domestic dissident

2012-02-08T10:58:00.000-08:00

I found yet another article today about a woman who thinks she knows how to liberate the rest of us.
Here is the link, if you'd like to read it for yourself: http://www.lifesitenews.com/news/brave-new-world-uk-ethicist-wants-women-to-abandon-motherhood-use-artificia
Most of the time, I restrain my urge to argue back at people with her worldview, as I know they will never be convinced. But sometimes I find something so blatant in its woman-hatred, so perverse in its claims to be feminist, that I have to respond. Out of protest. Out of dissidence. Out of everything I am as a woman. Here is my open letter to Dr. Anna Smajdor.

Dear Dr. Smajdor--

Perhaps you are being provacative. Perhaps you want the press.
Perhaps you are sincere. Perhaps you genuinely want to help women and think you've hit upon a solution that will lift us all up from the muck and mud of gender slavery. Perhaps you think you are a feminist heroine.

Unquestionably, you are wrong.
And, while we're at it, quite misogynistic.

Carrying a child for nine months is not, as you have implied, a case of the measles.
The environment God created for my child within my womb cannot be replaced by a plastic shell, no matter how much techno-wizardry is involved. But that's not really what I find so awry in your view of women.

Your vision of equality is frightening-- a sexless, joyless, repressive world in which everything that separates us from masculinity is stripped away. Your basic premise is that being male is better than being female. You speak of the “dis-benefits” of being a woman, of the “burdens” of bearing children. You hold masculine physiological and social function as higher than the female counterpart. In your words,

Pregnancy is a condition that causes pain and suffering, and that affects only women. The fact that men do not have to go through pregnancy to have a genetically related child, whereas women do, is a natural inequality,

Of course gender difference-- what you call inequality-- is natural. Because perfect equality would be terrifying. Like the tyrant of mythology who would cut off the legs or stretch the bodies of those hapless enough to find themselves in his perfectly equal bed, you would torture the nature of human beings until we all resembled one another.

Let's say we dove head-long into your brave new world. Let's say we gave up having babies. What would be the next step to equality? Should we hollow ourselves, scrape clean our insides, removing the unwanted and unnecessary organs of reproduction? Eggs can be harvested and stored, so why keep the useless byproducts of yesterday's womanhood. Should we cut off our breasts, so that men cannot sexualize us, judging us on reproductive appeal rather than intellectual or social value? Should we mutilate our genitals to further remove any unwanted sexual domination? Would we be masculine enough for your “equality?”

It is the so-called inequalities of masculinity and femininity that give balance to the human race. Men are good at some things. Women are good at some things. Just because some men abuse their power, or because some women associate nurturing with weakness does not mean we should seek to abandon our very natures. That only makes the ugly worse.

If you want to abandon child-bearing, go ahead. But don't tell me you are doing it to make me more of a woman. Don't tell me you are advocating my rights. I am a woman. I bear children. I birth children. I nurse children. I raise children. I can do a heck of lot of other things too, many of which men can do, but child-bearing is mine as a woman. It is my birth right, my blessing, and yes, my burden. Because nothing in life that is truly worth it comes without pain and suffering. Not babies, not marriage, not love, not change, not beauty, not freedom, not faith, not anything good under the sun. Each baby I have carried, birthed, and held has only deepened my sense of human worth, not diminished. it. I will not give birth up to any man, to any social program, to any agenda.

Before you try to liberate me, liberate yourself. Before you go seeking to empower yourself at such great cost, become aware of the power you already have. You don't need masculinity. You could have femininity. Trust me, that's enough.

Five Minute Fairy: A Halloween Mini-Tutorial

2011-10-27T10:47:00.000-07:00

There must be an unspoken rule in my house that every Halloween someone must be a fairy or some other winged creature. My two-year old decided it's her turn this year, and I didn't want to just stick her in the fairy remnants of years past. But I have a newborn. And a five year who wants to be a leopard. And a pile of laundry you don't want to see.

I also have five minutes and a glue gun. :)

Following is a mini-tutorial on how to turn a plain t-shirt into a simple fairy costume.Forgive the lack of pictures. I wasn't planning to turn the project into a tutorial until I was looking at the finished product and thought some other laundry-menaced mama might appreciate this idea. If I have time and tulle later I'll go back and do a nicely photographed version.

Also, the bright idea behind it all is not mine. My friends used this idea at the onesie-decorating contest they had at my baby shower. They know I'm ripping them off for a good cause.

What You'll Need:

Glue gun and glue sticks
Scissors
At least 1 yard of tulle in a color of your choice.

If you don't like cutting the huge length of tulle from a bolt, the little rolls of tulle work well.
I layered two colors of tulle but use a single color or a dozen colors if you fancy.

Plain t-shirt or onesie in the color of your choice.
Scrap end of ribbon
Optional: additional ribbon for embellishment
Optional: episode of Dora the Explorer to keep the future fairy away from the glue gun

What You'll Do:

Cut your tulle

The width and length will be determined by the size of your fairy. The t-shirt base was 24 months on mine and I cut strips approximately 9x19".
I cut the tulle into 10 layers, five of each color I had chosen. Use more or less if desired. I recommend a less full set of wings for very small fairies so that the shirt doesn't get too bulky when they are on their backs.

Layer the tulle in the color arrangement of your choice.
Pinch the middle as if making a bow. Secure with glue gun.

Tip: Use a metal spoon to the fabric against the glue if you are worried about gluing your fingers.

Wrap the scrap end of ribbon around the middle. Glue the ends of the ribbon so that they are overlapping one another. I also glued the ribbon to the tulle so that everything would be nice and secure.
Center the wings on the back of the t-shirt and glue in place.
Fluff tulle for maximum fairy effect.

And you're done!

You can move on to other pressing Halloween issues such as your leftover candy damage control plan. Or, if you have another five minutes, you can fancy it up a bit more.

Cut three lengths of coordinating ribbon the length of the front of the t-shirt from neckline to hem.
Trim edges so that they are even
Glue in place.

Yes, it is puckered. I had to pull off one of the ribbons and re-align it.

My inner perfectionist is fuming but my toddler so will not care.

Pair the shirt with a pettiskirt, tutu, or even a pair of jeans if you're feeling that laid back vibe. If you feel giddy with all the time you now have, try your hand at making a tutu. Here's a great tutorial from Cut Out And Keep

Yes, you can also sew it and it will probably look much more elegant. But the five-minute version will still make for a pretty fairy and this way you won't cry nearly so much when she gets chocolate all over it at the Harvest Party.

Happy Harvest!

Sunday Stitches: Corduroy and Tulle

2011-10-22T19:37:00.000-07:00

Sundays are a big deal. We know this. But I want my family to see it. To celebrate it. I've been mulling over ways I can emphasize the special, wonderful First Day of the week and my thoughts (of course) came to sewing. I decided to sew each of my girls a special Sunday Dress of their own.

With three girls five and younger, my first thought for Sunday dressing is practical, not pretty. Can it survive the snack in Sunday school and our pizza-and-play after church family tradition? Can I change a diaper in under two minutes? Most of their church clothes as dual use-- worn with sparkly shoes on Sunday and with scuffed sneakers on Monday. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

But my new sewing goal, over the next few weeks, will be to make each of the girls something different. Something a little more special. A little fancier. Clothes for my girls to wear when they worship, clothes to remind them that they are unique and lovely daughters of a King. Twirling optional.

I know we're not scoring fashion points with our Father on Sunday morning.
The idea of "dressing up" for church is a bit stuffy for our jeans-and-t-shirt culture, but I'd like to offer in its place the idea of dressing deliberately. To use our clothes as a visible sign of the invisible reality that we are meeting our God. Our Hope, our Redeemer, our King! We should select clothes that emphasize not the stuffiness of starched shirts and itchy lace but the specialness of something Not Ordinary. This isn't a dress my daughter will wear to dig in her dirt pile or go to Wal-mart. It's a dress with a purpose, and that purpose is to worship her Creator in her own tiny two-year old way. When I sew with that in mind, the domestic act becomes deliberate worship. One tiny way I can help my young ladies learn to rejoice in Sunday, and one way I can refresh my heart to rejoice with them.

With that in mind, I started sewing. I thought I'd make Ember a skirt out of some deep purple corduroy I'd found on sale. And throw in a tulle ruffle for fun. I love the idea of the folksy corduroy against the frilly tulle. What followed was, perhaps, a comedy of errors. Sorry I don't have more pictures to prove what a crazy process this was. You'll have to take my word for it.

I cut what should have been a basic two-tiered ruffle skirt, the second tiering lined with cotton that ended in peek-a-boo gathered tulle. And yes, I blame baby brain for the fact that I cut the fabric wrong and ended up with something more like a strapless dress. I thought I'd throw straps or cap sleeves on it and whip out a cute shrug.

Cue the inspiration. Owly Baby offers a super-sweet baby shrug pattern that I thought I'd up-size for Ember. After a minor (cough) pattern cutting error I ditched the idea of a matching corduroy shrug and decided to use some black cotton knit from my stash. Then decided again that rather than a shrug I'd use the pattern as the upper part of the bodice and cover both cozy and cute all at once. The knit bodice was slightly smaller than the corduroy so I did a little snipping. Okay, more than a little. After extracting Ember from the results, I decided to try it on River. The dress must have wanted to be hers all along. After a few tweaks, some hemming and neckline finishing, and chasing her down for a final fitting, we had a finished garment! Though I did break a needle trying to sew on the bow.


This was the rare still moment...


...followed by bouncing, which means the dress must be comfortable enough for her.


And the grin! We have a winner!


Pardon the poor quality. By now the baby was crying so photo time was over.

I wouldn't exactly call this next part a tutorial....more like design notes. A guide for someone to follow should they like this look and want one for their little girl.

The corduroy part was constructed from simple rectangles. The top corduroy panel on this dress is 4" x 23" and the gathered panel is 12"x38". Those are the finished measurements. For your pattern pieces you'll want to add extra for seam allowances and hems.

The bodice, as I mentioned, is based off Owly Baby's shrug. All awesomeness goes to her...I just tweaked it for my own use. I used her sleeves, and I used the back piece of her shrug to cut my front and back bodice. I cut my pieces just a bit larger than her template so that it would fit my corduroy panel.

Once I'd completed the bodice, I simply attached it to the skirt then finished my neckline and sleeve hems. The bow was from one of the girls' rejected hairbands and was quite stubborn. I broke an embroidery needle and a machine needle before reaching for the hot glue gun. Maybe I got enough stitches in before the needle broke so that it will hold if the glue washes out in the wash.

You can learn how to make your own bow here via Sutton Grace's free tutorial.

Another great ideas for embellishment would be a fabric flower. Hop on over to Tip Nut for a list of over thirty different kinds. Have fun :)

The Point of No Return

2011-09-29T06:15:00.000-07:00

You think of martyrs as wild-eyed menwith goatskin and beards or ecstatic saints, white-robed amidstflame. You think of them as shuddering in the Arctic winter of aRussian gulag or staring down gunmetal with prayers on their tongues.

You don't really think of them sittingon their couch with their family, holding a son, beside a wife.The picture of Youcef Nadarkhani, anIranian pastor facing execution for refusing to convert to Islam,resembles more math teacher than religious dissident. He's wearing awhite dress shirt. His hairline is receding. He faces the camera witha small smile, his hand resting on the arm of one of his two youngsons. He's calm.

From this picture, you wouldn't guesswhat the man is up against. He's been arrested before, for protestingthat his son was forced to read the Koran at school. His wife's beenarrested, a pressure move designed to force him to recant. She wasreleased after international justice movements intervened on herbehalf but Nadarkhani was sentenced to death for apostasy.

The whole article is here:http://www.foxnews.com/world/2011/09/28/iranian-pastor-faces-execution-for-refusing-to-recant-christian-faith/

The fact that regimes around the worldviolently oppress Christianity is not news.

The fact that Christians around theworld face death for their faith is not news.

The fact that they do so with grace andcourage is the real story.

According to the article, whenpressured to repent, Nadarkhani replied

"Repent means to return. What should I return to?

Those words struck me like the sounding of a bell, one that hasreverberated through millenia of faith and persecution. Peter said itfirst-- to whom shall we go, You have the words of eternal lifeand we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the HolyOne of God."

That phrase has been repeatedbefore first century Christians in the arena, reformers at the stake,believers in a Communist interrogation cell, and countless otherswhose names we will only know in heaven. They are heroes not becausethey are brave but because they are desperate. To whomshall we go?
Behind is awasteland, a scorched and sin-blasted landscape of godlessness,peopled by wretches who stagger in helpless oblivion towards the pitof final wrath. Behind is emptiness, the starless night of a deadsoul that all the money, comfort, pleasure, and fleeting joy of earthcannot lighten. Behind is the crushing stone of guilt upon the chest,cracking every bone of good intention and self-made merit until thevery heart is pressed flat. Behind is life without Christ. Withoutgrace. Without hope. Deadin our trespasses and sins. Walking decay.
Nadarkhani, like so many otherChristians put to the same test, looks over his shoulder and sees allthis. He sees who he was before and the answer to the question issimple.

