I am not so different...

I've heard about how parents are, surprisingly, not uncommonly the ones to introduce their children to smoking, drinking, and illegal drugs. 

I've wondered, "How could they do that?"

Even if you, yourself, were addicted or used those substances, isn't it obvious (not to mention extremely well publicized) that they are BAD FOR YOU!!??  What parent, in their right mind, gives their child things that are bad for them?  Knowing the love I feel for my girls and the desires I have for them, and imagining that it is nothing out of the ordinary - don't all parents feel that way toward their precious children? - I have often marveled at how this could happen.

But, you know....

I just realized, I am not so very different.  

No, my substance is in no way illegal, nor is it particularly harmful (though there are some that would say it is.:) 

No Bake Cookies.  Globs of peanut buttery, chocolately, oatey deliciousness.  Some even have tender little marshmallows hidden inside.  Oh, my.  

I'm having a very hard time resisting them.  We made a double batch to share, on Sunday, and though we did share some, there are far too many still sitting on my kitchen counter.  Maybe the oats make me feel like they are healthier than regular cookies, but I highly doubt the truth of that conclusion.  Whatever it is, I have been eating WAY too many.  A quick fix to hunger, soothing distraction to frustration, loneliness, whatever the emotion of the moment, and generally just fun to consume.

Eden came up to me as I stood there eating my fourth (shame!) and wanted some.  And though I knew she really didn't need one, wouldn't be better off for having one, I gave her some.  Because I was enjoying it.  

(Ok, I do realize there is a big difference between cookies and drugs.  And I am one of those moms who lets her kids have cookies, cake, ice cream, dessert, etc, when we have it.  I certainly don't adhere to the school of no treats or no sugar. I think its good to share good things in moderation!)  

But in that moment, I felt a sudden epiphany burst upon me.  Here I am, doing what I know I should not be, and including my daughter.  Its fun.  Its tasty.  It feels good in the moment.  

A sudden insight into a pocket of unconscious pride.  

I am not so very different.

Good inspiration to be who I should be more consistently.

my dream job + reality/a humbling day

I love being a stay-at-home mother.

No, let me say that again.

I LOVE being a stay-at-home mother.

It is my dream job.

I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing!

These were the thoughts that ran through my head last Monday night, as I looked at my precious daughters lying on either side of me in peaceful slumber.  The room was darkened to a comfortable twilight by blackout curtains, and the memory-foam of the bed was warm enough to make us a cozy snuggle, but not yet warm enough to make us a sweaty pile.  I re-played the day in my mind.

Busy, it was, but with the calm, ordered busy-ness of just enough time and tasks to fit well together.  We'd gone for a walk outside, since the weather was finally starting to warm a little. (A high of 35, but that's great compared to 18!)  We'd read stories upon stories.  We'd danced to the Nutcracker.  I made our Monday night dinner of beans and bread, warm and fresh and filling and tasty.  The laundry was not only washed, it was folded and put away!  The girls had gone down peacefully for a nap, slept well, been cheerful all afternoon, and bedtime had proceeded like clockwork.  Daddy was home from an all weekend flying job.  Yes, I loved my life. 

I thought of all the ways that my job was the best.  :)

I am my own boss.  

I don't have to think about what I'm getting paid, how many hours I lack or am overtime, or losing my job.

I get to work with my favorite people.

I get to choose when and how I do what I have to do, and even (to a certain degree) decide what, exactly, I do have to do.

I get to pour out my best, my love, my enthusiasm, my desires, without stint.

I get to confront problems and then find and implement the answer. (I love to do that kind of trouble-shooting, research, whatever you want to call it!)

If I want to change things - I can!  If I like the way I'm doing it - I don't have to change!

I nuzzled my toddler's hard little head, butted up against my cheek, and gently squeezed my baby's soft, dimpled arm, and gloried in my blessings.

And then there was Tuesday.

Smack in the face reality.

Mom-Fail.

(At least that's what it felt like.)

Everything just started off on the wrong foot! I was distracted, Eden was excitable and mischievous, and Lucy was needy.  The morning was frittered away on unimportant bits and pieces, as all my nice plans and goals dripped down the drain.  Panties were wet (multiple times), food rejected and thrown overboard, and toys strewn hither and yon.  My patience wore thin.  Lucy was hungry but then had a burp and wouldn't settle to eat, or she finally slept only to be rudely awoken by Eden's loving ministrations.  My patience wore thinner.  Naptime came, finally!  The "reset" button to the day, if you will.  My hopes were doused when it became a huge power struggle - Eden wouldn't go to sleep, I wouldn't let her get up, so we all stayed on the bed til 2 o'clock, with Eden whining, kicking the wall, kicking her mama, standing on her head, burrowing under the covers, sucking on the wrong end of her water bottle, triumphantly getting up to go to the potty and then coming back and throwing a fit all over again at the prospect of laying down.  And of course, me reacting to each of her actions.  I knew I was making it worse, but I was tired and fed up and couldn't seem to break the cycle!  More than once, she got quiet, and then quieter, and stiller, and was alllllmost asleep....and then realized it and woke herself up again with silliness.  

So we got up, and she was a whiny mess of tired toddler, and I was a fed-up mess of tired mama, and what did I do? 

