Mother of Two

Somehow, I never thought it would be such a huge transition, going from one child to two.  I've done kids before!  Multiple kids, of all ages!  Why would adding a new baby to my so-far only child be so different, so  challenging, so down-right HARD?

(Okay, I didn't actually think that.  I just didn't really think about it at all.)

It was a challenge from the first weeks of pregnancy to adjust to parenting Eden under the simultaneous demands of morning sickness, milk decreasing, girth increasing, energy waxing and waning (but mostly waning), and all the changes that come with the expectant state.  I learned a lot about slowing down and allowing or even asking for help as I thought I needed it.  Thankfully, Eden was mostly happy and ready to become more independent, bit by bit.  

But when Lucy was born...

One night, when Lucy was just a few days old, Eden woke up crying.  I was in bed, next to the wall, with Lucy, and we had already spent most of the night wrestling with repeated newborn poopy diapers and the process of establishing breastfeeding.  Nate, sleeping to the outside, got up to comfort Eden and help her go back to sleep.  Except that she wouldn't.  She was still getting over a nasty cold, and all she wanted was her mama.  All I wanted was to go to her and make it all better, but Lucy had just latched on and was nursing avidly.  I knew Eden was safe in her loving daddy's patient (if somewhat exasperated) arms, and that I needed to lay still and let my body heal, as well as take care of Lucy, but my heart felt like it was going to leap out of my body!  It was so hard to not be able to be there for her!  (And I will ever be grateful to my husband for dealing so patiently with all of us that night and not just leaving her to cry it out.  I don't think I could have handled that!)

It was such a hard thing for me to learn and be okay with the fact that I could no longer give my all to my one child, because now I had two children to give my all to.  And the logical extension of that realization is that each child, therefore, gets less.  And I was not okay with that!  The depth of desire I have for my children to be blessed and cared for is beyond what I could have comprehended before they came into my life.  It is hard to back up, let go, and trust, when all I want to do is make it all right for them!  In this light, I can understand better some people's decision to limit the number of their children in order to provide more, be there more fully, or in any way, make their lives better.

Except...
I am the fifth of eleven children.
I do not feel deprived, neglected, or like my life was in any way worse for having ten siblings.
I am very glad that my parents did not stop before I was born, and just as glad that they did not stop after I was born!  I treasure each one of my siblings, and each has contributed so much to my growth, my development, and the quality of my life.
I love and admire my mother and my father; I never doubted their love for, and devotion to, me, and to all of my brothers and sisters.  I knew they were sacrificing and doing a hard work in inviting all of us to their family, and I was so glad they were willing to!
I do not consider myself to have received "less" of anything, really, due to multiple siblings.  Only more.

So I am learning to trust that Heavenly Father will fill in the gaps, and that even as my capabilities are stretched to beyond their limit, His glorious grace will pour through the cracks into my children's lives.

(And yes, as the weeks pass, we are settling into our rhythm together and finding ease once again.  As a wise man once said (and I can't remember who it was), "That which we persist in doing becomes easier to do - not that the nature of the thing has changed, but our capacity to do it has increased." Or something like that.  But I know that much of that ease is coming as I learn to more fully rely on Heavenly Father as a mother of two.)

Renewed, Recharged

Well, here we are, back in King Salmon.

My feelings about that have run the whole spectrum, but now I have resigned myself to the fact - in fact, embraced it - and here we are.

I just have to say what a blessing it was, in so many ways, to spend these last few months down in California, at my parents house.

It was a blessing to have so much help with Eden, to be taken care of physically, to not have to worry about cooking or cleaning (much), in those last bulky weeks of pregnancy and first overwhelmed weeks of postpartum recovery.

It was a blessing to reconnect with my sisters and brothers and their families at our leisure, not only in light conversation at rare whole family gatherings.

It was a blessing to spend time co-mothering my children and nieces and nephews with my own mother, with my sisters.

It was a wonderful blessing to have such lovely weather, such freedom to be outside, myself, and even better, to let Eden run and play in the sun and grass and gravel, exploring the fields and roads for the first time.

It was a blessing for Eden to be with two of her older cousins practically all day, every day, and to learn from them and with them.

And it was a special blessing to be able to attend church, to physically go to church and sit in the church building, to see and talk with and serve the Saints, to feel the fire of my faith renewed and my life recharged every Sunday as the one little solitary coal of my soul was placed back into the glowing warmth of so many others' faith and testimony.

Thank you, Wheatland Ward.  

Every Sunday, I was aware of being strengthened and prepared for these coming months through all of you.  So, thank you.