"What should I return to? To the blasphemy that I hadbefore my faith in Christ?"
"To the religion of your ancestors, Islam,"
"I cannot,"

He's at a point of no return. There is only Christ. While there ishope that an appeal may overturn the death sentence, it is unlikelythat the pastor will be released without a long jail sentence “orworse,” according to the article. As his brothers and sisters,fellow members of Christ's body, we should uplift him in prayer notonly for the sparing of his life but for the protection of his familyshould he be taken from them and imprisoned. But let's not justrattle off a prayer of concern, admire the man's faith, and go backto the Starbucks latte that's getting cold. Let's think a minute,because that question is always for you. And me.

What should we return to?

No one is standingoutside my porch with a machete to cut off my hands because I refusedto vote for a dictator. When I go to church on Sunday morning, Iwon't be concerned that soldiers will appear to lock the doors andburn the building down with my babies inside beside me. I can read myBible. I can invite the grocery store clerk to church without facingarrest. But American Christians, in our life of complete freedom andconsiderable ease, face a different challenge to our faith. Becauseour culture is so comfortable,we can forget the underlying chasm. We can turn again to stumbling,grasping at any shiny thing within our reach, angry at God because Hetook our job, our health, our 401K. We blame Him for our lost dreams,our failed marriages, our angry children. And the Father of Lies isquick to sidle up to our souls and whisper-- repent.Return. Go back. Youtried it. He failed you. Give up.

When life is hard andfaith is harder, look over your shoulder. Ask for eyes to see, likePastor Nadarkhani, what lies behind us. Look with eyes of faith towhat lies before us. Then answer the Deceiver--

I cannot.

This animation of the song All I Have In Christ pays tribute to those who have had to answer the question at gunpoint. It inspires those of us who have to answer it within in our own souls every day. I'm posting in in honor of Pastor Nadarkhani and his family. Pray for him when you watch it. Pray for me, that I'll live out my faith in freedom with the same courage, and I'll pray the same for you.

Birth Songs

2011-09-21T17:58:00.000-07:00

to my daughters

I. Fire

Though we named you for fire, you came to us as snow. In silenceand midnight you changed everything in sight; we did not even knowyou were a part of me until suddenly we opened our eyes and saw aworld transformed by your existence. We did not know anything aboutcarrying or birthing babies but our love for you made us brave. Wewalked the journey toward the beginning of your life determined tobirth you in the gentlest, kindest way possible. Only we werenovices; we were young. When voices older and-- we thought-- wisertold us to hasten your coming with drugs we listened because wethought we could not trust our own voices. Your birth was not gentle,nor was it kind; the drugs made my rushes unnaturally strong and wechose medicine to relieve the pain so that I could birth you withoutsurgery. I could not feel you move through me toward life but Ipushed with the memory of my muscles and you moved. In blood, andchaos, in joy and triumph, you came into the world. Your Daddy says Icried out in joy-- my baby, my baby-- as you passed into themidwife's hands and that the cry, the exultation, was louder than anyother groan or sigh I made in your birth.

Ember Rose. Flower of fire, firstborn daughter, burning of myheart.

II. Water

We waited for you, as desert people wait for rain. We danced youdown; we prayed. As they search the horizon for any cloud, as theylift their faces for any coolness in the wind, we searched for anysign of your coming. And come you did, rushing in to fill and swellmy womb. We had another journey before us, and this time we promisedyou we would trust our wisdom. We told the midwives that we would notbring you into the world early unless it was to save your life. Weprepared to wait, as we did with your sister, we thought your birthwould come slow. But you came as a strong current, as a tide rushingto shore. Before we even got out of the driveway, I birthed you intoyour Daddy's hands. He caught you and gave you to me wrapped in abath towel. The paramedics had come and again we followed voices notour own and went to the hospital, which was not necessary because youwere strong and beautiful and healthy. We spent two days waiting togo home with you but you never left my arms. You slept beside me evenin the hospital bed, happy with my breast and our love.

River Lynn. Rain child, ripple of joy, water to my soul.

III. Song

You swept over us suddenly. You rushed in like a north wind,rattling shutters and overturning trash cans and changing me, again.Like a blast of air in my face you stole the breath right out of mylungs. And then turned it into song, into hope as you grew and grewstrong inside me. We chose wise women to catch you and knew theywould leave room for our voices besides their own. Your birthingbegan as a little breeze that slipped in through my bedroom windowand woke me with the first of my rushes. Your eldest sister waitedwith me, in the darkness before dawn, until we knew you were coming.Birthing you was unlike any other experience of my life. I walkedwith your Daddy outside the house and lifted my face to the sun whenthe rushes came. I knelt in water and moaned, and sang, and evenwailed, in those last moments, when your birth was a roaring wind inmy ears and body. Then you were here. The midwives gave you to me inmy own house, and I closed my eyes to rest in my own room. The housewas hushed and holy as your Daddy and I slept with you nestled to mybreast. Piper Haven. Little sand piper, little bird girl. Song andwind, music to my world.

Book Review: The Blackberry Bush

2011-07-11T20:38:00.000-07:00

The Blackberry Bush, by David Housholder, is not what you'd expect to pick up on the shelves of most Christian bookstores. In fact you may not even find a copy in most traditional Christian fiction venues, which is regrettable because the novel sets out to do something important-- make you think about faith, about its delicately woven threads, rough and silken alike, that bind generations together in a work of grace. In Housholder's novel, these threads bind lives together, through brokenness and triumph, to tell a story of God's presence in even the darkest aspects of fallen humanity. That's a lot of big ideas to cram into a relatively short novel.

But then, you get the idea that Housholder is no stranger to big ideas. His bio describes him as An avid philosophical-spiritual influencer and surfer, who currently leads an indie-warehouse California beach church, where he dreams and works for a better world. This is a guy who wants to peel back the skin of things, who isn't afraid of messy or complicated faith. You can see all of those influences in The Blackberry Bush, though at times they seem convoluted or contrived.

The novel's narrative seems clear enough as we are taken through the lives and struggles of two young people whose family history is powerfully-- and tragically-- linked.

Two babies—Kati and Josh—are born on opposite sides of the world at the very moment the Berlin Wall falls. You’d think such a potent freedom metaphor would become the soundtrack for their lives, but nothing could be further from the truth. Despite his flawless image, Josh, an artistic and gifted California skateboarder, struggles to find his true role in the world, and his growing aggression eventually breaks him.

Kati, a German with a penchant for classic Swiss watches and attic treasure-hunting, is crushed with disappointment for never being “enough” for anyone—most especially her mother. Craving liberation, Kati and Josh seem destined to claim their birthright of freedom together. After all, don’t the “chance” encounters transform your life…or are they really chance?

For all its compelling ideas, both fictional and philosophical, and for its compelling characters, The Blackberry Bush stumbles in its execution. Too many plot elements are over-compressed so that key events of the story lack the weight the reader knows they are meant to carry. I especially found this true for Josh in one scene which he is shown committing an act of betrayal without any preceding scenes to develop his motivation for such sudden aggression. Show don't tell could be a rule this author takes more closely to heart. As compelling and vibrant as his characters are, I kept wanting more of them....to see in greater detail their lives and struggles, to go through those struggles with them and experience their sorrow and joy.

But the author's heart clearly is more for the ideas behind his narrative than the fictional narrative itself. He frequently interjects theological musing-- even to the detriment of the narrative-- as if desperately trying to get us to see the tapestry of ideas that he sees and is trying to communicate to us. This is a trap of many "theological novels". What gets more attention-- the Big Ideas or the characters and situations in which those ideas are played out? Housholder does an admirable job of attempting balance, and of addressing issues relevant to today's culture, but his success is mixed. At times I felt I was reading an elongated sermon illustration rather than a novel. Aspects of his attempts to identify with modern culture felt forced, as did the suddenly optimistic ending, though this could have been a product of the overall compression of the narrative.

Taken as a whole, The Blackberry Bush is worth reading. Housholder's heavy emphasis on the impact of family on the shaping of a young person's life will generate plenty of discussion, as will his ideas on the soft relentlessness of grace. I will be interested to see what ideas he chooses to explore in his next novel, and applaud his willingness to challenge the Christian fiction art form.

The Blackberry Bush may be purchased on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. For more information on David Housholder, check out his blog at Robinwood Church

Labor Pops

2011-07-05T15:21:00.001-07:00

The temperature is hovering in the 90s and I have popsicles on the brain. This summer I've been adventurous and experimented with making my own. Since tonight is the last night of my birth class, I thought I'd post this simple recipe for Labor Pops. Popsicles are a great way to keep up energy during labor so why not get the most bang for your pop by throwing in a few labor-specific ingredients?

Baby M isn't due until August so I have not tested these and can't tell you whether or not they work but in my mind anything that comes as a popsicle can't be all bad.

This recipe is not my own. I found it at Hakima Midwifery. The original blog post also included a recipe for lactation cookies....check it out to boost your milk supply and satisfy your sweet tooth.

You'll need:

1-2 oz dried red raspberry leaf tea
1 quart water
Quart size jar with lid
Honey and lemon to taste
2-3 1 mg calcium tablets
Ice tray

To make the labor pops, steep 1-2 ounces of red raspberry leaf in a quart of water for at least 20 minutes up to four hours. Strain and sweeten with lots of honey and lemon; these will add much needed calories and lemon can help ease nausea (as well as the red raspberry leaf tea). Crush the calcium tablets and add to the tea. Calcium is a muscle relaxant and can help with some aches and pains during labor. Pour the mixture into the ice tray. When labor commences, eat throughout labor.

Addendum: The blog article shows them on sticks like regular popsicles but you could use a popsicle mold or just pour them into an ice cube tray and suck on the ice cubes.

Stay cool, all you mamas in waiting!

Don't Forget Your Moan

2011-06-12T13:13:00.000-07:00

She was angry. Or hurting. Or tired. Or tense. Or all of the three at once-- after all, an almost-two woman is still a woman. I was tired, heavy with the baby in my belly and the weariness of the day, and out of ideas. The bedroom was dark but for the low light of the night lamp. This was supposed to be a peaceful time. We had nursed. We had snuggled. We'd sung Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and Hush Little Baby. We'd nursed some more. I'd rubbed feet, kissed her forehead, smoothed her hair. Still she fretted. “Mama, mama, I'm crying. I'm crying.”

After forty-five minutes I felt we'd established that point already but she insisted on saying it over and over again. Her face scrunched and flushed, her movements restless and petulant.At last I sat up at the edge of her mattress and pulled her into my lap, her head resting over my heart.

“Mama, I'm crying. Crying. Mama. Mama.”

For five years I'd soothed little ones. Why wasn't it working this night? I'd done everything and yet nothing changed.

I listened to her whimper, to her moan, and my mouth opened. I moaned with her, a soft low rumble in my throat and chest. She stopped, but only for a moment before returning to her troubles. I moaned again, following her. And again. For a few minutes, all I did was hold her and share in whatever troubles she was trying to voice. I didn't try to comfort her, or get her to stop, or convince her she was okay. I just moaned with her. After only a few minutes, she quieted. Another few more and she was asleep on my chest.

In preparation for labor, I was taught how to “moan, groan, and sigh.” That the raw and fierce energy of birthing could not be ignored, or diminished by outside distractions-- at some point you had to wade out into it and surrender. You opened your mouth and you moaned. You let it wash over you.

Mothers need to remember how to do that. So much of the advice given new parents seems to focus on how to manage babies-- how to make sure they are pooping and sleeping enough and not crying or clinging too much. And yes, we need to know how to care for our little ones in the best and most kind manner possible. In my five years of mothering, my breasts and my baby sling and my bed had proven powerful tools for nurturing and soothing. But sometimes they aren't enough. Sometimes nothing is enough. Sometimes you simply have to enter into your child's tears and stand with them. Moan with them.

When my oldest entered the world, to a chaotic delivery and a rookie mama, she cried. A lot.

I remember one night, after my first few days of sleep deprivation, when after a particularly painful-- and unproductive-- nursing attempt, I ran from my baby. I set her down by her father and fled to the bathroom corner in tears. She wouldn't sleep. She couldn't eat because the induction had delayed my milk supply. She wailed no matter what I did. My husband followed me into the bathroom, holding my newborn girl, and held her out to me. Take your baby, he said, quietly.

I remember looking at her and thinking distinctly that new babies rather resemble some alien life form, foreign and potentially hostile.

Take your baby.

I took my baby.