Basically ignored her for the rest of the afternoon.  

I know.  Not something I'm terribly proud of.  

I just did other stuff, took care of some emails, fed Lucy, and benignly neglected my Eden. 

Not out of calm, thought-out, mommy strategy, but out of sheer "I can't deal with this right now!" desperation.

Funny thing is, she whined about for awhile.  She tried to get me to engage. (I did; I wasn't being mean, I just took care of whatever she really needed and then left her to her own devices.)  And then she just started playing on her own.  She crashed her little bike and the kiddycar on the kitchen floor.  She scattered her (dry) beans all over.  She dumped out the Duplos, and piled her stuffed animals under the coffee table.  Books were here, there, and everywhere!  The house was a disaster.  

I just tuned out the whiny-ness and the mess, and wrapped myself up in a bit of calm.

Then I had to change Lucy's diaper.  I buzzed her chubby tummy, and made silly sounds at her.  Suddenly I heard Eden's giggle, and looking over, saw her leaning on the axle of her upside-down bike, watching us, and laughing uncontrollably.  She was a pumpkin, past the stage of irritability and coming into the slap-happy giggles.  

Who can resist a little girl giggling? Everything I did made her laugh harder, until I was laughing out loud too.  Reset.

We giggled and were silly, ate an improvised dinner, had a splashy bath and went to bed.

I still love being a stay-at-home mom, even on the hard days.  But those humbling days do make me not take myself so seriously!

Today's Relief Society Lesson and Me

This week's Relief Society lesson was all about character, integrity, and one's standing before the Lord.  I have to confess, I have really slacked (up to this point) on reading the lessons in preparations for Sundays.  I know I should, I know I would get more out of each meeting and be able to contribute better, but there are so many reasons why I just haven't done it.
Thursday was a stake leadership training meeting.  Of course, I couldn't go, but they had it all set up so that we could call in like we do for church and at least listen to what went on.  Calling in has its pro's and cons.  I love being able to sit on my couch with my feet up and my pajamas on, nursing my baby as she needs it, while still attending my meetings and fulfilling my calling.  (For church on Sundays, we do dress up and try to make it a little more formal.)  However, I don't like not always being able to hear or tell exactly what's going on, and the trickiness of participating highly discourages that kind of connection.  The one piece of counsel that I heard, remembered, and applied was the admonishment to at least read, if not study, the lesson prior to Sunday, not only for my own benefit but so that I could contribute to the lesson and help the teacher out if needed.
So I read the lesson.
And, as I knew it would, it blessed my life.
One part struck me, not so much while reading it on my own, but definitely during the lesson.  The paragraph reads-
     "We must hearken to ... whisperings (of the Holy Ghost) and conform to its suggestions, and by no act of our lives drive it from us.  It is true that we are weak, erring creatures...but so soon as we discover ourselves in a fault, we should repent of that wrongdoing and as far as possible repair or make good the wrong we may have committed.  By taking this course we strengthen our character, we advance out own cause, and we fortify ourselves against temptation; and in time we shall have so far overcome as to really astonish ourselves at the progress we have made in self-government, and in improvement."
Our teacher asked for some of us to share experiences regarding these words, and, as the staticky moments ticked on without comment, I searched my brain for a something to say, some way to "help" my teacher out. What floated up really amazed me, and though perhaps it didn't help anyone else, it opened my perspective again to the work Heavenly Father is doing in my life.
When we came here, last year, it was the beginning of a really hard time for me.  So many things about this situation have really pushed me beyond what I thought were my limits.  More than once - many times, actually - I felt the darkness of depression, despair, discouragement, loneliness, anger, frustration, and misunderstanding settle over me, and found myself struggling to see the light.  Through much effort, faith, and time, I gradually came out of that darkness into a certain resigned, if consciously blinder-ed, contentment, and from there to a real peace and a joyful life again.  I rejoiced to leave for the holidays and Lucy's birth.  I privately, and publicly, hoped to never return. :)  And when we made the decision to come back for another 8 months, I cried.  And yet...
Somehow, its different this time around.  It may be partly because of the end in sight, and partly because I'm not dealing with the physical and emotional effects of pregnancy, but I think its more than that.  I looked back at my difficult Alaska summer during my time of strengthening and rejoicing in California and wondered how I could have been such a  "weak, erring creature."  Why was it so hard?  Was I just a wimp?  Was I just making mountains out of molehills?  If I look at it that way, then some of of this blog is a pretty embarrassing look at my vulnerabilities and struggles.
I prefer not to look at it that way.
Rather, let's consider it from this angle.  Weakness is a natural state of being.  Its how we all start.  Anything. We may find natural talent, or ease, in a situation or skill, and perhaps certain other strengths, previously developed, give us a headstart, but no one is strong at the very beginning.  Strength is developed.  Therefore, weakness and struggle is not something to be ashamed of!  It is a start, an opportunity, a sign that you are still living and growing and progressing.  A sign that you are human, just one of a large family of people who each struggle in their own way and time.
So I look back, and I look forward, and I ponder my present state, and I "astonish myself at the progress I have made in self-government and improvement."
Isn't it amazing what we learn about ourselves when we do what we know we should? :)

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.