was strong. He was my warrior, mi vida, y mi corazon. I would rock him and ask him: "Do you know how God made you? Daddy had so much love in his heart for Mommy that, if he didn't get rid of some of it, his heart was going to explode. And Mommy had soooo much love in her heart for Daddy that, if she didn't get rid of some of it, her heart was going to explode. So Daddy took half the love in his heart and Mommy took half the love in hers and God put it together and made Eddie. So don't ever forget, my baby, you are made of love. From the top of your head to the tips of your toes and everything in between." I would touch the top of his head, the tips of his toes, and lightly tickle him from head to toe while I said the last part. Even under dire circumstances, it almost never failed to get a smile.
Obviously our words are not magic charms. I could speak health to Eddie's liver all day long (and there are some days I tried) and in the end it would still fail him. But they are powerful and we need to choose them carefully. There will be attacks on my children's self-esteem that I cannot control, but I'm hoping to have filled them with enough knowledge of their perfection in Christ that they survive virtually unscathed. Not that I think my kids are perfect; they make bad choices sometimes, I know. And I'm not perfect either. I tend to call Baby Girl a "toot" but she at this point wears the label with pride. I overheard Baby Boy tell his little sister the other day in a voice that sounded oddly like my own: "I've had it with you today!" So I know I may be weaving a little black magic into their lives. But I'm trying really, really hard not to. Because I know that while my words couldn't heal Eddie, they made his life better. They mattered. In his last hours of life, when he began to grow anxious as his vision faded and who knows what else he experienced, I said to him: "Do you know how God made you?" He relaxed immediately, sinking into my arms, knowing who and where he was and, I think, where he was going.
So I'm going to keep speaking God's truth over my children until they are sick of hearing it. I'm going to tell them that they are fearfully and wonderfully made. That Jesus loves them. That God made them exactly the way that they are and that they are perfect creations in Him. And, while I'm at it, I may go back into their room and say, "You are getting sleepy...sleeeepy....SLLLEEEEEEPPPPYYY!" It's worth a try, right?
I know some people think this is a form of superstition, but I disagree. Our words definitely have power. In a Toltec wisdom book I once read the author talked about our words being spells and that we are always weaving magic. The only question is whether it is good or bad magic. The Bible puts it like this: "Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it shall eat its fruits." That is some serious stuff.
So I have a little litany of things I say to my kids on a regular basis. When we are snuggling, I often ask them, "Do you know that you are fearfully and wonderfully made? That you are Mommy's blessing? That Jesus loves you? That you are the best ever you?" There are some variations but you get the general picture. One day I was saying these things to Baby Girl and she nodded sagely and declared, "I'm Baby Girl." It was thrilling. It made my day that she would define herself according to the perfect creation she is in Christ.
It is a practice I started with Eddie. I already was convinced by the time of his birth that the words you spoke over your children had power. Dramatic, tangible power either for good or for evil. And the words spoken over him were, in general, horrific. Sickness, struggle, hopelessness, death. To combat it we made a rule early on that if visitor could not be positive when they came into his room, if they had to cry or scream or carry on, if they could not speak love and hope to him that, sadly, they just could not come in the room. Anyone. Family, friend, pastor, whatever. It was a "love only" zone.
Of course, we could not help what was spoken over him by the medical staff. Some of it, admittedly, was necessary conversation. But I tried to counteract it. After rounds or after an update about his condition, I would tell Eddie he was beautiful. That he was perfect. That God had created him and that he was strong. He was my warrior, mi vida, y mi corazon. I would rock him and ask him: "Do you know how God made you? Daddy had so much love in his heart for Mommy that, if he didn't get rid of some of it, his heart was going to explode. And Mommy had soooo much love in her heart for Daddy that, if she didn't get rid of some of it, her heart was going to explode. So Daddy took half the love in his heart and Mommy took half the love in hers and God put it together and made Eddie. So don't ever forget, my baby, you are made of love. From the top of your head to the tips of your toes and everything in between." I would touch the top of his head, the tips of his toes, and lightly tickle him from head to toe while I said the last part. Even under dire circumstances, it almost never failed to get a smile.
Obviously our words are not magic charms. I could speak health to Eddie's liver all day long (and there are some days I tried) and in the end it would still fail him. But they are powerful and we need to choose them carefully. There will be attacks on my children's self-esteem that I cannot control, but I'm hoping to have filled them with enough knowledge of their perfection in Christ that they survive virtually unscathed. Not that I think my kids are perfect; they make bad choices sometimes, I know. And I'm not perfect either. I tend to call Baby Girl a "toot" but she at this point wears the label with pride. I overheard Baby Boy tell his little sister the other day in a voice that sounded oddly like my own: "I've had it with you today!" So I know I may be weaving a little black magic into their lives. But I'm trying really, really hard not to. Because I know that while my words couldn't heal Eddie, they made his life better. They mattered. In his last hours of life, when he began to grow anxious as his vision faded and who knows what else he experienced, I said to him: "Do you know how God made you?" He relaxed immediately, sinking into my arms, knowing who and where he was and, I think, where he was going.