I started to learn how to mama moan. How to stay present, even when all the right things have been done and all the right things have failed and the sheer force of a baby's wailing seems strong enough to rip sheet metal. I learned how to look at my baby's cry not as an adversary to be conquered but an experience to be entered. Like labor, you have to wade out and hold on.

I am pregnant again, with my third child, and I expect to moan and groan and sigh plenty during the birthing. I expect joy, and ecstasy, and pain, and surrender, and strength. I also by now expect those emotions to last long past the delivery; in fact I am convinced they are bound around every mother's heart. The anguish and triumph and just plain hard work of birthing a baby is just a preparation for the years of mothering that baby.

Love your little one. Do all you can to comfort them and soothe away the thorny places in life. And when that comfort seems thin, when the thorny places poke through anyway, don't forget your moan.

For Love of Occasion

2011-05-29T20:21:00.000-07:00

Domesticity mystifies me.

A complete understanding of what it means is still hiding, drifting in the fog of what society wants me to believe my grandmother's life was like, obscured by fears of Martha Stewart and church lady living rooms. What are womanly arts and what do they have to do with a properly basted turkey? What is delight in ones home and how does it get properly sorted out from the starch-and-scratchy chair sneering I saw from many ladies with beautiful, if somehow hostile, homes? What is it about me that goes all giddy when I look at my freshly made bed, covered in a quilt my great-grandmother sewed by hand fifty years ago? Or when I lay down at the end of a day to see the hushed light of my hanging lamp warm the purple and lavender of my walls? Why does this speak to my soul? The quilt is just old cotton, second-hand even when it was sewn. The lamp and the walls are just wire and plaster, paint and light. What causes such distinct and domestic satisfaction in a well-planned room?

I don't have an answer.
But I think my four year old does.

She hasn't had enough years to absorb, through whatever terrible osmosis, all of the domestic shame we as women build up in today's culture. She doesn't know that she should be liberated, or that her mommy is living a dreary and repressed life of household servitude. She doesn't know that her joys should be more sophisticated than homely pursuits, that instead of homemade jam and homemade twirl skirts she should covet five hundred dollar shoes and three hundred dollar handbags. Because she is naive, she is wise.

I watch her order her little domestic sphere, from the precise placement of beloved animals to the "decorating" of her room with scarves and ribbons and scraps of paper, I see her joy. She loves to plan, to select just the perfect treasure for the perfect spot. I watch her turn ordinary things into special occasions and I reclaim my own, still timid, love for everyday excellence. When did we as women believe that to orchestrate our homes is less worthy than orchestrating our careers? When did we stop being excited about the tiny, special things that surround us-- the breakfast plate with flowers, the lace edging of a napkin, the pleasing arrangement of a room so that it breathes peace and harmony to those who enter? I do not have to justify loving those things because they are part of who I am as a female reflection of God.

A week ago, I sat in a rocking chair outside a vintage-inspired general store, eating mint ice cream and staring at pansies. The color scheme was perfect, each petal a blend of pearly whites, blushing mauve, and deeper purple. As I looked at the other flowers-- tangerine orange against crimson red, bright yellow and white-- I realized that God is intentional about his colors. I have never seen a flower and thought oh, that doesn't match. He chose well and He chose deliberately, even though flowers are common, ordinary little things. He gave them beauty anyway. We have a love of occasion-- of detail, beauty, planned and executed well-- because He has filled a world with those domestic touches. When we fill our homes with the same, we are mimicking Him.

If you are anything like me, you're trying to understand this and all you keep thinking is the image of the 1950s Woman. You're not sure if you've ever met her or if you've just heard about her but images of plastic pearls and disturbingly red lipstick come to mind, along with mohair sweaters and a polka-dot apron tied at the waist. Her blue eyes gleam with manic energy as she tells you all she does to get her home to a waxy, gleaming, artificial beauty common to fake fruit. Every ounce of her is consumed with the tyranny of details, having the couch cushions turned just the right way, making sure the curtains are ironed once a week. Enter and admire but don't touch the good china. She obsessively pursues perfection and defines herself by the cleanliness of her carpet or the trendiness of her wall decor.

This is not the woman who understands God's domesticity.
Nor is it a woman who understands the true pleasure or love of keeping a home, of those touches that elevate the most basic elements of existence-- shelter and food and clothing-- into something special. My great grandmother, when she was sewing by hand dozens and dozens of patchwork quilts made from discarded dresses, knew the secret. My grandmother, who could make a coconut cream pie that will be served in heaven at the Lamb's supper, knew the secret. Even my daughter, when she runs to give me a handful of wildflowers-- aka weeds-- to place at the lunch table, knows the secret.

I am listening to them. I am learning. I am delighted and unashamed by it.

Image taken from a house tour featured on Parlour

You Might Be A Terrorist If....

2011-05-22T21:39:00.001-07:00

According to a Department of Homeland Security list, you might be a domestic terrorist if...
you exhibit the following:
* Expressions of libertarian philosophies (statements, bumper stickers)
* Second Amendment-oriented views (NRA or gun club membership, holding a CCW permit)
* Survivalist literature (fictional books such as "Patriots" and "One Second After" are mentioned by name)
* Self-sufficiency (stockpiling food, ammo, hand tools, medical supplies)
* Fear of economic collapse (buying gold and barter items)
* Religious views concerning the book of Revelation (apocalypse, anti-Christ)
* Expressed fears of Big Brother or big government
* Homeschooling
* Declarations of Constitutional rights and civil liberties
* Belief in a New World Order conspiracy

According to Those Who Know, "People engaged in the above activities or mind-set may be considered "extremists" or "militia groups" that exist in our communities and are "hiding in plain sight, ready to attack."

Quick, hide your Ron Paul bumper stickers and Left Behind series. Also please refrain from declaring your constitutional rights, religious views, distrust of government and for heaven's sake enroll your children in public school.

Nothing like a healthy dose of paranoia to wake you up in the morning.

Designer Interview: Jocole Designs

2011-05-06T18:10:00.000-07:00

Tonight I'm happy to bring you an interview with a very talented designer-- and mom-- who is using her gifts to raise her family and make the sewing world more interesting at the same time. You've heard me reference her a few times in the Easter dress posts, so it's about time I introduced you to the lady I've been blathering on about and also time I clue you in as to why I think she's so cool.

Who she is: Jodi Jean, aka Jocole

Where you can find her: her website, Etsy store, blog, and Facebook page

What she has to say:

Q) Tell us a little more about you and how you got started designing

A)I’ve been designing clothing since for as long as I can remember … if you go back through my notes from high school you’ll find sketches in all the margins and I have a plethora of notebooks just filled with sketches waiting to become a reality. I pursued designing in college at Brigham Young University – Idaho where I majored in fashion design. After college I worked as a patternmaker for a bathing suit manufacturer and then a modest prom dress manufacturer. Now I’m married and staying at home and taking care of my three crazy crazy kids. My pattern collection stemmed from my need to be creative while staying at home.

Q. What is your design philosophy or aesthetic? What are you hoping people will "get" when they see your work?

A) My design philosophy definitely involves easy to wear pieces that can be dressed up or worn everyday, I adore versatility. I hope people see my patterns and want to make things with them and use them over and over.

Q) What inspires you? Design? Fabric? Your adorable kids?

A) My kids definitely inspire the pattern collection – I sew for them and the clothing that I would like to see them wear.

Q) Give us a peek into your creative process. What goes into producing a new JoCole design?

A) All my patterns start with a sketch which is then hand-drafted into a full size pattern. A sample is sewn and I fit it and make changes/tweak if necessary – I make sure to take detailed pictures of each step during the sewing process to add to the sewing instructions. Back to pattern making to draft the pattern into all the different sizes. I then trace the multi-sized pattern onto my pattern grid paper. The grids are then scanned and then I use a graphics editor program to draw the crisp clean digital lines over my hand-drawn lines which are then erased. The image files are then turned into a pdf pattern. Picture editing of the step by step and model photos. I then type up the detailed sewing instructions and add LOTS and LOTS of pictures which is then turned into a pdf file. The pattern pdf and instruction pdfs are merged into one file and sent to my pattern testers who test how well the instructions are written and how well the different sizes fit. I use people who are seasoned seamstresses and novices who are just learning so I know that anyone will be able to use my patterns.

Q) And how do you do that with kids, I'd like to know....

A) Let me tell you this is probably just as hard as you would imagine. My kids are LITTLE … my son just turned 4, my daughter is 2.5 and I have a baby girl who just turned 1 (oh and I’m pregnant again with another girl, due to arrive in the beginning of July). Their playroom is right next to my studio so they play in there or in the backyard and interrupt me constantly. If I’m on the computer we’re in the living room and they are playing while I’m editing photos or typing. It’s always a little bit chaotic, but I wouldn’t have it any other way … I LOVE being able to work and be home with them. I don’t mind stopping the sewing to read a book.

Q) Your Etsy store offers everything from practical playclothes to pretty dresses-- you even remember the boys! Was this wide range of designs intentional or just a happy creative accident?

A) I definitely try to have a wide range of clothing. There are a couple boy things because I have a son and I like to make him things … but there should be more boy things but I have girls on my brain and he is outnumbered.

Q) The pattern design competition on Etsy is getting fierce. What do you think your patterns offer that sets you apart from other designers?

A) It is definitely getting fierce, when I started there was just a handful of us. I try to look and see what patterns they are offering and do something different while staying true to my design aesthetic. There are enough knot-dress patterns out there I promise you won’t see one in my shop.

Q) My personal favorite (so far) of your designs is the Circle Flounce Dress. It is simple yet lovely and surprisingly easy to make. What led you to create that specific design?

A) That is one of my favorite designs too. It actually stemmed from my daughter needing a dress but I didn’t want to fiddle with ruffles and I HATE buttonholes so it uses snap instead. I LOVE that the simple bodice can be easily fancied up with lace, ric rak or other trim and you could easily ditch the circle skirt pattern and just add a ruffle skirt.

Q) What do we have to look forward to from you for spring and summer? My girls do love a summer dress (hint hint)

A) I definitely have some new patterns up my sleeve … a pair of knit ruffle pants, a knit tank with ruffles along the neckline, adjustable suspenders and even a skirt pattern for all you lovely ladies will be coming … and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

I also just launched a ready to buy custom handmade women’s clothing collection that I am absolutely in LOVE with. Cute and comfortable … you’ll look super stylish but feel like you’re still wearing your pajamas (shhhhh … I promise I won’t tell anyone)

Q) I am sure I'm not the only mama who never touched a sewing machine before she had children. What advice would you give to newbie craftistas? Which of your patterns you would recommend as a "first project" piece?

A) Practice, practice and more practice. Don’t be afraid to try new things … that’s how you learn and get better. I would actually recommend the Circle Flounce Dress, it’s the one I always recommend. Then branch out into knits (I promise you they are not as scary as everyone says … I actually prefer to sew with knits) … and I would recommend the Peasant Knit Tee and the Basic Knit Leggings … super easy but my go-to patterns for my girls.

Chiffon Party Dress Mini-Tutorial

2011-05-04T19:03:00.001-07:00

My apologies for the slight delay while I spent the majority of the last week coughing like a dying steam train. The plague has passed, so I can get down to the good stuff.
Last week, we did the great Easter dress reveal and I promised a mini-tutorial.

Before we get started, let me say that I take zero credit for the pattern design of this dress. Zilch. Nada. This tiny tutorial was made with permission of the designer, in this case the talented Jocole over on Etsy. What I'll show you here is a quick way to fancy up her design for a party or other special occasion. Be warned: I am a sewing novice and this is my first how-to. Throw those tomatoes gently.

What You'll Need

Pattern for a circle dress or skirt, depending on what you want to make. I used the Circle Flounce Dress by Jocole but feel free to use what you wish. For those brave enough to try a bit of drafting, Ikat Bag has a free circular skirt tutorial and Google will happily fetch you any number of free dress patterns for the bodice.
Lightweight fabric for bodice and skirt lining, in the amount called for by pattern. I used cotton for the entire lining of the practice dress and the bodice of the Easter dresses. For the skirt lining on the Easter dresses I chose taffeta to give a little extra sheen and rustle.
Stretch chiffon, also called nylon tricot for skirt and/or bodice overlays, in the amount called for by pattern. Check your required yardage for your pattern's skirt and that is the amount you will need for each layer of the stretch chiffon. This fabric is different from regular chiffon and can be a bit tricky to find at local sewing stores. I found only one store in my area that carried it at all and their color selection was next to none. Most of the chiffon for my dresses came from DreamSpunKids. The array of colors she offers is amazing and the prices are reasonable.
Lace or ribbon for straps and sash (optional). I purchased dyed-to-match lace from DreamSpunKids to coordinate exactly with my chiffon.
The usual notions: thread, needle, etc. I did substitute buttons for the snaps called for in the Circle Flounce pattern, just because I hate snaps.