Looking Up, Not Down

Oh, My, Goodness.  It is so easy to look down.  It is so easy to feel the weight of my “burdens” and sag beneath the load that is mine.  It does me much good to get a little perspective now and then – that's why I love to read. 

            In the hormonal maelstrom of the early postpartum weeks, missing my newly-returned-to-Alaska husband, trying to balance the needs and demands of my now two children, and struggling with guilt and resentment at my somewhat incapacitated state of recovery and the service that required others to give, I found myself definitely looking down. 

            And then I had a few moments when both girls were asleep, and I was able to get online.  I checked emails and facebook, of course, and did a few more things before heading over for the first time in a few months to one of my favorite blogs.  I’ve been randomly following The Blessing of Verity for over a year now, and the chronicles that Susanna Musser has kept of her family and her own heart never fail to uplift me.  But not in a high-flown, fancy, head in the clouds way.  Oh, no.  This is very much a down to earth, practical application, day to day life sort of blog.

            Anyway, here is this mother of eleven, simultaneously expecting an twelfth baby and thirteenth child (older, with extreme special needs) by adoption, homeschooling and raising her children to love and serve one another, already dealing with the special needs of her youngest daughter, born with Down syndrome, and another daughter, adopted not that long ago, who also has Down syndrome as well as special needs resulting from her life pre-adoption.  Whew.  It wears me out just to type all that!  Yet she exudes a spirit of faith, love, determination, and worship.  I know that what is communicated through a blog is just a snippet of life, a little window through a wall, but when those snippets add up to a consistent whole, when each little window shows a slightly different, but very congruent, piece of a picture, I take it as a good sign that it's a true picture.  Besides, it’s just too much work to be fictional, or dishonest, on your blog when you have so much else to do! J

            She’s an inspiration to me.  She reminds me of where my focus ought to be.  She helps me feel new gratitude for my blessings, my challenges, and my Savior.  She shows me how to live with grace, and in reading her words, I find that much needed perspective on my own life.  She helps me to remember, as President Monson is quoted to have said,  to “look up!  It is better to look up than to look down!”

Lucy's Birth

Our little Lucy is seven weeks, and not longer so little! Her knees and elbows have little dimples, her little biceps and thighs have fat creases, and she looks like a perfect little dolly!  I look back on her birth and can hardly believe that it was such a short time ago!  So here is the story…

            Short, uncomplicated version – Lucy was born, two days after her due date, at my parents house at 10:20 pm on Monday, Jan. 21^st, after two and a half hours of labor.  We were attended by Nate and, at the last second, my mother, and the midwives arrived 15 and 20 minutes later.  I did go to the hospital for some sutures, which is worse than giving birth, but as far as the labor and birth went, it couldn’t have been better.

            And now for the long, detailed version – We had hoped to meet this baby significantly earlier than January 21^st.  Nate had only a certain amount of vacation before he had to go back to Alaska, and more than anything, I wanted him to be with me for the birth.  I didn’t care who else was there, but Nate HAD to be there.  And we hoped he’d even have a little time with us postpartum to get acquainted and help us transition as a family.  Eden was born at 38 weeks, so I thought it was reasonable to expect this one around the same time.  Besides, I’d been having episodes of significant contractions every time I got stressed and over-exerted myself since 34 weeks pregnant.  Well, so much for all that.

(Actually, it probably was accomplishing a lot of the early dilation very gradually.)

Anyway, we met with the midwives and thankfully, there was a good connection there.  They warned us that second labors often go in half the time of first labors, so to expect about 2.5-3 hours total. (How right they were!)  However, the days came and went, and little baby stayed securely inside.  We walked.  We danced.  We did…all sorts of things…in an effort to help this little one make an entrance (or exit? J) Nothing extreme, being well aware that she wasn’t even quite due yet, but I was about at the end of my rope.  Never again will I judge anyone for getting tired of being pregnant, especially at the end!  Being pregnant is a miracle, one that I love and give thanks for and will accept as many times as it comes to me, but for heavens sake! All good things must come to an end, and I prayed for the end of this one!  I was so ready to move on to the next stage!  I didn’t know how much more one’s body could stretch in those last two weeks, how long the nights became when interrupted regularly by urgent (like suddenly realizing I’m going to explode!) potty trips, shooting pains down hips and calves, trying to stay on one’s left side to help baby get into a good position, and how all my clothes would just run out of room.  I went to bed each night, thinking, “Maybe this will be the night!” and woke up each morning grumpy and out of sorts because I was still very, very pregnant. 