So I'm going to keep speaking God's truth over my children until they are sick of hearing it. I'm going to tell them that they are fearfully and wonderfully made. That Jesus loves them. That God made them exactly the way that they are and that they are perfect creations in Him. And, while I'm at it, I may go back into their room and say, "You are getting sleepy...sleeeepy....SLLLEEEEEEPPPPYYY!" It's worth a try, right?
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Lovingkindness in the Morning
I'm not a morning person. I like to sleep and I need a lot of it. Upon waking, I really need coffee before I speak. Since most of the other people in my family are early risers, I used to look on this as a failing on my part, but I've changed my outlook in recent years. I have accepted that this is who I am, that my seratonin levels may need a bit more of a boost than your average bear, and that I am never going to miraculously become a morning person.
My husband, on the other hand, needs very little sleep and gets up talking. Like, a mile a minute. Happily, cheerfully, and loudly. The first time we spent the night together he had to get up at four in the morning and drive me back to my place so he could be at his family's BBQ restaurant by five to start up briskets. So he woke me up, loaded me into the car, and started chatting. Judging by my expression and complete lack of response, he started getting worried. Started imagining I was mad at him, trying to figure out why, apologizing, and asking lots of questions. Finally, I spoke, uttering one word and one word only: "Coffee!" Through the magic of 24 hour service stations and the caffeinated beverages they provide, our relationship survived.
Once we were married, however, I realized I was going to have to give up the comfort of my morning grumpiness. I now had two young stepdaughters and they got up early. Every morning. Because to me, back then, 7 a.m. was early. (Excuse me a giggle-snort in rememberance.) I didn't know how good I had it but I did know that it was not good parenting to bite one's new stepdauthers' heads off every morning. So I learned to hold my tongue, fake a smile, and nod a lot before I got the first cup of joe on board.
Then along came Eddie, the Sleepless. They warn you about the restless nights of having a new baby. But nobody can really prepare you. And my new baby did not grow out of it. He was gassy and uncomfortable and AWAKE almost all of his life. I learned to be a champ at getting up early. But in the wee hours of the morning, from about 2:30 to 4, I still am a total wimp. I've tried to rally, but that is just how it is. Again, although I have no medical proof, I'm thinking there is something hinky with my seratonin. I'm really very nearly suicidal if you wake me up at 3 a.m.
God does send us perfect partners if we will wait for them. There have been times when I have seriously questioned my discernment when it comes to God's choice for my spouse; we have our issues. But then I remember that he got up at 3 a.m. with the babies, ALL the babies, without so much as a grumble 99.9% of the time and I say a little prayer of thanks. This morning that is fresh on my mind as Baby Girl had a very restless night. I stayed up with her until nearly 4, then felt the "just shoot me" tiredness creeping in. I started to just buckle in and stay the distance, but then remembered I'm not alone in this thing. So I woke up Phillip. He got up without complaint and with a smile for his youngest. I went to bed.
Baby Boy woke up at 6:45. I'm tired but I have a cup of coffee on one side and my Bible on the other. I'm meditating on Psalm 90 this morning which says in verses 14-16: "Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days. Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us, for as many years as we have seen trouble. May your deeds be shown to your servants, your splendor to their children." Other translations use the word "lovingkindness" in lieu of "unfailing love."
I like that word: lovingkindness. It's all over the Psalms and often used in conjunction with the morning. I like to think maybe King David wasn't a morning person either; that he needed to seek God's lovingkindness first thing in the morning because, like me, he had little on his own. But he knew what he had to do about it: just pray. And what a prayer! That we be so satisfied by God's love that we sing for joy and are glad, even for the not-so-good years.
It is my prayer this morning and it is effective! I am running on about three hours sleep and one cup of coffee but I'm not just functional, I'm elated. I'm singing for joy for all the things God has done in my life, whether they seemed like a blessing or an affliction, the years of trouble as well as the years of plenty. I see His splendor. God is good, all the time, and it is my prayer that you too hear His lovingkindness this morning, that you declare it, and that you are more than satisfied.
My husband, on the other hand, needs very little sleep and gets up talking. Like, a mile a minute. Happily, cheerfully, and loudly. The first time we spent the night together he had to get up at four in the morning and drive me back to my place so he could be at his family's BBQ restaurant by five to start up briskets. So he woke me up, loaded me into the car, and started chatting. Judging by my expression and complete lack of response, he started getting worried. Started imagining I was mad at him, trying to figure out why, apologizing, and asking lots of questions. Finally, I spoke, uttering one word and one word only: "Coffee!" Through the magic of 24 hour service stations and the caffeinated beverages they provide, our relationship survived.