Step One

Lay out and cut fabric for bodice, skirt, lining, and overlays. At this point you will decide whether you want to overlay the bodice and the skirt or only the skirt. For the practice dress, I used a single layer of hot pink chiffon for the bodice and the skirt--

For the Easter dresses, I chose an embroidered cotton bodice and two to three layers of chiffon for the skirts.

Multiple layers of chiffon make the skirt assembly a bit trickier but it is worth it for that lovely swish when you're done.

Step Two

Assemble the bodice according to pattern
If you have chosen to use a chiffon overlay, I suggest sewing the front and back sides of the chiffon together before sewing it over the lining. According to my trial-and-error this was less likely to cause pulling or distortion during the attachment.

Step Three

Assemble the skirt and overlays.
Sew each layer of the skirt-- lining and chiffon overlays-- individually then baste the layers together at the top for ease in attaching the bodice. You will want to hem your lining but you don't have to hem the chiffon as it will not fray. I chose not to hem the chiffon for my dresses.

Step Four

Attach skirt to bodice.
If you haven't already attached the straps, do so now. Attach sash if you have decided to use one. I made mine removable using simple belt loops you can learn to do at this Whimsy Couture tutorial.
Try on your princess and watch her twirl!

There you have it. A few simple steps on how to transform a cute basic dress into something perfect for a summer party or church event. Thanks for tuning in!

The Great Easter Dress Saga Part Two

2011-04-27T18:14:00.000-07:00

I'm sure you are all lined up with popcorn and lawn chairs to hear the second chapter of the Easter Dress saga, or at least that's how I picture you in my mind so I won't make you wait. When we left off, I was chopping cute dresses into skirts and searching for The Perfect Pattern

After a rather disastrous second sample dress which will not appear here because it is in the garbage, I found the Circle Flounce Dress by Etsy designer Jocole. I loved everything about this pattern, from its sweet and simple design to the sweet and simple construction. Having never made a circle skirt before, I was a tad nervous making the sample but her clear directions and easy to assemble pattern pieces made the process painless. She'll actually be featured here soon so you'll get to learn all about this creative and talented designer. But for now, it's onto sample making!

I did manage to source stretch chiffon (aka nylon tricot for the less romantic of you) at a local fabric store but the colors were very limited. I chose some hot pink chiffon and your basic pink broadcloth for the sample fabric. A few hours later, I had this done...

If it looks wrinkly and unfinished that's because it is. This was strictly a test copy.

I decided to overlay the bodice as well as the skirt with the chiffon, and it came out very nice. The fit on my daughter was perfect though it was a bit short for Easter. There wasn't anything inappropriate about the length for regular church wear but on Easter I wanted something a bit more formal.

Flush with success, I started to cut my chiffon.
And I cut. And I cut. And I cut. Don't let this fabric fool you. When it arrived in the mail and sat on my cutting table, batting its eyelashes at me, I couldn't think of anything but how beautiful it was, how frothy, how perfect for a little girl on Easter. It couldn't have been any more perfect if it were made out of Peeps. Only when I started the tedious process of cutting six overskirts (three for each dress) of very slippery, stretchy, fang-toothed fabric did I realize the truth. Chiffon is like a carnivorous bubble bath. Sure, it looks sweet and ethereal but sink your hands into it and you're in for a fight. I wish I'd thought to take pictures of my scrap pile but you'll just have to take my word that I finally wrangled it into submisison. I did come up a bit short, which caused a few panicked trips to the fabric store but other than that both the fabric and I survived. Relatively intact.

I discarded the overlaid bodice for a simple white embroidered cotton, which turned out to be a lovely accompaniment to the pink. My favorite part of the project was the subtle changes in color as I layered the chiffon. I ended up with something completely unique to my particular dress. Though I thought I would lose my sanity before I sewed one more layer, the end result was lovely.

I used dyed-to-match lace in a candy pink for the straps and the sash, which gave the pastel theme a bit of a kick.

The girls began twirling as soon as I tried it on them the first time. Spontaneous twirl is always a good sign for a dress. Everything held up well for Easter Sunday....

Little One models the front view

Loved One shows off her sash

And looks generally cute

The dresses even survived some hard-core Easter egg hunting, which of course was the point. It's not fun to look fabulous on Easter if you can't score some candy in the process.

We came. We sewed. We conquered. Five practice dresses and eight yards of chiffon later, it was worth every stitch. Even the ones I had to rip out.

Tomorrow I'll post a quick and dirty guide to stealing this dress design for your own purposes. Keep the popcorn and lawn chairs handy.

Celebration, Culture, and Christians.

2011-04-27T07:40:00.000-07:00

After our Good Friday service, a friend of mine raised the familiar question of paganism regarding our church Easter egg hunt. Not ours particularly-- we aren't giving away miniature fertility goddess statues with each egg-- but the entire concept of egg hunts. Her sincere concern to do the right thing on this issue turned my mind back to the ongoing holiday debate. It's the same issue some Christians raise for most major holidays, from Easter to Halloween to Christmas. (Though it is interesting how most of them don't suggest renaming the days of the week to strip them of their pagan origins.).

I'm not here to trace the origins of each holiday from their inception through centuries of cultural evolution to their present form. Fascinating as it would be, I have two kids. I'm simply here to offer what I see as the most biblical and logical approach to the matter.

What we have here is a question of "guilty by association". Is it ungodly to do something that was at one time (or still is) associated with pagan or secular culture?

Paul address this conflict in 1 Corinthians 8:4-13 when he discusses eating meat offered to idols. This common cultural practice offended some Christians who had only recently come out of idol worship and protested the pagan association. Paul points out that "an idol is nothing at all in the world." He encourages Christians to eat or abstain based on their individual strength of conscience, and he admonishes the more mature Christians to be considerate of the weak. If you celebrate a holiday and your brother or sister in Christ does not, don't try to convert them to your position. Respect them and then joyfully celebrate to the fullest liberty of your conscience.

Celebrating cultural traditions falls under this umbrella.
Christians do not live in a cultural vacuum. This was as true two thousand years ago as it is today. Religious celebrations were to ancient people what national holidays are to us. Rather than isolate believers completely from their cultural context, church leaders often chose to adopt a redemptive version of the original pagan tradition. Symbols and traditions were redefined within the new belief system and over the centuries, these new meanings became a cultural tradition in and of themselves with their own rich Christian history. When we celebrate Christmas or Easter we are participating in that redeemed history not the pagan counterpart.

Also, symbols are heavily dependent on cultural context and they evolve in meaning as the culture evolves. Chocolate bunnies and plastic eggs hold no religious resonance of any kind for modern American. The symbols have evolved to represent a generic celebration of spring and renewal, mostly secular in nature. You cannot judge a modern symbol by its ancient meaning. Look at several other symbolic associations-- pants on women, long hair on men, tattoos, ear piercings....all of which at one point had a definite negative and in some cases pagan significance but now are a normal part of culture.

If you are a Christian whose desire is to remove yourself as much as possible from any secular context, your desire is admirable but misguided. We are inescapably human.
Our cultures, whether two thousand years ago or in 2011, are woven through us in such a way that it will be impossible on earth to erase any possible association with secular practice or belief. Our job then is not to sever ourselves from the cultural tapestry but to change the thread with which we are weaving. We aren't ever going to make earth heavenly. But we can "dye the thread" so that in our interactions with human culture we show that we are truly citizens of an eternal culture.

Some day, the entire earth will be redeemed so that every symbol, every tradition, ever hope and dream and aspiration and celebration of man will revolve around our God. Until then, we best reflect His light to culture when we are participating with redemptive intent rather than isolating ourselves to a holy hermit cave. When we engage culture, when we celebrate with the pagans, so to speak, they ask us why our joy is different than their empty placation. We then have a chance to tell them the true meaning, to paint the tapestry in true colors, and open their eyes to the truth.

So if you want to celebrate Easter with eggs and bunnies, go ahead. If you want to abstain, do so without guilt. However you celebrate, do so with a heart tuned to the wonderful realities behind the celebration and your joy will be full.

Have two cents to throw at my direction? Please comment. Dialogue. Rant, even. All thoughts are welcome.

The Great Easter Dress Saga Part One

2011-04-26T12:06:00.000-07:00

Easter has come and gone and my sewing machine is lounging in my dining room with its poor little gears on ice. The Easter sewing process was long. At times brutal. It involved chiffon. Enough to make a machine (and a mama) lose her mind! But all the testing and re-testing and re-sewing and panicked last minute trips to fabric store paid off. You'll see later.

I had a fairly clear vision with the project. I had fallen in love with the selection of stretch chiffon offered at DreamSpunKids so I knew it had to be layers of ethereal colors paired with a very classic construction. I chose a vintage-inspired color palette of pink, peach, and white with touches of dyed-to-match lace. But I was not about to cut into my pile of beautiful-- and delicate-- fabric without some serious practice.

My first dress option was the Party Dress by The Cottage Home. Check out the free tutorial and pattern on her blog if you feel inclined to try one. Loved One and I were going to a bridal shower for a friend at church so I thought it'd be the perfect time to get my feet wet on the design using nice, dependable cotton. I found some surprisingly cute fabric at Wal-mart no less.

The light in my dining room gives it a yellow tinge but the green is really light and spring-y. Think lime sherbet.

The tutorial was easy enough to follow, though I still don't understand how to turn a lining.. I am 100% sure it is my lack of sewing skill and not her tutorial but I skipped that step and decided to do straps instead. I also decided to make a more narrow belt as Loved One gets obsessive compulsive if a bow is too big.

This was the first time I'd ever covered my own buttons. I know now the true meaning of the phrase “cute as a button” and may need professional help to keep me from buying hundreds of buttons just to cover them. It's that easy and that satisfying.

One, two three...awwwww

Though it took literally until the midnight hour, I thought the results were super cute. Especially the buttons.

Front view

Back view with a badly tied bow. It was midnight, people.

Loved One was in bed so I didn't get a chance to fit her until the morning of the shower. Which is when we hit trouble.

The dress, though I'd used the size 4 pattern pieces, was too big for my tastes. It seemed like it could fit a size 5 or even 6. Again, I'm a sewing dunce sometimes so the problem could be with me but I suspect the pattern pieces were a bit large. This was perhaps an intentional design choice but I wanted something more fitted. Because I had neither the time nor the patience to redo and reattach an entire bodice, the dress became....a skirt.

I'm rather happy this happened because it is a beautiful skirt, one I may make again in other colors. Loved One seemed pleased and we made it to the shower without a single melt-down about the bow.

A beautiful bow and no tears. Happiness.

Front view with extra baby doll cuddling.

We had fun at the shower and I left very glad I'd tested before I cut my chiffon. What happened after I did cut it? Come back tomorrow and I'll show you as well as offer some tips for making one of your own.

Screaming Sanctification

2011-04-13T19:42:00.000-07:00

For the most part, I approach the secular parenting dialogue with a grain or two of salt. The answers to my questions on parenting aren't going to be found in the glistening pages of the newest family magazine or in a Google search result. As far as my own two cents goes, I doubt the women beaming at me from the pages of said magazine would much care to hear what I think about raising children. I do, however, have a good bit of curiosity for the current thought trends and that curiosity was piqued by a recent study.

Are you ready for it?

"Want to be happy? Have two daughters Having two daughters is the key to a happy and harmonious family life, according to a study."

No, ladies and gentlemen, I'm not going to be able to pass this one up. I read about the study a week or so ago and it's been gnawing at the back of my mind while I wash dishes and vacuum. Indulge me while I spend my two cents.

This study, as you can read in this online article, informs us that if we want to spend our childrearing years in parental bliss, two girls is the way to go. Two girl households scored "high in every category" such was being easy to handle, getting along well, and generally not making too much of a fuss. The rankings went down from there, with families of four girls being blackmarked as the worst possible combination. According to this study, if you have more than two children-- especially if you have the dreaded Four Girl Household-- you might as well buy a suite at a mental health clinic along with that minivan.

The study goes on to describe the benefits and disadvantages of each combination of children with the tone one might describe the benefits of different auto insurance plans or vacation packages.

What struck me was how accurately-- and tragically-- this sums up our culture's attitude towards children. Without a biblical rationale for reproduction, society is left to hammer out its own reasons for embarking on the immense undertaking of parenting. God, in His grace, has built into most humans, especially human women, the desire to be parents-- to nurture, to foster life, to pass on something of our traditions to a new generation. That's part of what it means to be human. But as with many things in this Me Generation, parenting has become more and more about self-gratification. Much like climbing Mount Everest or going on a walking tour of Europe, raising children is added to the list of Things To Do Before You Die. People view parenting in terms of what it can do for their emotions, their self-image, not to mention that gaping hole in their soul where God is meant to be. Baby stores get this. The thousand dollar cherry stained cribs, the three hundred dollar bedding sets, the eight hundred dollar stroller system....it's all made to feed into the idea of parenting as a means of personal happiness

This study just manages to quantify an idea already out there-- that parenting is about you, the parent, and you should take every step to plan your parental journey with your happiness and ease in mind. When you factor in that the average childbearing age is steadily on the rise, the stakes are even higher. You'd better create the perfect family because this is your one shot. You've searched for satisfaction in relationships, in corporate success....now you have this one chance to really find something that makes you happy and you'd better not screw it up by having children willy nilly.