            I finally got over my bad attitude, telling myself that I was just going to be pregnant forever, and just focused on taking each day as it came.  And really they were lovely days – soft California winter of clear skies and bright sun, shared with my sweetheart and our daughter, enjoying time with family, going for walks, just soaking up the togetherness of the time. 

            I thought I’d lost my mucous plug on Saturday, Lucy’s due date, but I didn’t want to tell anyone because I’d been pointing out every sign as it came along and so far none of them had led to anything exciting.  They just sort of petered out.  Talk about deflating the excitement!  So I didn’t make a fuss, didn’t call the midwives, just noticed and let it go.  Sure enough, nothing happened.  I had to go to church another Sunday, elephantine in my maternity.  Monday night, I was actually googling how long after losing the mucous plug one usually goes into labor, when I felt a sudden warm gush.  My first thought was to ascertain that I hadn’t wet myself, as that can be an unexpected side effect of being so pregnant.  No, I had not.  In fact, when I shifted in my seat, more warm fluid gushed out.  I asked my dad to get me a towel, and sat waiting, thinking, “Finally!  I’m so glad to be in labor!”  Not five minutes later, the first contraction/pressure wave hit, and the second came within five minutes of the first.  They took off from there.  Within probably 15 minutes I could feel sweat drip off of me as I breathed through a contraction, and I remember thinking, “Oh, right.  This is labor.  This is the work, the effort, the intensity of bringing a child into this world.  I am glad it’s finally happening, but this is HARD.” 

            I had called the senior midwife shortly after my water broke, and sent her a text as well.  She didn’t respond, and I left a message, but thought nothing of it – I had several times left messages, only to receive a return call not very long after.  Truthfully, once those first messages were sent, my mind was very caught up in other things and I didn’t even think of it again until they walked in the door.  It turns out that her phone had suddenly and unexpectedly died.  It was charged up, nothing was wrong with it – it just died and she didn’t know it until it turned itself on again.  Then, of course, they came as fast as they could, but it wasn’t as fast as Lucy!

            We took a shower, and when we got out the kitchen had been transformed into a peaceful, darkened birthing room.  Dinner’s dishes had magically disappeared. The dining room table and benches were carefully stowed out of the way.  A neatly made bed awaited me in the middle of the clean linoleum floor, and strings of white twinkle lights around the edge of the ceiling lit the room with a soft glow.  Everyone was quietly and inconspicuously holed up in their own rooms.  I went directly from the bathroom to the bed and immediately lay down on my left side.  Nate knelt near me and I rather forcefully directed him to push on my lower back, which he did for the next hour and a half, I guess.  (I wasn’t paying attention to the time!)  Every time he’d move in the least, I let him know he needed to stay right where he was, and as long as he did, I could manage.  The Hypnobabies “Easy First Stage” track was playing on my phone, and it was all I could do to focus and relax.  I began to vocalize, moaning as low and deep as I could.  (My mom later said it sounded kind of like mooing.  Oh well.)  At some point I was trying so hard to relax and my muscles were trying so hard to do whatever they were doing that my tummy literally began to jump and spasm.  I could feel it, and Nate could see it, and it was very strange!

            Suddenly I couldn’t stay down any longer and with no conscious effort on my part I was up on hands and knees, pushing.  Nate got ready to catch, and my mom, hearing the change in the noises I was making, came out of her bedroom to help, knowing that no one had yet arrived.  Lucy was born very quickly!  They caught her, I flipped over, and my wet, pink, new little daughter was on my chest, wide-eyed and ready to latch on.  We were not surprised that she was a girl; we’d sort of expected that from the time we knew she was coming.

            Suddenly, it seemed, the midwives were there, assessing, discussing, checking us all out.  I was totally exhausted – all I wanted was to curl up with my precious babe and SLEEP!  But no, it turned out I had torn and needed sutures, so I got up and we tried it out on the kitchen table.  It would have been fine – the midwife knew what she was doing – but it turned out to be more extensive than we had thought, so after consuming an egg and some toast my mom thoughtfully, and hastily, prepared, we trundled off to the hospital.  Ugh. 

(A word about tearing – it was totally my biggest fear about giving birth the first time.  Then, as this time, I did end up tearing and realized that it’s no big deal.  I didn’t feel a thing.  In fact, when the midwife asked me if I thought I tore, I answered, “No!” with no hesitation.  The sutures, however, are a totally different story.  I’d rather give birth all over again than be stitched up!!  But that's not really an option, unfortunately…)

So we had our little hospital adventure, and they were really very nice to us all.  The midwives came with us – they were great, and I wished they could have been there for the birth.  It was wonderful.  If I could do it all over again just like that, without the hospital trip, that's the way I’d go every time.  Each birth is different and every woman is different – I think that home birth is only one of many good options.  For me, for us, this time, it was absolutely the best.