Once we were married, however, I realized I was going to have to give up the comfort of my morning grumpiness. I now had two young stepdaughters and they got up early. Every morning. Because to me, back then, 7 a.m. was early. (Excuse me a giggle-snort in rememberance.) I didn't know how good I had it but I did know that it was not good parenting to bite one's new stepdauthers' heads off every morning. So I learned to hold my tongue, fake a smile, and nod a lot before I got the first cup of joe on board.
Then along came Eddie, the Sleepless. They warn you about the restless nights of having a new baby. But nobody can really prepare you. And my new baby did not grow out of it. He was gassy and uncomfortable and AWAKE almost all of his life. I learned to be a champ at getting up early. But in the wee hours of the morning, from about 2:30 to 4, I still am a total wimp. I've tried to rally, but that is just how it is. Again, although I have no medical proof, I'm thinking there is something hinky with my seratonin. I'm really very nearly suicidal if you wake me up at 3 a.m.
God does send us perfect partners if we will wait for them. There have been times when I have seriously questioned my discernment when it comes to God's choice for my spouse; we have our issues. But then I remember that he got up at 3 a.m. with the babies, ALL the babies, without so much as a grumble 99.9% of the time and I say a little prayer of thanks. This morning that is fresh on my mind as Baby Girl had a very restless night. I stayed up with her until nearly 4, then felt the "just shoot me" tiredness creeping in. I started to just buckle in and stay the distance, but then remembered I'm not alone in this thing. So I woke up Phillip. He got up without complaint and with a smile for his youngest. I went to bed.
Baby Boy woke up at 6:45. I'm tired but I have a cup of coffee on one side and my Bible on the other. I'm meditating on Psalm 90 this morning which says in verses 14-16: "Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days. Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us, for as many years as we have seen trouble. May your deeds be shown to your servants, your splendor to their children." Other translations use the word "lovingkindness" in lieu of "unfailing love."
I like that word: lovingkindness. It's all over the Psalms and often used in conjunction with the morning. I like to think maybe King David wasn't a morning person either; that he needed to seek God's lovingkindness first thing in the morning because, like me, he had little on his own. But he knew what he had to do about it: just pray. And what a prayer! That we be so satisfied by God's love that we sing for joy and are glad, even for the not-so-good years.
It is my prayer this morning and it is effective! I am running on about three hours sleep and one cup of coffee but I'm not just functional, I'm elated. I'm singing for joy for all the things God has done in my life, whether they seemed like a blessing or an affliction, the years of trouble as well as the years of plenty. I see His splendor. God is good, all the time, and it is my prayer that you too hear His lovingkindness this morning, that you declare it, and that you are more than satisfied.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
The Art of Preschool
I recently scored my dream job. I didn't know it was my dream job, but I'm next to certain that it is. Starting in the fall, I am going to be teaching preschool. Just two days a week to two year olds. I am as excited as a kid at Christmas.
Because God has found a way to combine two of my great loves. Kids and crafts. I love, love, love crafts. Not the kind of crafts that some of my friends love, the kind that you can post pictures of and people want to buy. I love looking at other people's frilly tutus, fancy scrapbooking templates, and other potentially profitable craft items, but that's not the stuff I like to make. No, I'm talking about the paper plate, construction paper, and pinto bean variety of craft. Macaroni necklaces, an octopus made out of yarn, and anything involving a pipe cleaner? I'm THERE!
I have not had much opportunity to indulge in this passion lately. I stopped making little things just for the fun of it when I was in my teens (yes, my teens; I'm telling you I LOVE this stuff). Occasionally I would have a friend with a crafty kid and I would get to play. I volunteered briefly as an arts and crafts teacher for Heart House Dallas. I had high hopes when I married a guy with a 6 year old and 3 year old daughter (my darlings: Step 1 and Step 2; now 13 and nearly 10). They were never that into it though. They were (and are) much more into sports and, although Step 2 goes crazy with some paper and markers, her interest in macaroni art was limited. Eddie hardly ever wanted to so much as lift a crayon. For the most part, Baby Boy thinks finger paint is icky and would rather play Angry Birds on my phone. What can I say? It's a hard knock life.
Baby Girl has been my last hope for a kid who shares my passion for paste and feathers. And I think I may have lucked out. She was willing to do some fall leaf art and, like her older sister, is never too far from her paper and crayons. I recently introduced fingerpaint and, though most of it ends up in her hair, it's a hit nonetheless. Score!
And then, out of nowhere, I hit the mother of all job offers. I volunteered at VBS with the director of our church's preschool program. A few weeks later, she emailed me to let me know that they had a job opening and would I be interested? Would I?!? I would pay for that job!