Let me clarify a few things. I'm not saying God wants you to be miserable, nor that He wants every Christian parent to have children ad nauseum. His plan for each set of parents is unique, right down to the number, gender, and spacing of their children. I'm not saying that some family dynamics present more obvious challenges than others. I'm certainly not saying that parents shouldn't be happy because of course they should. Parenting is indeed bliss. But it's real bliss, the kind in which you are exhausted and possibly spit-up covered at three in the morning for the third night in a row but you are at peace to the very marrow of your bones because you know you are doing something eternal. This kind of bliss opens your arms and your heart to your whiny preschooler and your clingy toddler even though you are trying to cook spaghetti because this is something vital.

And that's the crux of this matter.
Without eternity in view, without any knowledge of God's commands or His plans for family, self-fulfillment mixed with a few noble humanist aspirations is really all there is to parenting. Without that compass, parents are as lost as any other member of secular society. When your viewpoint is eternal, you realize you are raising children as God's instrument in their sanctification just as they are His instruments in yours.
That's right. The screaming fights over toys, the juice spilled in that hard-to-reach part of the backseat, the days when just getting everyone dressed involves thirty minutes of tears, arguing, and discipline. That's for you.

There are things that God wants to teach you that you can't learn without kids. And there is an entire world of things He wants to teach them about Himself through you. Whether you have one child, two girls, two boys, or ten girls, or any combination thereof, God has in mind both your heart and theirs. Those afternoons of "screaming sanctification" are His way of refining your heart just as much as those sweet almost-asleep cuddles.

Studies like this one can't understand that fact.
It's like trying to get a colorblind man to tell you the difference between peach, mandarin, and mango fabric. Asking a deaf man to delineate the differences between Beethoven and Bach. You can't trust the results.

I am pregnant with a third child so I've skipped out on my parenting nirvana already. Something tells me I won't miss it so much.

This Babe is Kickin!

2011-03-30T14:28:00.000-07:00

You would think that since this is my third pregnancy, I wouldn't get giddy when the baby kicks. It's not like this is first kick either. I've felt Baby M groovin' around since I was barely three months along. From tiny little carbon-bubble flutters to the more definitive bumps, elbows, and whooshes (are they surfing or what?) each new stage of movement has been expected and yet wondrous.

I suppose it is what the kicks represent in my mind. Not just life. Specific life. My child's life. See, God has a persistent habit of disregarding my schedule for childbearing. After two children, I should know this. I should celebrate the freedom of being tucked into His plan as snugly as the baby is nestled in my womb. Instead, I freaked out. I wasn't ready. I wasn't skinny enough. I was still nursing. We had kindergarten tuition ahead of us. And to be honest, I wasn't completely sure I wanted another child. My two little ponies sometimes stretch me beyond the comfortable, pretty, tame parts of my sanctification. Add a third one and who could say I wouldn't be pulled apart? How can you unconditionally, passionately, and completely love so many little hearts without losing yours?

The baby felt more like a force than a child, something elemental and transformative and sudden. A hurricane. A tornado. A flash flood. A planet ascending over the horizon of my body, changing the shape of my skin, of my soul. I realized, after weeks of pregnancy, that I was thinking of the life inside me in terms of cause and effect. My mind was continually clicking through the ways the baby would stretch the fabric of our family as I tried to plan in advance how I'd keep us from tearing.
One almost-spring morning, the shortcoming in this thought pattern become glaringly obvious.

I am carrying a child. Not an event. Not a cause. Not a force of nature. A baby. A life that God trusted to my hands and to my heart, which meant that He knew I could care for it with love and care, mistakes and grace. I wrote an apology to Baby M right then and there. I accepted-- no, I embraced-- mothering them before I even heard their heartbeat.

Since that time, as my belly has grown and the tiny kicks, pokes, and flutters have strengthened, each one is an affirmation. Each one is a secret-- a conversation, if you will, that only me and my baby can hear. No one else feels this life. My pregnant friends will share their own private wonders with their babies but this kick, this elbow, this tap is from my baby. God is weaving them together for my family, for my arms, and ultimately for His glory.

With each kick I am reminded how I am so humbled by something so tiny, so comforted by something unseen, so in debt to grace for placing this unique human life in our home so that we may be stewards and shepherds for such a brief yet vital time in their eternal journey. Perhaps it is that knowledge that makes the kicks all the sweeter. I am but a vessel, not simply to bear a child for nine months but to bear Heaven's love and wisdom during their time in our home. All too soon they will be given back to God, to do with what He chooses for their joy and His kingdom. To have them so close, such a part of me, for these few months more is a blessing and a gift.

Keep kicking, baby. Whatever you're trying to say me, I'm listening.

Zucchini + Cheese = Bliss

2011-03-29T15:47:00.001-07:00

It's 6:30. I'm pregnant and starving. I have dishes, laundry, the dining room and the living room to tidy up before we hit evening meltdown hour. Once upon a time this would have meant one of three things-- processed carbs, fast food, or zap-and-eat.
Not tonight, thanks to Kalyn's Kitchen.

Her recipe for broiled cheesy zucchini is my new go-to food for healthy, quick, crave-worthy munching. I've had this craving for zucchini lately so I finally bought one (rather timidly) at the grocery this morning and wasn't entirely sure what to do with it. Her user-friendly recipe took me less than ten minutes and even a zucchini novice such as myself couldn't mess it up. Loved One, who seems to be more picky by the day, turned her nose up but Little One devoured it. Seriously, I thought I'd have to fight her off with my fork if I wanted to get any myself.

One other thing I appreciated about the recipe was how easy it was to switch out ingredients for whatever I found in the fridge while still getting a good result.

Since I am depressingly low on seasoning I brushed the zucchini rounds with a bit of fat-free Italian dressing before adding the cheese, which I also switched to Italian. It would be even healthier with fat-free cheese, but even with the full-fat cheese, one whole broiled zucchini only cost me 150 calories. Whoo-hoo!

This will be appearing at my house weekly until my next weird pregnancy craving takes over.

Check the recipe out here and make some for yourself!

A Garden Full of Dresses

2011-03-23T14:15:00.001-07:00

Yes, it's been quiet.
Too quiet.

But spring is here and I can't shut up any longer. The daffodils are blooming, my belly is blooming, and the little girls in my house are blooming. Winter hibernation is over and so here I am, posting again.

Since my gardening aspirations have been thwarted by my growing baby bump (I so do not want to be pulling weeds at eight months in July heat), I have decided to turn my sewing and knitting in a floral direction. Bold blossom prints; delicate petal-colored layers of chiffon; lacy shrugs and sweaters. All celebrating the season and all without a single weed to pull! Once I dig out the trusty camera, hopefully there will be pictures, but for now, here's what is in the works:

The Great Easter Dress Project is underway, with the first stage being practice dresses. Loved One and I are attending a wedding shower this Saturday (her first) and it's a perfect time to test my dress design on sturdy cottons. I found a juicy green and blue flower print at Wal-Mart of all places so that's on the sewing table for tonight. The two designs in the running for Easter are.... drumroll...

The Party Dress by Cottage Mama and The Twirly Dress by Sew Sweet Patterns

I think it's going to come down to whether or not I want a circle skirt or a gathered skirt. Loved One and Little One will each get a test dress so I can pick the best design and hopefully get any tweaks out of the way before I cut into the heavenly chiffon I found at DreamSpunKids. I haven't even got the courage to cut the practice chiffon yet, much less the real thing.

On the knitting needles are a few different versions of a tiny shrug to keep their shoulders warm. The Shizknit offers a cute (and free!) bolero that I'm in the process of tweaking for a lighter, more airy look. I also have cast on the Leafy Shrug by Stitchy Mama, though between the provisional cast on, the double pointed needles, and the eight row repeat lace I am unsure whether or not the late-night knitting is addling my brain.

Once I unearth the camera, there will be actual pictures of progress towards Easter cuteness and the mishaps along the way.

Happy Spring!

Beauty's Kitchen

2010-09-21T18:47:00.000-07:00

When men reject Truth and scorn Goodness, they impoverish themselves and their culture, like people who reject meat and bread to live on broth. After generations of broth, we do not know we are a soul-starved, emaciated people until we pass Beauty's kitchen, until we smell the delights therein, and remember we are hungry

http://tasick.deviantart.com/

Grace, Mercy, and the Spanking Spoon

2010-09-11T10:28:00.000-07:00

My daughter looks angelic when she lies.
Her blue eyes widen, her face takes on an absolutely cherubic innocence and she insists, passionately, that she is telling the truth. It is only upon further questions-- sometimes repeated questioning-- that the facade gives way to what is truly in her heart.

Image courtesy of hannah-stock

As my daughter grows older and, well, more adept at sinning, I find myself confronted with new battlegrounds in the war for her heart. Tearing books? Drawing on pillowcases? Lying to my face? Do I know this child? Of course I do. Ember is realizing that she has the capacity to choose her own way or God's way and the battle is at times intense. As her mother, I am called to fight this battle alongside her, whether it's the first time or the fifth time. Or the fifth time that evening.
Is it exhausting? Yes. Can it be discouraging? Yes. Is it crucial? Yes.

When you are training a small sinner, it can be easy to get distracted by the outward sins because they are often loud and messy and, quite frankly, inconvenient. Toddlers do not often sin quietly, as anyone who's sat next to a two year old tornado in the shopping line can attest. They sin when we are tired, when we are busy, when we are trying to cook dinner or put the baby to bed or give the dog a bath. Figuring out what they've done wrong isn't usually hard. The danger can be that we spend so much energy focusing on these very obvious acts of sin that we forget what's going on in their hearts.

When dealing with Ember, I have learned time and time again that when I get caught up in her actions, I miss the opportunity God has given me to teach her through her sin. I forget, sometimes, that her sin isn't primarily against me but against God. He is the one first and foremost whose relationship must be restored before any human relationship can be right-- even the mother/daughter bond. When I forget this, I tend to react emotionally and superficially. My child disobeys. She lies to cover up the disobedience and so she is spanked. Her sin is preventing me from getting what I want-- peace in the household, obedient and happy children-- so I am offended and in a huff. Nothing is gained, and at the worse the door is opened to improper discipline whether in too harsh words or unkind demeanor.

But when I remember that it is God who has been wronged, my focus shifts from any injustice I imagine myself to have suffered and moves to what I can do to restore Ember to her heavenly Father. I look past the thorns and thistles of her actions to their roots in her heart, to the sinful thoughts and attitudes that caused her to do wrong. Why did she disobey? What was she thinking? When we have these discussions, far more is gained than mere reactionary moral chastisement. She isn't just learning to do what is right; her thoughts are held to the truth of God's word and she is, by grace and mercy, learning how to think right. The spanking spoon is important. But the truth behind the spanking is even more important.

Our little ones' hearts are so often like sand, at this age. They are so open but prone to great influence by their surroundings. Don't let outward action keep you from reaching into your child's heart to continually shore up that which is good and patch any places Satan may have eroded. By God's grace, the truth we zealously guard now may one day harden to cement and form the foundation of their lives as good and happy children of God.

Image courtesy of hannah-stock

Not A Good Writer

2010-07-14T19:35:00.000-07:00

Pen a few poems, stack up a few stories, acquire a few articles, and sooner or later you will run into the question-- am I a good writer?

Do not entertain it.

I have wanted to tell stories since I was old enough to scribble fantasy tales in my unicorn notebooks, and when I was nineteen I decided to become Serious about it. I wanted more than anything to write a Very Important Book that was worthy to join the ranks of that most elusive and admired of creature, the Published Author. But was I good enough? Were my words, my characters, my passions worthwhile or should I go back to the unicorns?

That question started small but quickly grew into a screech that drowned out any creativity I could muster. Every tiny flaw in my writing was held up to this imagined Good Writer Scale as time and time again I abandoned manuscripts in search of the One that would be Good. Meanwhile I was writing less and less; in fact, I no longer considered myself a writer. I'd have ideas, turn them around in my head for a few days, savoring the creative juice, then leave them to dessicate because I still couldn't answer that question. Would a Good Writer do this? What if I end up with an entire book that is horrid and unreadable and, worst of all, rejected?

One night my frustration drove me to ask my husband a direct question. Ladies-- do this only if you want a direct answer. I asked him if he thought I had what it took to be a writer (again, trying to answer the Good Writer question) and he said no. I gaped like a fish. Was my writing bad? No, he said, but I had done very little to demonstrate that I had the desire or the capability to complete and submit substantial manuscripts and that he wasn't even sure I liked writing. He said it made me miserable.