Family Portraits

These were taken during our Christmas visit to California by my very talented sister, Rochelle Rupp.

My Handsome Husband!  How I love this man!

Eden's Adventures (and some of Daddy's too)

(by Nate)

Enjoy!

It snowed abt 6" and then the wind picked up and blew the snow away. This is what the Kvichak (pronounced quee-jack) River looked like when I flew over at sunrise.

 These are some pics from the job I was supporting just before Christmas. They were fixing a fiber-optic line. The line runs through the Kvichak River at this point. The river ice cracked and smashed the cable and they lost some functionality. They laid a temporary line in a shallow trench as a short term fix till March when they will come back.

This is the vault (where they put the splice box). It was filled with water when we got here so they had to melt it and then put this electric blanket over to keep it melted.

You can see a little water down in the bottom still.

 Some fibers

The splice box. It was encased in jell goo and then in a metal box. They already cut off the metal box.

Inside the splice box.

He is holding up a bunch of fibers.

Here you can see the fibers and the colors and how small they are.

This little box she is pushing down on is the cutter. It simultaneously scores and cuts the fiber in order to make a nice end to splice too.

 The bigger box with the LCD screen is the splicer. She lays the fibers in the top and closes the lid and hits the go button and then you can watch on the screen as the machine lines up the fibers and fuses them as if they had never been broken. This box costs something like $20k.

Now she is lining up the heat shrink material over the splice. Then she drops it in the upper part of the box and presto..nice heat shrinked splice ready to wind up in the splice box.

Here you can see the glass shards (pieces of fiber) that were cut off.

Here she is putting the splice in its new home.

Eden with her new hat that Kathleen made for her. She put it on and left it and loved it.

Learning to put hands in pockets when it gets chilly on our walks.

Eating cornbread with Papa.

Eden and Gram checking on the dogs.

Eden's 1st motorbike ride! We just went around in a 10' circle on the driveway (no helmet her size..she is just a bit too small for a real ride yet), but she had fun.

Good Books and Good Toys and a little Rant on the side

 A while ago, I was asked what I think makes a good book.  I have been thinking about it, and I have to say, being a voracious reader of many genre, it is hard to come up with a definitive rubric for qualifying a good book.  (Again, as I have said before, this is not to judge anyone else's choices, only to write about mine.)  I find that a good book, first of all, makes me think.  It may be a little piece of paperback juvenile fiction or a tome of hardcore non-fiction research.  It may be a biography or a self-help book.  Whatever it is, it touches some part of my mind and finds connection in my life, in my dreams, in my consideration of the world and its happenings.  A good book is beautiful.  I'm sorry to say so, but I absolutely detest what seem to be deliberately ugly or crudely done books, particularly children's books.  There is a place in life for ugliness, it is a part of life, but to dwell on it, to roll in it and smear it around, as it were, is something I can't stand.  I find that even the darkest, ugliest parts of life can be treated bravely, honestly, clearly, and come out worth reading about.  A good book is (usually) well written.  Call me a nerd, or whatever you want, but poor grammar, repeated typos, flat characters, and cliched scenes totally turn me off.  It doesn't have to be grandiose - just well-edited and well-written.  That's all I have for now.  I'm an truly an omnivore when it comes to books, but I do end up gravitating more towards non-fiction, autobiography, historical fiction, and the classics.  You never know what you'll find on the shelves, though, so I like to at least walk up and down the aisles, reading titles and occasionally browsing a page or two from random openings.  Choosing books to read is kind of like dating, for me - I almost always knew from the very first date whether there was any potential there.  If not, for the most part, I wasn't too interested in going on more dates, or reading further.  If so... well, let's check it out and see where it all goes!
  And being that its almost Christmas, I've been thinking along similar lines as it pertains to toys.  There are so many toys out there!  I'm afraid I see many of them as mostly trash - cheap plastic, garish noisemakers, and just over all stuff to clutter the floor and hide behind the couch and under the bed.  Before you think I'm a total humbug, I fondly remember the many and varied toys I played with as a child (mostly an enormous collection of very random stuffed animals!) and how every one of them had a name, a back story, and a reason why we absolutely couldn't get rid of it.  I now look back with admiration at my parents forbearance with all our toys.  However, when it comes to "good" toys, I have to say, I do have my opinions.  Mostly I find more and more attractive the simpler, more versatile toys.  Kids make their own fun, use their imaginations, and become very creative with basic, simple things. Stuffed animals - yes.  They become whatever character a child imbues them with, and are mostly harmless and easy to stuff into a box or sack.  Dolls - it depends.  We had some Barbies, and we LOVED the Barbies at Grandma's house, but they always end up with their clothes off and their hair standing up on end.  I loved soft bodied baby dolls though. :)
  So I'm thinking that toys I now like include things like Lincoln Logs, Tinker Toys, (limited) Legos or Duplos, balls, blocks, beanbags, and yes, some dolls and stuffed animals.  I feel considerably less excited about anything that makes noise, flashes lights, or requires batteries.  I do realize the irony of the fact that while I have my opinions, Eden likes almost anything and finds creative ways to play with everything from the most complicated, technologically advanced toy to a cardboard box.