Now, I realize there are many people who don't feel this way. I hear a lot about the terrible twos and how people are so ready for their kids to grow out of the toddler/preschool stage. I feel completely differently. My kids are growing up way too fast. I love these days. Today I read books about zoo animals and talking vegetables over and over again. I watched Diego and the Wonder Pets. I danced both the hokey-pokey and the chicken dance. I wiped tears, noses and bottoms and picked Play-Doh out of my carpet. It has taken me nearly an hour to write this very short, simple blog because I keep having to do most the aforementioned things over again. And it has been a great day. A fantastic day. One of the best days ever. And, God willing, I get to do it all over again tomorrow.
I'm not looking forward to my kids being "big kids," even less to them actually being all grown up. But that is one of the reasons I am so thrilled to be teaching preschool. Because maybe I never have to lose the joy of these days, even as I gain the joys of the older years. Maybe I get be covered in fingerpaint and peanut butter for many, many years to come. That makes me happy. Because I DO like to talk to tomatoes, squash can make me smile, and, let's face it: the chicken dance rocks.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
The Breathing Treatment Polka
It's been a challenging day. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed to begin with and it took a considerable amount of coffee and my morning devotional before I felt like a civil human being. The babies did not seem to notice, something of which I am proud as it speaks to my self-control, not my natural temperament. Baby Boy had a chronic case of the giggles all morning long. Unfortunately, he also had a pronounced wheeze in his chest. He has been coughing for the past few days but I put it down to hay fever since he's otherwise well. But this morning, his lungs were making noises I couldn't ignore.
My pediatrician had an opening at 9:30, so we hurriedly piled into the car and it was back to Frisco. The doctor listened to his lungs. He was definitely wheezing. My reaction was mixed. For one thing, it's always nice when you go to the doctor and they actually hear or see the thing you are concerned about. You stop feeling crazy. But, for another, I hate for anything to be wrong with my kids. Since there was a complete lack of any other symptoms, they are guessing food allergy. I'm guessing dairy. Baby Boy was really allergic to dairy for his first year and a half. I thought he had grown out of it but, then again, maybe not. So the solution was not a bad one. Some breathing treatments to clear up the present problem and cutting dairy from his diet. Then if it recurs, we'll go from there.
Breathing treatments are nothing new in my house. I have asthma. Eddie had a few respiratory illnesses that required albuterol. Baby Girl has had breathing issues since she was a mere peanut. But, so far, Baby Boy was a stranger to the nebulizer and, quite frankly, I liked it that way.
Despite my initial sour mood and the unexpected trip to the doctor's office, I was holding up pretty well. Baby Boy was a champ, no tears or fussing involved, and afterwards he requested "Books" as his treat. This means a trip to Half Price Books, which is also a treat for me. They picked out a children's book apiece (okay, I let him get two) and I found a set of CDs called "Polka Til You Drop" for three bucks. If that's not a mood changer, I don't know what is! Okay, okay, keep the comments to yourselves...
The time came, however, when it was time to give the breathing treatment. My experience administering these has been highly unpleasant. Baby Girl and Eddie have many similarities in their personalities, one being an ability to scream bloody murder, hold their breaths, and make any medical procedure extremely unpleasant for everyone involved. No matter how cute the little "duck mask" is or what video I put on, it's going to get ugly. Baby Boy isn't like that. He is much more likely to be very sad and cry. I wasn't looking forward to either reaction.
I got neither: no screaming and no tears. I told him what we were going to do, using the duck mask as a selling point. He didn't really want to, but when I insisted, he agreed. He was so unbelievably sweet about the whole thing. He has the sweetest heart. I could tell it made him nervous, but he trusted me. He tried to take the breathing mask off, but when I told him that he had to breathe in all the medicine first, he simply said, "Okay, Mommy." For some reason, this just broke my heart.
I am fiercely protective of my children. There were times when Eddie was in the hospital undergoing some stressful or painful procedure that I had to restrain myself from physically harming those administering it. There were times when I was less than civil to hospital personnel. Okay, once I made a resident cry. I know it's nothing to be proud of, but I know also that Eddie always knew I was his champion. Whenever my tone would rise into what Phillip calls my "lawyer voice," Eddie would clap his little hands together with glee like, "you tell 'em, Mom!" He trusted me even though he knew from experience that I couldn't protect him from everything.
I can't protect Baby Boy and Baby Girl from everything either. I know this, but it bothers me nonetheless. Because they trust me to make it all better and to make it all okay. Overachiever that I am, I want to be able to rise to that call. I am proud that my kids trust me, that Baby Boy was willing to do something he didn't want to do because I told him it would make things better. I just pray that God gives me the judgment to make the right calls, to be worthy of that trust. There is no task greater than being a parent, but none more overwhelming either. God is helping me through it, one baby step at a time. He allows me to wake up on the wrong side of the bed but have a right attitude. He enables me to do what I have to do for my kids even when it's hard. I'm not going to look ahead. Though I know there will be harder challenges to face than the detour we had today, I know better than to dwell on that fact. I'm going to enjoy the rollicking sound of them having "quiet time" in their room right now, fix myself a cup of coffee, and crank up the polka tunes.