I fumed.
No desire? It's called mom of small children disease. At the end of the day I desire sleep.
Complete and submit? I have two short story publications, one contest honorable mention and a handful of copy ads....
Writing miserable? It's my passion, my calling, my dream, my....

Oh wait. He was right.
Writing did make me miserable because it had become a hamster wheel of guilt, shame and self-judgment. Trying to be a Good Writer sucked every bit of life, joy, or passion out of my writing. I had given up on each sentence before I was even finished typing it.
And sure, I'd published little bits here and there but it had been eight years since I finished anything substantial. Eight. Years. Even my most cherished excuse-- the sacrificial mommy-- seemed a bit thin when I thought of other writers who managed to finish entire series of novels while they had small children.

I realized I had two choices. Walk away from writing and spend my life doing something else I love or shut up and write with everything in me.

Constantly asking myself if I was a good writer was utterly the wrong question. If I ever were to decide the answer was yes, I would become self-satisfied and complacent. If I kept convincing myself that the answer was no or you'll never know, then I would continue to hate everything I created. I decided never to entertain that foolish query again. Instead, every time I sit down to write-- or even when I'm not writing-- my question will be what am I doing to become a better writer? I will never, ever arrive because there is no destination. Twenty years from now, I will still be honing my craft, sharpening my skills. When I wrote my first novels at ten years old, that was my thirst...to learn everything I could about writing and literature. I was insatiable.
I want that back, want it forever. Writers whose skill surpass my own are not causes for Good Writer Shame but food and drink to my craving for knowledge.

It is also the wrong question because I no longer care.
The second epiphany occurred while I was browsing a fan fiction site that hosted some of my old stories. (Yes, I wrote fan fiction. I admit it.) Even reading them years later I could tell that I loved writing those stories, that I wrote with confidence that I had something worth saying. I decided at that moment that I would write what I loved and how I loved and if every other person on the planet decided it was trash, so what. I have wasted eight years writing for other people and it's about time I started writing for myself.

I will be a writer because, quite simply, I will write. Without that act, I can have all the literary aspirations I want but they are pointless, like an obese woman telling themselves they can be skinny any time they want...they just haven't gotten around to it yet. I've lost almost a decade to that gibberish. I refuse to lose any more time.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go write.

Ember's First Poem

2010-06-15T18:20:00.001-07:00

A sweet moon up in the sky
laid an egg on a star.
Someone jumped way up high
and touched the egg.
They ate it
and a baby was born
and her name was Ember.

-- Ember McSpadden

Best for Babes Ad Campaign

2010-06-03T10:06:00.000-07:00

Breastfeeding is hot. It's domestic and more than a little dissident in our current culture, which is why I'm happy to participate in Best For Babes' ad campaign to spread the word. Their motto:

To help moms beat the "Bobby Traps"-- the cultural and institutional barriers that prevent moms from achieving their personal breastfeeding goals. To inspire, prepare, and empower moms. To give breastfeeding a makeover and give the moms the solutions they need to make it work.

Their credo:

ALL moms deserve to make an informed feeding decision, and to be cheered on, coached and celebrated without pressure, judgment or guilt, whether they breastfeed for 2 days, 2 months 2 years, or not at all. ALL breastfeeding moms deserve to succeed and have a positive breastfeeding experience without being “booby trapped”!

The ad campaign:

And my favorite....

Head on over to Best For Babes for more info, campaign graphics, and more.

Five Minute Bacon and Cheese Snackwich

2010-06-03T08:00:00.000-07:00

Today is a Hungry Day. Little One is nursing in rapid machine-gun fire bursts due to her teething blues and I have no time to sit down and plan out a healthy, satisfying, tasty snack. I barely have time to slurp coffee with one hand while I put her in the sling with the other.

Thanks heavens for the microwave and for inspiration (desperation?) because I managed to hit upon a fast, blissful snack that can be healthy-- or not-- depending on what you do with it. I just used what I had on hand but if you substitute reduced fat or fat free cheese you can up the health-o-meter quite a bit.

5 Minute Bacon and Cheese Snackwich

Ingredients
1 Arnold's multigrain sandwich thin
2 slices turkey bacon
1-2 slices Provolone (or other sliced cheese)

Instructions
Microwave bacon to desired crispiness. Blot to remove excess grease.
Fold bacon to fit on sandwich thin, cover with sliced cheese.
Microwave an additional 20 seconds or until cheese is gooey.

Pick up. Blow on fingers. Eat. Enjoy.

Makeover!

2010-06-01T08:34:00.000-07:00

Blog redecorating is just about as fun as house redecorating only much less expensive. I got tired of the drab colors so I've changed things around and even gotten fancy with the fonts. Thanks to dafont.com for the cool (and free!) typography!

Maybe now that things look better I'll get around to posting more....my craft blog has been keeping me busy. I hope all you Fearless Readers enjoy the new look as much as I do.

snow fall

2010-02-06T14:18:00.000-08:00

take me like snow
falling
hold me on the edge of melting
on your tongue
then let me dissolve
into winter kiss
let us blanket the ground
and give no thought
to spring

We Carry Them

2009-11-06T06:42:00.000-08:00

We are both wearing babies, me and this girl, barely eight.
I am folding laundry and she is walking for water, or for food,
or away from bullets, from fire, from rape. We are both barefoot,
but I am standing on carpet and she is crossing sand,
wading through deserts. We have both made our carrying cloths
but mine is soft and clean while hers is a tired shawl, barely a rag.

I want to take her into my house and hold the baby so she can rest.
I want to feed her macaroni and cheese, to give her my shoes and
my good jacket. I want to knit her a hat and make the baby a blanket.
I want to tell her that wherever she is going, she will find shelter
and that the baby will live.

It's easy to have these good intentions towards a photograph.
Nothing is required but sympathy, that delicate ache that rises and falls
like an ocean swell....and that can be just as fleeting. It would be
easy to turn away from the picture and forget both of them by the time
I finish putting away towels. Chalk it up to a moment of rich American guilt
and move on. After all, the things I want to do are silly and impossible.
She's half a world away, buried under war and hunger and plague like
a survivor of earthquake under a collapsed house. It seems foolish-- even arrogant-- to think that I can do one thing to help her or the thousands upon thousands like her. It's like trying to stop the tsunami of human pain with
a bucket.

But I know Someone who can help her, who knows her name and the name of
the baby on her back, Someone who fathers the fatherless. When I pray for her,
He listens. And I have to believe that my kindness matters, even if she can't receive it herself. All of the tiny threads of love-- carrying my child, cooking for my daughter, teaching little ones about God, giving what I have so that others may go serve-- form a web that can blanket the world. I cannot love her but I can love those within my reach, and they may love those in their reach, and link by link the chain stretches even to Africa. Blessed are the feet that may take her the gospel, blessed are the hands that may give her a cup of cold water cold water in His name. May my feet and hands be blessings to those in front of me.

Ether

2009-11-04T07:57:00.000-08:00

You pull me out of the ether
down from the nebulous dark

When my heart drifts,
a black balloon under blacker clouds,
you tether me to earth
with your cry, your hunger,
your relentless need.

I never knew that
helplessness could be so powerful
that you are caring for me
by your inability
to care for yourself.
Your fear makes me
brave
Your weakness gives me
strength

You pull me down out of the ether
out of the nebulous dark
You shepherd me through storms
until we rest by still waters,
until we sleep on solid ground.

A Laundry Prayer

2009-10-02T06:11:00.000-07:00

Lord,

Thank you for this pile of laundry.

Thank you
that my house is filled with people whom I love
who have health and vigor enough to get dirty,
who live and laugh well in their clothes,
which you have provided.

Thank you
for machines to help me wash and dry,
for the little hands that help me fold,
for the closets and drawers to hold what is clean.

Thank you
for baby drool on my t-shirts
and chocolate milk spots on my daughter's playdress,
for the endless parade of dirty work socks in my husband's boots.
These things are the footprints of blessing
and if those footprints are at times muddy,
it is a grace that we may tidy up in their path.

Skinny Saturdays: What Goes Up

2009-09-19T19:31:00.000-07:00

Today was my first week back on the Weight Watcher wagon and I went up-- seven ounces. Not the most spectacular start, but in some ways it's more motivating than a loss. I remember now how hard it is to lose weight and how much focus, drive, and genuine lifestyle change is required. I have to ask myself why I'm back on the program-- to convince myself I'm making an effort so I can feel better or to truly change my relationship with food so I can live better.

I'd like to say I know for sure which one it is. I'm not thrilled at the thought of giving up the drive-thru hamburgers and french fries, the chocolate and the cookies; I'm not ecstatic at resuming my clumsy and awkward attempts at an exercise regime. Eating wrong is effortless. This time around, I'm more aware of what is required for long-term weight loss. Life overhaul anyone?

Small starts. This week is the launch of my incredible ingeniously inspired Pounds of Yarn project. Fast food is keeping me fat. The illusion of convenience, the easy gratification....it's looking for love in all the wrong places. I needed to find something I loved more than Wendy's. Hello yarn.

For some reason, I have lately been struck by the inexplicable desire to Knit Something Big. Something exquisite, something indulgent, something voluptuous. Then, as if the stars themselves were aligned for me, I discovered Cherry Tree Hill's design contest, a challenge featuring their beautiful new line of semi-solid hand-dyed yarn. The rules called for substantial garments of at least six skeins, which fit my Big Knitting dream perfectly.

So over the next few weeks, the twenty bucks a week I've been blowing on artery-killing hamburgers will be going for yarn. I'm designing a full skirt that will satisfy my knitting muse and keep me out of the drive-through. My goal is to be at least five pounds smaller by the contest deadline, which is Dec. 31st. What will triumph....fiber or french fries?

Only time will tell. Stay tuned for the next Skinny Saturday update.

my biggest fiber obsession, sponsors a design contest every year, and this year's challenge features a beautiful new line of hand-dyed semi-solid yarns that just beg to be knit into something glorious. The contest requires at least six skeins of yarn, which is no small investment.

Little Pretty Things

2009-07-23T06:13:00.000-07:00

I love etsy.com! It's become quite an addiction-- who can resist beautiful handmade pretties, especially when you have two little girls? My latest find was these two headbands from bohosoulchild, a spunky little accessories boutique. I couldn't resist posting a picture or two of my ladies modeling their fashionable new look.

Aren't they cute?

Blogging Baby: My Sling Makes Me Brave

2009-07-22T15:07:00.000-07:00

When my daughter River was about three weeks, her older sister Ember and I were in serious need of a change in routine. A walk to the playground was not going to cut it this time-- we needed to emerge from the New Baby Cave and do something radical. I took her to the beach. By myself.

How does a mother survive a trip to the ocean with a three year old and a three week old? I had a plan of action, plenty of snacks, extra pairs of underwear for everyone.... and I had my wrap sling. We came, we swam, we conquered. No one drowned or disappeared or lost a sandal. Cue the superhero music.

Now I am not one of those mothers who are blessed with organizational skills that make five star generals turn green with envy. I am...scattered...more often than I would like to admit and still learning how to properly keep my home, my kids, and my husband (who needs more care and feeding than he'd like to admit). I don't have a daily planner or a dry erase board with a week's worth of projects assigned to their neat, orderly boxes.

I do have a sling.

You see, wearing my baby makes me brave. With River tucked up on my chest, a modern day papoose, I feel that I can go anywhere or do anything. I can clean house! With a newborn! I can go to the beach in the middle of tourist season! I can go grocery shopping or clothes shopping without fear! I can even go to my local writer's group without worrying whether or not my baby will meltdown in the middle of the group reading. I have my baby sing and I have my breasts and that's all I need for a happy, secure little girl.

People tell me that River seems like such a "good" baby-- a term I have never liked because what mother wants to be told her baby is "bad"-- because she is so contented. She is pretty easy going but I don't think its just her disposition that makes people marvel at how peaceful she is. For most of her day, from the time we roll out of bed until the time we tuck in for the night, she is worn. We do everything together and the benefits are already obvious. She is bright and curious about her world. The prolonged periods of fussing I expected with an infant have never happened. Nursing usually solves her moments of unhappiness and when that doesn't work, a ride in the sling is like magic.

Sometimes I wonder how much "progress" helps us as mothers. At one time, everyone wore their children. Then we became more civilized-- supposedly-- and caring for young children became more and more like a battle...parents vs. the relentless demand for attention that comes with a newborn. Popular theories advise parents to "show their kids who's boss" and "let them cry it out" and are based in the assumption that a newborn is a manipulative little tyrant. Hold your baby and you'll ruin her for sure! This same logic encourages women to force their babies onto a nursing schedule and wean early because it is more convenient than prolonged breastfeeding.