-*-*-

And here is the Rant....

 I have never watched the new Pixar film, "Brave," but I have heard a few things about it, mostly to the tune of how wonderful it is to have a feature animated kids film with a strong female lead character that doesn't focus on the stereotypical "girly" things.  However, after hearing one of my little girls quote it and discussing with her what she learned from it, I can honestly say I have no desire to watch it or to ever let my daughter do so.
   The little girls were playing together in the living room, H. being Merida and D. being Sleeping Beauty, while I made cornbread around the corner in the kitchen.  I could hear their childish voices, "And then pretend.... And I was wearing.... and then this happened..."  It was cute and funny to overhear, and very much reminded me of pretending with my sisters as a little girl, until suddenly H. quite forcefully said something that struck me right between the eyes.  Quoting the movie, "Brave", she said, "But Mother, I don't want to be like you!!" or maybe it was "I'm not going to be like you!"  Whatever the exact wording was, my immediate feeling was shock.  What a sad and really damaging sentiment for a little girl to catch hold of and internalize!  Perhaps I grew up in an idyllic bubble, but I always wanted to be like my mother, and my grandmother, and the women in my family.  Not exactly like them, of course, but I looked up to them, and saw them as strong, capable, and living out their own adventures, while simultaneously feminine, real, and giving service and love.  I was glad to be a woman, and was excited not only to live my dreams and adventures, but also to fill the roles I saw them fill - wife, mother, aunt, and grandmother chief among them.
    I got the cornbread in the oven, and came out of the kitchen to sit on the living room floor near the girls.  They were having a little spat about which character (Merida or Sleeping Beauty) was better, and asked my opinion.  I managed to placate them with a diplomatic response and then asked H. why Merida didn't want to be like her mother.  She replied that her mother just wanted her to get married and was trying to make her get married, and she didn't want to.  I asked H, "But do you want to get married someday?"  Without delay, and with great emphasis, she told me that she did not want to ever get married, EVER.  Um....what do you say to that?  I just said something like, "Oh, that's too bad.  I think being married is great," and let it go.
  Ok, so she's only four.  And thoughts about marriage, etc. do change over time.  But, again, I just thought it was so sad that she has that idea planted in her head - marriage is horrible, it curbs all your dreams, you become someone you didn't want to be, and its something to be avoided at all costs.  I don't think that its healthy to be obsessed with getting married at that age either, but for heaven's sake! its no wonder we have a generational problem with commitment with these kinds of subliminal (and even overt) messages being relayed into children's heads from the time they are tiny!
  So there's my rant.  Its not that I think that older movies are good just because they are older.  I have noticed, however, a common theme.  In older movies, the good is beautiful, bad is ugly. (Some people see it the other way around, and take offense at the perceived message that beautiful is good and ugly is bad.  I never saw it that way, probably due to my mother's voice in my head, saying "Pretty is as pretty does.")  Goodness, kindness, gentleness, etc. is rewarded by life itself, after passing through trials.  Your attitude is as important as your actions.  In more recent films, I see a distinct swing towards mixing up the moral message.  Beauty may be good or bad, scoundrels may be the hero, actually, and what you get from life, you have to wrest away by your own smarts and chutzpah because life is just going to hand you a raw deal if you don't make things happen your way.  There is some truth in these things.  I just wonder what it does to children's innocence and the development of a moral compass to confront some of these messages at such early ages.

(And here is my disclaimer - I only find snatches of time to write on Sunday afternoons or after Eden's in bed, so I have to type fast.  My ability to make sense and be coherent may thus suffer...)