My pediatrician had an opening at 9:30, so we hurriedly piled into the car and it was back to Frisco. The doctor listened to his lungs. He was definitely wheezing. My reaction was mixed. For one thing, it's always nice when you go to the doctor and they actually hear or see the thing you are concerned about. You stop feeling crazy. But, for another, I hate for anything to be wrong with my kids. Since there was a complete lack of any other symptoms, they are guessing food allergy. I'm guessing dairy. Baby Boy was really allergic to dairy for his first year and a half. I thought he had grown out of it but, then again, maybe not. So the solution was not a bad one. Some breathing treatments to clear up the present problem and cutting dairy from his diet. Then if it recurs, we'll go from there.
Breathing treatments are nothing new in my house. I have asthma. Eddie had a few respiratory illnesses that required albuterol. Baby Girl has had breathing issues since she was a mere peanut. But, so far, Baby Boy was a stranger to the nebulizer and, quite frankly, I liked it that way.
Despite my initial sour mood and the unexpected trip to the doctor's office, I was holding up pretty well. Baby Boy was a champ, no tears or fussing involved, and afterwards he requested "Books" as his treat. This means a trip to Half Price Books, which is also a treat for me. They picked out a children's book apiece (okay, I let him get two) and I found a set of CDs called "Polka Til You Drop" for three bucks. If that's not a mood changer, I don't know what is! Okay, okay, keep the comments to yourselves...
The time came, however, when it was time to give the breathing treatment. My experience administering these has been highly unpleasant. Baby Girl and Eddie have many similarities in their personalities, one being an ability to scream bloody murder, hold their breaths, and make any medical procedure extremely unpleasant for everyone involved. No matter how cute the little "duck mask" is or what video I put on, it's going to get ugly. Baby Boy isn't like that. He is much more likely to be very sad and cry. I wasn't looking forward to either reaction.
I got neither: no screaming and no tears. I told him what we were going to do, using the duck mask as a selling point. He didn't really want to, but when I insisted, he agreed. He was so unbelievably sweet about the whole thing. He has the sweetest heart. I could tell it made him nervous, but he trusted me. He tried to take the breathing mask off, but when I told him that he had to breathe in all the medicine first, he simply said, "Okay, Mommy." For some reason, this just broke my heart.
I am fiercely protective of my children. There were times when Eddie was in the hospital undergoing some stressful or painful procedure that I had to restrain myself from physically harming those administering it. There were times when I was less than civil to hospital personnel. Okay, once I made a resident cry. I know it's nothing to be proud of, but I know also that Eddie always knew I was his champion. Whenever my tone would rise into what Phillip calls my "lawyer voice," Eddie would clap his little hands together with glee like, "you tell 'em, Mom!" He trusted me even though he knew from experience that I couldn't protect him from everything.
I can't protect Baby Boy and Baby Girl from everything either. I know this, but it bothers me nonetheless. Because they trust me to make it all better and to make it all okay. Overachiever that I am, I want to be able to rise to that call. I am proud that my kids trust me, that Baby Boy was willing to do something he didn't want to do because I told him it would make things better. I just pray that God gives me the judgment to make the right calls, to be worthy of that trust. There is no task greater than being a parent, but none more overwhelming either. God is helping me through it, one baby step at a time. He allows me to wake up on the wrong side of the bed but have a right attitude. He enables me to do what I have to do for my kids even when it's hard. I'm not going to look ahead. Though I know there will be harder challenges to face than the detour we had today, I know better than to dwell on that fact. I'm going to enjoy the rollicking sound of them having "quiet time" in their room right now, fix myself a cup of coffee, and crank up the polka tunes.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Following the Leader
I am not a dancer. I mean, put on some lively music or take me to the club and I can shake what my mama gave me, but when it comes to the "5, 6, 7, 8..." kind of dancing I am terrible. Part of this stems from the fact that I don't know my left from my right and the rest from my complete lack of coordination. I'm not putting myself down; I'm cool with it. I think by the time you reach your thirties it is important to have a firm grasp on your abilities and limitations.
Despite this handicap, I took ballroom dancing in college. I needed another P.E. credit and it sounded like more fun and less sweat than, say, volleyball. I had a friend take it with me and am pleased to say that we made an A. It was a hard earned A; we practiced lots and lots. While my partner was more coordinated than me, he not exactly a professional either. At one point during the class, the instructor took his place to show us how to do a certain move. Suddenly, I was amazed at how well I could dance. Our professor was a slender guy, a few inches shorter than me, but he took command of the dance with a confidence and strength that was amazing. I couldn't help but follow and, for a brief moment, I was a great dancer. It was effortless.
Any great dancer will tell you that it is all about timing. You can have all the passion in the world, but if you lack rhythm and timing, you should not audition for "So You Think You Can Dance." Life is the same way. We talk about being "in the right place at the right time." We know if we leave ten minutes later than usual we are going to hit traffic and be thirty minutes late. Timing is everything.