These theorists forget that maybe babies just want to be held, that maybe the Creator designed them that way. My daughter Ember was worn much of the time and breastfed until she was two and a half, and she is nothing like the spoiled, clingy baby the "experts" said I would create by these practices. I look at River and see a beautiful peace that comes when she is in the sling and I know that this is how we were designed. It just fits. Instead of controlling my life, my babywearing allows me to include River in our daily routines, meeting her needs for comfort and security while still getting my work done. It makes me believe in myself as a mother-- that yes, I can love and nurture two children and still get the dishes done most of the time.

Babywearing makes me brave.

Blogging Baby: Mothering Deconstructed

2009-07-07T15:47:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I'm ripping apart a half-finished nightgown I was knitting for River. I started it a month or so before her birth, visions of a cherubic infant clad in an organic cotton sleeper dancing in my head. A serious pattern misstep led me to set the project aside and I've just now picked it up again. My first intention was to finish the project...until I held it up and realized it was long enough to cover two of River. The real baby-- the one in my arms-- looked quite different than the dream baby I saw while I was knitting.

Mothering is like that too these days.
I prayed for River for almost a year, carried her for nine months, and birthed her; I carry her next to my chest, over my heart, and give her milk that my own body has made-- even if it's three in the morning. But will I be a nominee for the Bad Mama awards if I admit that there are times-- daily-- when I miss life before this much-loved little tornado came into ours lives? While I couldn't imagine not having River, I find myself missing the days when life was routine and predictable. Everything fit into a pattern, like my knitting project. Now all of a sudden there's a newborn around and nothing is business as usual. Bedtimes, naptimes, housecleaning, cooking, bath times, play time....all have an added dimension of challenge. I find myself looking at this stage of mothering like I looked at my baby nightgown-- quite different from the mothering to which I had grown accustomed with Ember.

So I find myself ripping out those ideas too. I'm not the mother I was before River came. Instead of a mother of one, I am a mother of two. When I started to unravel the flawed nightgown, I was surprised at how much relief I felt. I was surrendering my idea of how things were supposed to be and accepting how they were so I could make something better. The same goes for mothering my two little ones. What worked before may not work now but that's where God's grace comes in. He sustains me, daily, while I put together a new pattern, one that fits the joys and challenges of our growing family. I don't know what the finished project will look like but I can rejoice in the process because it's not my work alone but His work in me that will bring us to what He meant for my home to be.

Blogging Baby: Wild Horses

2009-07-02T16:42:00.000-07:00

If you were to ask me what my strongest emotions were during the first two weeks of River's life, I would say wonder and gratefulness and joy. I would also say grief.

Grief? Wait, this is coming from the mama who experienced an amazing birth followed by recovery so speedy that I went to a play at my sister's church two days after the baby was born. This is coming from a mama whose newborn slept for three hours stretches at night almost immediately and is content to nurse and ride around in the sling during the day. Why would I grieve in this profusion of blessing?

In a nutshell, heart expansion hurts. Like my belly grew and stretched during the nine months I carried the baby, now my heart must grow and stretch from loving one to loving two. Ember captured my heart completely from the moment I pushed her out...I had no idea how much one human being could love another. For three years, we have been two stars in the same orbit, Mama and Baby. When I held River, that same tenderness and caring surged through me but at the same time came an ache. I knew that my relationship with Ember would forever be changed-- for the better, yes, but not without thorny places. For many of these early days I've felt as if I was between two wild horses. My love for Ember and my love for River pulled at me constantly....the intense demands of a newborn matched against a toddler's desire for attention and affection. Even though Ember loves her baby sister, the process of learning to share Mommy hasn't always been easy for both of us. She's stretching too.

Now that River has been around for three weeks, the growing pains are easing. There are still moments when the grief-ache returns, when I miss the time when I could give Ember my attention exclusively, but I know that she needs this transition. Part of bringing her up into maturity is teaching her how to share Mommy's love with her siblings and how to put another person's needs ahead of her own. Her sacrifices look different than mine-- she has to give up some lap time and wait longer to get a snack or a juice-- but they are no less significant.

And then there are the times when I get glimpses of what our family will become, when Ember and River are both content and peaceful. I lean back to enjoy the moment with my little ones and know that even wild horses learn to run together.

Blogging Baby: A Well-Used Minivan

2009-07-01T05:31:00.000-07:00

Our normal-- perhaps at times mundane-- lives are occasionally punctuated by moments of brilliance, of sacred and profound beauty and jaw-dropping amazement. Pushing Ember out and holding her in my arms was such a moment; the birth of my second daughter River was another, though in a startlingly different way.

River Lynn McSpadden came into the world at 6:20 a.m on June 12....in our minivan.
Yes, the minivan. In the driveway.

Everyone-- the midwives, my doula, myself-- expected me to go over my due date by at least a week since I went over with Ember. The contractions I felt at night on June 11th were identical to the practice contractions I'd been having for weeks, so I went to bed as usual. I woke a few hours later when the contractions continued and decided to take a bath to see if that stopped things. Nope. I was still skeptical that I was in labor so I spent the next few hours walking, dozing, sitting in the rocking chair. The contractions remained mild-- to me-- and were five to seven minutes apart, which made me think I had a while.

At 4:45, the intensity had increased a little and I woke Josh to tell him I was calling our doula to get final confirmation that I was in labor. I explained to her what was going on and she confirmed that I was in early labor and most likely had a while to go because the contractions weren't that strong. She suggested I eat some watermelon and brew some red raspberry leaf tea to get things going. We called my Mom to come get Ember, who had been such a big girl during my labor. She would hold my hand and remind me to use my "special breathing" and she'd rub my back during contractions. A future midwife indeed!

After Ember was gone, the contractions began to intensify quickly and we called our doula back to tell her that we were headed for the birth center.

We never made it out the door. Because we hadn't anticipated to actually go into labor on my due date, we had nothing packed. My poor husband was rushing around the house trying to find the number for the midwives, clothes for both of us, a bag to take to the hospital....all while I was in the bathroom hollering my way through transition. The contractions were incredibly strong and at the same time I felt a pushing sensation so intense it was practically subconscious. It seemed my body was pushing on its own without my brain telling it to do anything.

Shortly after 6 am, we gave up packing and just tried to get me to the car. My mother-- who had come by with watermelon-- dialed 911 for a police escort so we could get to the hospital more quickly. River had other plans. We were halfway down the sidewalk when I felt her crown. I reached down and held her head, and told Josh the baby's coming. He said "I know, we have to get to the hospital". I said "No, the baby's coming now"

He managed to get me to the minivan, where I knelt on the seat to deliver the head. He helped me get my clothes off just in time to deliver her shoulders. She slid right out and my husband caught our beautiful baby girl. He cleared her airways and got her breathing-- and crying-- and we moved the umbilical cord, which was very loosely around her neck. He wrapped her in whatever we could find and handed her to me to nurse for the first time. She latched right on and our journey as mother and daughter began.

Few other times in my life have been so sacred.

Josh is my hero-- I don't know many guys who could deliver a baby in their driveway without so much as breaking a sweat. The Lord blessed us with a rare gift--catching our daughter together-- and I thank Him for safely bringing River into the world.

And yes, we did have the minivan cleaned.

Once Bitten: A Twilight Review

2009-04-25T15:17:00.000-07:00

Until recently, I've been leery of the Twilight book series and the recent movie adaptation simply due to the insane amount of hype. Any cultural phenomenon that attracts hordes of rabid teenage females for its fan base garners my instant suspicion, although Lord of the Rings had its share of such admirers and I never held it against that franchise. Beyond my aversion to participation in a frenzy over anything, something about the series made me uncomfortable. I read part of the first book and found the writing bland but serviceable. the characters mildly stereotypical but companionable, and the plot interesting enough to keep me meandering from one page to the next. I put it down when my morning sickness became too much for me to read at that moment and I've never picked it up again.

As far as the movie goes, I found myself wanting to watch the movie just to see for myself what caused all the fuss. It never made it onto my list of movies worth buying a theater ticket so I waited for it to be available elsewhere and generally forgot about it. The ever-present merchandise only heightened my skepticism of the movie-- everywhere I looked there seemed to be t-shirts and posters of the brooding Edward Cullen hovered protectively over the doe-eyed Bella Swan.
It looked like the Red Bull of teen melodrama. Not my cup of tea, I thought, and moved on. This past week, however, my husband was out of town and my curiosity returned so I took a few nights and watched the movie after my daughter was asleep.

And I liked it.

::smacks forehead::

Maybe it's the fact that I'm a hurricane of pregnancy hormones right now. Maybe underneath my independent exterior I'm a swooning little romance addict. (Perish the thought) Or maybe, just maybe, Stephanie Meyer did a few things right with her vampires and teen angst. I didn't have to look far in the movie to find flaws or creative choices with which I disagreed but what hooked me was the strong archetypal pull of Bella and Edward's relationship. It is as if in the midst of all the teen melodrama Meyer stumbled upon something truly resonant about masculine and feminine interaction. Forget the cliched talk of vampire-human love as metaphors for sexual confusion or isolation; these lovers have a more mythical appeal. Bella, the damsel in distress, is a strongly feminine character and Edward, brooding and sometimes painfully uncomfortable with his own power, is masculine in the vein of classic heroes. Their interaction showcases an idealized version of what men and women have to offer each other that each gender uniquely can provide.

And let me tell you, underneath all the feminist talk and modern propaganda, teenage girls want to be feminine. They want to respond to strong masculinity...not the brutish repressive stuff but the "protector and provider" role that God originally designed for men. Heavens knows we don't see much of that in reality these days, so when it pops up in such a clear way in a book or a movie, girls are drawn to it en masse.

Perhaps that's why I found the relationship compelling, despite certain somewhat silly aspects of the story and the hyper-emotional trappings. Archetypal characters draw us in and remind us of the larger ideas-- not necessarily what masculinity or feminity looks like in a fallen world but what it should look like. From ancient times to the modern multiplex, human being crave stories of male and female heroes bound together in epic, dangerous love. It is refreshing to me that such tales continue, even if it's in a hyper-popular teen melodrama.

The Real Babymoon

2009-03-03T17:20:00.000-08:00

You don't have to pick up too many pregnancy magazines to hear about a babymoon, a popular trend in which couples take a vacation together to celebrate their last months of independence before baby arrives. The concept has merit-- after all, the introduction of a new life changes the dynamic of a couple's relationship forever and expands their focus. Rather than exclusively focusing on meeting one another's needs, now there is another demand on their attention, one that is loud, messy, and exhausting. Taking a trip to savor one-on-one time isn't a bad idea, but like many other areas of pregnancy preparation, the idea of a babymoon has been blown out of proportion by the commercial machine. Lavish vacations to Europe, the Carribean, grace the pages of the magazines, advertising extravagant resorts or ritzy cruises. The indulgence is excused because it's an escape from the impending reality of parenting.

Now, I'm all for a romantic getaway. My husband and I did just that a couple weekends ago. To celebrate the small window of time that we have a weaned toddler and no nursing infant, we sent my daughter to her grandparent's for a night and headed down to the beach. Eighth floor view of the ocean. Private balcony. Whirlpool tub. Dinner at a restaurant fancy enough to require a new dress. It was great fun and a refreshing chance to just be merely husband and wife for an day. But it wasn't extravagant and it wasn't an attempt to forget the "harsh" reality of parenting.

Throughout my pregnancy, but particularly in these last few months before Baby M makes his or her debut, I've been thinking about another definition of babymoon. It would read something like this--- babymoon: a time of celebrating the relationship between you and your child before your attention is divided by a new baby.

See, my daughter Ember and I are buddies and we do everything together. Since she's only 2 and 1/2 that goes with the territory but it's not merely baby-wrangling that I'm talking about. She gets all of my attention--- whether it's playing in the soapsuds after we wash dishes, cuddling on the couch for an impromptu snuggle, reading stories before we take a nap together, playing tea in the bathtub. We take trips to the library, to the merry-go-round, to Target for pizza and breadsticks or Panera for hot chocolate and a muffin. Just the two of us. As much as I anticipate the arrival of the new baby, as much as I rejoice in the expansion of our family, part of me will miss these days of special togetherness. She's going to have to learn to share me and I'm going to have to learn to share myself, which shouldn't be too much of a problem as soon as I hold that little one in my arms and fall in baby love.

To savor these last few months of Mama-Ember time, I've declared us to be on babymoon. We're not going to Europe but we have gone to Starbucks on a Big Girl Date. We've gone to the beach to get sand. We do small crafts together or snuggle a little longer before bedtime. We read more stories. Little, tiny things that not only celebrate the time we've had as peas in a pod but also celebrate the change that's coming. I have to say that I've enjoyed this far more than I would some break-the-bank trip meant to escape from parenting. My babymoon is a time of small, simple celebrations of the sweeter side of parenting, praising God for the daughter He's given me even as I make room in my heart-- and my lap-- for the child yet on its way.