I am a naturally impatient person. I used to say a little mantra to myself when I was stuck in traffic, in a slow line at the grocery store, etc. I'd murmur, "God's timing, God's timing, God's timing." It was in a clenched-teeth, under the breath sort of way, though and not very effective. I was always in a hurry, always running behind, and it was always someone else's fault.
I'm not like that anymore. I often joke that I asked God to teach me patience and, in response, He gave me Eddie. It is hard to be in a hurry when you've got a kid in tow that is likely to throw up on you at any moment. Slows you down and lightens you up. It was an incredible freedom.
The other day I ran to Wal-Mart to pick up a brick of cream cheese. I needed it for a recipe I was preparing that evening to take to a party just a few hours away. In my mind, I was thinking of my time limits. How long it was going to take me to prepare the cake, get the kids and myself ready, and get to the party on time. I was in a hurry. I hustled to the dairy section, picked up my cream cheese and headed for the check-out line, pausing only to pick up an "impulse buy" T-shirt on the way out. I picked the shortest express lane. I noticed that the lady ahead of me had quite a bit more than 20 items, but the line was still the shortest by far, only two deep. Then there was some sort of problem with the person at the front; her card didn't work, she called her bank, etc. The woman ahead of me looked at my brick of cream cheese and at her not-so-express cartload and gave a nervous smile.
In the old days, I would have been really ticked off. I would have been throwing my hands up in disbelief at the card issues going on up front and how long it was taking for them to be resolved. I would have thought she needed to cancel her transaction, step to the side, and then get back in line to do the whole thing over again. I would have been thinking of how rude it was for the other lady to be in the express lane. That she should let me with my few items go ahead of her. Couldn't she tell I was in a hurry?
I'm not like that anymore, praise the Lord. I smiled genuinely at the women ahead of me. I've been there, both the lady with the rejected credit card and the one with thirty items in my cart, and I know it is awkward, embarrassing, and that a little grace is appreciated. I struck up a lively conversation with the woman with an overfilled cart. She apologized for misjudging the amount of her groceries. I told her it was no problem. I was in no hurry. And it was true. Because it really is all God's timing. It took me an extra twenty minutes or so beyond what I had "scheduled," but I still made my dessert and got to the party. A little late, but I got there. God's timing.
I know it is a cliche, but it's a good one: Life is a dance. When I try to learn the steps and do it in my own power, I have two left feet. I get hot and bothered, make bad situations worse, and exhibit anger and a lack of grace to those people who are "in my way." Who knows what blessing we miss out on when we act this way, because we are stepping all over other people's feet. We have a leader in this dance, a strong, confident, powerful leader. His timing is perfect. He is perfectly in sync with the rhythm of the world He created. When we relax and follow Him, we become great dancers. It is effortless.
I can't prove that my delay at Wal-Mart was a blessing. I can't know if we missed out on a bad traffic situation or timed it just right so the kids wouldn't be cranky getting ready. I know I made those ladies' days a little better, though. That if I had been ugly and impatient, they would have left embarrassed and defensive, harboring bad feelings toward me in their hearts. I didn't step on anyone's feet and that is in itself a blessing. Just a little thing, but part of the rhythm of life nonetheless. I trust the Lord of Dance with both the little steps and the big flourishes and praise Him that I can relax and follow the Leader.
Despite this handicap, I took ballroom dancing in college. I needed another P.E. credit and it sounded like more fun and less sweat than, say, volleyball. I had a friend take it with me and am pleased to say that we made an A. It was a hard earned A; we practiced lots and lots. While my partner was more coordinated than me, he not exactly a professional either. At one point during the class, the instructor took his place to show us how to do a certain move. Suddenly, I was amazed at how well I could dance. Our professor was a slender guy, a few inches shorter than me, but he took command of the dance with a confidence and strength that was amazing. I couldn't help but follow and, for a brief moment, I was a great dancer. It was effortless.
Any great dancer will tell you that it is all about timing. You can have all the passion in the world, but if you lack rhythm and timing, you should not audition for "So You Think You Can Dance." Life is the same way. We talk about being "in the right place at the right time." We know if we leave ten minutes later than usual we are going to hit traffic and be thirty minutes late. Timing is everything.
I am a naturally impatient person. I used to say a little mantra to myself when I was stuck in traffic, in a slow line at the grocery store, etc. I'd murmur, "God's timing, God's timing, God's timing." It was in a clenched-teeth, under the breath sort of way, though and not very effective. I was always in a hurry, always running behind, and it was always someone else's fault.
I'm not like that anymore. I often joke that I asked God to teach me patience and, in response, He gave me Eddie. It is hard to be in a hurry when you've got a kid in tow that is likely to throw up on you at any moment. Slows you down and lightens you up. It was an incredible freedom.
The other day I ran to Wal-Mart to pick up a brick of cream cheese. I needed it for a recipe I was preparing that evening to take to a party just a few hours away. In my mind, I was thinking of my time limits. How long it was going to take me to prepare the cake, get the kids and myself ready, and get to the party on time. I was in a hurry. I hustled to the dairy section, picked up my cream cheese and headed for the check-out line, pausing only to pick up an "impulse buy" T-shirt on the way out. I picked the shortest express lane. I noticed that the lady ahead of me had quite a bit more than 20 items, but the line was still the shortest by far, only two deep. Then there was some sort of problem with the person at the front; her card didn't work, she called her bank, etc. The woman ahead of me looked at my brick of cream cheese and at her not-so-express cartload and gave a nervous smile.
In the old days, I would have been really ticked off. I would have been throwing my hands up in disbelief at the card issues going on up front and how long it was taking for them to be resolved. I would have thought she needed to cancel her transaction, step to the side, and then get back in line to do the whole thing over again. I would have been thinking of how rude it was for the other lady to be in the express lane. That she should let me with my few items go ahead of her. Couldn't she tell I was in a hurry?
I'm not like that anymore, praise the Lord. I smiled genuinely at the women ahead of me. I've been there, both the lady with the rejected credit card and the one with thirty items in my cart, and I know it is awkward, embarrassing, and that a little grace is appreciated. I struck up a lively conversation with the woman with an overfilled cart. She apologized for misjudging the amount of her groceries. I told her it was no problem. I was in no hurry. And it was true. Because it really is all God's timing. It took me an extra twenty minutes or so beyond what I had "scheduled," but I still made my dessert and got to the party. A little late, but I got there. God's timing.
I know it is a cliche, but it's a good one: Life is a dance. When I try to learn the steps and do it in my own power, I have two left feet. I get hot and bothered, make bad situations worse, and exhibit anger and a lack of grace to those people who are "in my way." Who knows what blessing we miss out on when we act this way, because we are stepping all over other people's feet. We have a leader in this dance, a strong, confident, powerful leader. His timing is perfect. He is perfectly in sync with the rhythm of the world He created. When we relax and follow Him, we become great dancers. It is effortless.
I can't prove that my delay at Wal-Mart was a blessing. I can't know if we missed out on a bad traffic situation or timed it just right so the kids wouldn't be cranky getting ready. I know I made those ladies' days a little better, though. That if I had been ugly and impatient, they would have left embarrassed and defensive, harboring bad feelings toward me in their hearts. I didn't step on anyone's feet and that is in itself a blessing. Just a little thing, but part of the rhythm of life nonetheless. I trust the Lord of Dance with both the little steps and the big flourishes and praise Him that I can relax and follow the Leader.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
In a Heartbeat
When I found out I was pregnant with Baby Girl, I was initially less than thrilled. Let me give you a quick chronology of my childbearing years. Eddie was born in September 2005. I found out I was pregnant with Baby Boy in May 2007. Eddie died in August 2007. Baby Boy was born December 2007. Then on Mother's Day, 2008, after nursing my five-month-old baby, I walked into the kitchen where my darling husband was cooking me a special pancake breakfast. I immediately had to run to the bathroom and throw up. It was a bad moment. Although I've been known to throw up for odd reasons, the smell of pancakes hardly triggers one's gag reflex, unless...
Phillip thought I was crazy and assured me I wasn't pregnant. After breakfast he ran to the store to pick up a test so I could take it and "enjoy the rest of my day." I took it and was welcomed by a big, bright blue + sign. Happy Mother's Day! I spent the lion's share of next three days sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing uncontrollably and declaring, "I can't have a baby. I have a baby."
I knew I was being an ingrate. Knew plenty of friends who struggled with infertility and would kill for my "problem." I prayed for God to change my heart about my pregnancy. I suffered worse morning sickness than I had with either of my other babies. I was really tired. But as I have found any time I approach God with "change me" prayers, my prayers were answered swiftly and dramatically. I went to my mid-wife for my initial check-up and she couldn't find a heartbeat.
It is amazing how fast our hearts and prayers can change. How we can go from "Dear God, I really don't want this baby" to "Oh God, please let everything be okay with my baby" in a heartbeat...or in a lack thereof. My midwife, April, had stood with me through Eddie's sickness, through his death, and through the joy of Baby Boy's birth. She had more compassion than you can imagine. She assured me that this could just be because it was very early in the pregnancy but also helped me get an appointment with my neonatologist in just a couple hours. I remember calling my husband at work and meeting him at a library in East Austin, the awful, dull pain of WAITING all too fresh in our minds and hearts from life with Eddie.
Sometimes God speaks to me during these times. An actual, blessed, still, small voice in my soul. Sometimes He speaks through sensations, through an overwhelming feeling of peace or reassurance, a deep knowing. And sometimes He stands silent and lets me learn. On this hot May afternoon He taught me about gratitude. About trusting that His way is so much better than my way. Nothing happens by mistake, least of all the conception of a new life. I had spent nearly a week grumbling, crying and missing the blessing. And God could take that blessing away as swiftly as He had given it if He chose to.
The gratitude I felt, later, as I watched the tiny beating heart on the screen in front of me was mind-blowing. I tear up every time I think of it. The baby was okay, just little. I was only about seven weeks along. I didn't cry anymore. I broke out the maternity clothes and the prenatal vitamins and got ready to have another baby.
Baby Girl came on December 26, 2008. She is one of the most amazing blessings I have ever received. I am grateful for her and Baby Boy every single day. They are best friends; I can't imagine one without the other. Sometimes I stare at them and wonder what I ever did or ever would do without them. They are my heart and my life, mi vida y mi corazon, and I tell them that all the time.
Sometimes God's blessings come in ways we weren't expecting. An unplanned pregnancy. The loss of one job and the offer of another which is not the kind of thing we had in mind. Losing a house; moving to a new neighborhood. The loss of a relationship. They seem like tragedies to us and we grumble, complain, and cry. We only like change if it is change that we pre-approved or planned for. God doesn't care about our plans though; He cares about our spirits, our souls, and our hearts. And, quite frankly, more often than not, our plans stink. The time we spend mourning the loss of our own stuff could just as easily be spent praising Him and looking ahead in joyful anticipation to where His path is leading.
My prayer is that God continue to change my heart. That I learn to trust God that His plan is best...right off the bat. That I learn to set aside my own fears and expectations and just train my eyes on Jesus. Because He is God from whom all blessings flow, big, small, and in-between, and the One who keeps all of our hearts beating.
Phillip thought I was crazy and assured me I wasn't pregnant. After breakfast he ran to the store to pick up a test so I could take it and "enjoy the rest of my day." I took it and was welcomed by a big, bright blue + sign. Happy Mother's Day! I spent the lion's share of next three days sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing uncontrollably and declaring, "I can't have a baby. I have a baby."
I knew I was being an ingrate. Knew plenty of friends who struggled with infertility and would kill for my "problem." I prayed for God to change my heart about my pregnancy. I suffered worse morning sickness than I had with either of my other babies. I was really tired. But as I have found any time I approach God with "change me" prayers, my prayers were answered swiftly and dramatically. I went to my mid-wife for my initial check-up and she couldn't find a heartbeat.
It is amazing how fast our hearts and prayers can change. How we can go from "Dear God, I really don't want this baby" to "Oh God, please let everything be okay with my baby" in a heartbeat...or in a lack thereof. My midwife, April, had stood with me through Eddie's sickness, through his death, and through the joy of Baby Boy's birth. She had more compassion than you can imagine. She assured me that this could just be because it was very early in the pregnancy but also helped me get an appointment with my neonatologist in just a couple hours. I remember calling my husband at work and meeting him at a library in East Austin, the awful, dull pain of WAITING all too fresh in our minds and hearts from life with Eddie.
Sometimes God speaks to me during these times. An actual, blessed, still, small voice in my soul. Sometimes He speaks through sensations, through an overwhelming feeling of peace or reassurance, a deep knowing. And sometimes He stands silent and lets me learn. On this hot May afternoon He taught me about gratitude. About trusting that His way is so much better than my way. Nothing happens by mistake, least of all the conception of a new life. I had spent nearly a week grumbling, crying and missing the blessing. And God could take that blessing away as swiftly as He had given it if He chose to.
The gratitude I felt, later, as I watched the tiny beating heart on the screen in front of me was mind-blowing. I tear up every time I think of it. The baby was okay, just little. I was only about seven weeks along. I didn't cry anymore. I broke out the maternity clothes and the prenatal vitamins and got ready to have another baby.
Baby Girl came on December 26, 2008. She is one of the most amazing blessings I have ever received. I am grateful for her and Baby Boy every single day. They are best friends; I can't imagine one without the other. Sometimes I stare at them and wonder what I ever did or ever would do without them. They are my heart and my life, mi vida y mi corazon, and I tell them that all the time.
Sometimes God's blessings come in ways we weren't expecting. An unplanned pregnancy. The loss of one job and the offer of another which is not the kind of thing we had in mind. Losing a house; moving to a new neighborhood. The loss of a relationship. They seem like tragedies to us and we grumble, complain, and cry. We only like change if it is change that we pre-approved or planned for. God doesn't care about our plans though; He cares about our spirits, our souls, and our hearts. And, quite frankly, more often than not, our plans stink. The time we spend mourning the loss of our own stuff could just as easily be spent praising Him and looking ahead in joyful anticipation to where His path is leading.
My prayer is that God continue to change my heart. That I learn to trust God that His plan is best...right off the bat. That I learn to set aside my own fears and expectations and just train my eyes on Jesus. Because He is God from whom all blessings flow, big, small, and in-between, and the One who keeps all of our hearts beating.
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