Stuffed Animals

2009-02-27T18:48:00.000-08:00

Warning: this post contains explicit reference to stuffed animals, a known source of cuteness and even corniness, so go ahead and roll your eyes now

You never forget your stuffed animals.

We adults may not be able to remember most of the Christmas presents or birthday presents we received in our childhood, much less every toy we loved, but there seems to be a wrinkle in our brain reserved for our first-- and best? -- friends.

The queen of the nursery in my case was Red Baby Doll, so named for her red cotton braids and velvet red dress (with matching cap of course). She shared my cradle, my crib, and my bed for many years and naturally we did almost everything together. When I packed a tiny suitcase for my first trip away from home, she was with me. When I developed my bad habit of biting my nails, I chewed up her plastic fingers as well so we'd look alike.

While she was certainly the ruler of the roost, I had an entire collection of well-loved, well-used stuffed animals. My love for narrative surfaced at a very early age and the gallery of stuffed animals were characters in stories I made up for us to play. I remember once turning my entire room into a cave that was a secret hospital for wounded soldiers hiding from the Nazis. The animals, of course, were my soldiers and I was the brave army nurse, tending their wounds with the sound of German boots above my head.

My daughter, at two and half, plays more simple games with her animals-- trips to the cookie store or horse riding lessons on her toy pony-- but it's already clear they have her heart. There's Daddy Monkey, who is currently Head Animal and the one most likely to cause meltdown if he's absent come bedtime. Daddy Teddy is newer, a thrift store find we brought home for a quarter, but he's also popular on the pillow circuit. We have a whole slew of baby animals-- Baby Monkey, Baby Teddy, Baby Bear, Baby Lamb, and Baby Tiger. (Baby Tiger, she informs me, is often mean to Baby Monkey and has to go into time out). Some of the animals, such as Mama Lamb, were mine when I was her age and have been called out of attic retirement to serve a second generation. All are loved and all have a unique role. Daddy Monkey is an essential sleeping buddy, now often joinred by Daddy Teddy. The Babies are her story-making friends-- she can spend forty-five minutes enacting her made-up narratives, which often mimic her life. She nurses them, puts them to sleep, pushes them in her stroller, disciplines them when they fight. Often our errands are not complete unless one of them is with her, along with his or her "diaper bag" of essentials. Some of them don't look quite as plush as when they entered our home-- Daddy Monkey, for instance, has weathered at least one bout of stomach flu---- but even the smallest animal is missed when he's not in his place at the end of the day.

Tonight I was cleaning up her little family, noticing how one looked worn out from washing or another had managed to (yet again) lose his shirt and the thought occurred to me--- this is a lot like the family of God. Some of us are missing a bit of fluff or a button nose; some of us have been through the washer a time or two. Our stitches show, evidence of loving repair jobs on the rips and tears we've accumulated along the way. We do different things, have different purposes, but we are all very much loved. We are all part of the story God is telling, and He has specific roles for each of us to play. At the end of the day, when He gathers up his family to bring them home, we'll all be in our places around His table.

The thought, while not terribly original or profound, made me smile. Sometimes the best role models for our daily walk are right under our noses, or in this case, on my daughter's pillow.

Baby Essentials

2008-12-27T07:47:00.000-08:00

Pregnancy junk mail is sneaky, even more than its instant credit card and retailer coupon cousins. While credit cards or too good to be true discounts appeal to our more selfish instincts-- more money, more stuff, more consuming-- mommy mail often masquerades as earnest advice for confused newbie parents. My recent Baby Depot mailer promised to tell me what I really needed for my new baby....and conveniently they had all of it in stock for 60% off the regular price!
The list was as follows

changing table
crib
crib bedding
dresser
rocker or glider and ottomon
infant car seat
travel system/stroller
play yard
bouncer seat
stationary exerciser
swing
bottles
breast pump
nursing pillow
high chair
bath tub
receiving blankets
basic body suits
layette

Phew! No wonder some estimates state that new parents are going to spend three to five thousand dollars preparing for their bundle of joy....not even including prenatal care and delivery. First time parents, who more and more frequently have waited until later in life to have their children, are easy prey for this kind of money trap. Who doesn't want make a well-prepared comfortable nest for their newborn?

Don't get me wrong....I'm all for nesting. Readying the home for the baby is an enjoyable aspect of pregnancy, and necessary too because of course the baby needs things. But don't let a baby store tell you what those things are. Before you shell out two hundred dollars for a bedding set or a thousand dollars for a crib, ask yourself if it is really going to benefit your baby or just your idea of a fairytale nursery.

When my daughter Ember was born, we didn't have much money to buy all the things we were "supposed" to have, and neither did we care. The church shower provided us with most of the essentials, and we scrounged thrift stores for a few pieces of baby equipment that we thought we'd need. My parents loaned us the cradle they'd used for me. Ironically, most of these items were never used. The stroller sat idle because we'd discovered the joys of babywearing, and the cradle was empty because we also figured out that co-sleeping worked best for an all-night nurser. She didn't like the baby swings, having figured out that the Mommy Swing-- snug in her pouch-- was much more to her taste. We fashioned a homemade co-sleeper out of some tubs and the top of a pack and play but most of the time she ended up in the bed. We never had matching bedding because so many of our friends had given us beautiful handmade blankets that it was more fun to use them all than just one or two. We used the baby tub twice then decided that the sink or a shared bath with Mommy or Daddy worked much better. The "changing table" turned out to be wherever was handiest to lay the changing pads.

I never felt deprived of what I needed to mother Ember, and she certainly didn't seem to notice that she was missing quite a few of the "baby essentials." I'm not saying that every parent needs to make do with as little as possible, or that every parent will need the some things. For some, a crib or a baby swing or a stroller might be absolutely necessary. All I'm advocating is a bit of mindfulness in the process of preparation.

As I said, everyone's "essential" list will be different but if I had to come up with one here's what it would be. I'm an at-home mom who intends to exclusively nurse so my needs are somewhat different than a working or bottle-feeding mom. I'm also omitting the obvious such as clothes, blankets, diapers, etc.

Some type of soft baby carrier, be it a sling, pouch, wrap, or mei tai. The one thing I could not live without.
A boppy or some other type of nursing pillow
A baby seat
Swaddling blankets
La Leche League's The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding

Certainly, every expectant mom should have fun feathering her nest, but ultimately, remember that your baby wants you. Mommy's breasts, Daddy's warm fuzzy chest, lots of holding and kissing and snuggling. If you can give them yourselves, even during the dreaded all-night cry sessions or four a.m. feedings, you've given them what they really need.

The Weaning Path

2008-12-25T17:48:00.000-08:00

If I say it very softly, maybe my daughter won't hear-- she's weaning.

When I found out I was pregnant, I decided that we would attempt to wean Ember at night, to prepare for the nighttime nursing marathons that no doubt will arrive with the new baby. Tandem nursing during the day was always on the table, if that's what she wanted, but I was surprised and delighted at how much she took charge of the process.

I say she because while I've encouraged her and led her down the path of weaning, she's the one who's made the decision. At first it was a few less nursings during the day-- after all, there are so many things to do-- then it was a few less at night. Nursing to sleep, whether at nap or bedtime, was the last to go, once she discovered how much fun it was for Mommy to make up stories about horses. They are our special stories, told only when it's time to go to sleep, and most of them end with Baby Horse being tucked into bed or snuggling up with Mommy and Daddy Horse. She loves it.

I thought I would be heartbroken when she stopped nursing, but instead I'm pleased at how naturally it's gone and how she's chosen other forms of closeness in its place. Physical contact with the "na nas" is still important to her, and we snuggle or cuddle often during the day. At night she often reaches for them if she's waking from a nightmare, seeking the reassurance she needs to fall back to sleep. Instead of emptiness, I feel great satisfaction that we've journeyed this long together as mother and nursling, and now she's changing roles to independent big sister as I prepare for another hungry little one.

Once I wasn't sure whether or not I believed that child-led weaning was a reality. I'd read about it and the concept rang true with my mothering instincts but so many other mothers I knew talked about deliberate and artificial weaning processes. I didn't want that for Ember but wasn't sure if I was just being idealistic. As it turns out, I didn't have to pry her from the breast. She's letting go, as she's ready. Since the "end" of her nursing, she's nursed once during an illness, and I'll nurse her again if that's what she asks. Weaning is a path not a one-stop destination. I thank God for every single nursing-- even the ones that made me cry, gave me chapped nipples, woke me up every hour of the night. I thank Him for the chance to do it all over again with my second child and for the blossoming of my first, from newborn all the way now to little girl.

Weaning, just like breastfeeding, is its own gift, given in its own time. It's a path I can say I'm happy to walk without knowing exactly where or how it's going to end.

Out of The Cave

2008-12-03T06:16:00.000-08:00

It's been quiet around here because I've spent the first three months of my pregnancy in hiding. If I could have holed up in a dark, secluded cave for the last twelve weeks, believe me, I would have! But of course, there is still a house to tend and a toddler who needs her Mommy, pregnant or not.

Since this pregnancy was deliberate-- not only planned but longed for-- I thought it would be smoother than my first. After all, I wasn't a surprised rookie. I had been through morning sickness, fatigue, the whole nine yards. No sooner did I put down my positive pregnancy test did I plan my pregnancy strategy in detail-- I would soldier on, making sure to keep the house together, exercise daily, restrict my diet, and spend extra time teaching Ember all the things I wanted her to know before the baby got here. I bought sewing patterns for maternity clothes and infant clothes, determined to make my own pregnancy wardrobe as well as the baby's layette. I would be a Uber-Capable Mom!

A week later, I was on the couch, convinced I would never move again short of flood or fire. I couldn't drink anything but bottles of water tinged with ginger ale and didn't want to eat anything that wasn't a carbohydrate. The exhaustion surprised me with its sheer....exhaustiveness... as I often found myself unable to function longer than thirty minutes without collapsing on the couch for a cat nap. I didn't remember being that tired with the first pregnancy but then again, I didn't have a toddler. (Ember, for the record, was heroic. She tucked her baby doll blankets around me when I was tired and patted my head or my tummy. Once she learned what my anti-nausea drops were, she'd bring me one every time I started to gag. I couldn't believe that my two year old little girl was mothering me.)

As for my sewing plans, I found that I could even look at material or yarn without getting sick. My husband had to pack all my craft supplies away in the garage, where I couldn't go anyway due to the smell of the cat's litter box, which is practically mustard gas to my pregnant-lady nose. Ah, maternal bliss!

But the most unexpected and difficult aspect of the trimester was the emotional upheaval that caught me completely off guard. In my first pregnancy, I was actually less emotional because I was no longer on birth control pills (which made my hormones wonky) and I expected little to no change with the new baby. Wrong. I found myself smack in the middle of a completely irrational depression that stuck to me like a rock in my chest no matter what I did. It didn't make sense, I told the Lord. I wanted the baby. I was amazed and grateful for His timing and for the new life in me. I had family support and a network of fellow moms who all would help me in any way I needed. More than that, I had the Holy Spirit and His daily grace to sustain me. Why couldn't I shake the black dog on my heels? The experience was very similar to my post-partum depression after Ember's birth, which was hormonally influenced and disappeared once my body got back into sync. I hadn't expected to face that battle again until after the baby, and certainly not for an entire three months!

Sometimes we can't lift ourselves out of a valley. We have to walk on through, stubborn in our faith that the path we are on is right even if everything about it is going wrong. One part of me knew that I had to do whatever I could to order my thoughts then just grit my teeth and get through the days until my body worked out the hormones. Another part of my was disgusted at my failure to live up to my self-made idol of Capable Mom that I'd fashioned at the beginning of the pregnancy. Capable Moms do not crouch in the stall of the church bathroom sobbing for no apparent reason! They keep up their exercise programs and count their calories! They spend their first trimesters in a state of calm resolve, dealing with the physical and emotional upheaval with one hand behind their backs!

God let me beat myself up for a while (I insisted) before He put the question in my mind-- whose standard are you using to judge yourself? What you think other moms expect of you? What you think will give you the most control or pride in your ability to keep juggling all the balls? What about what He wants or expects of me? His yoke is easy and his burden is light, a far cry from all the rocks I piled on my back only to be confused when I couldn't carry them. I gladly exchanged my idea of a perfect pregnant mom for a simpler, more God-honoring goal: do what I can with each day and no more.

Now that I'm into my second trimester, the clouds have definitely started to clear. My body is settling into the pregnancy, physically and emotionally, but more importantly, I've gotten rid of the idea that I am the one in control of all of this. Pregnancy and birth, more than anything I've encountered in my life so far, demands surrender. I can cling to my illusion of control but God brought this life into the world and He's the one growing it every day. In His way, not mine. It is the same for the birth-- I can plan and hope and work towards a certain labor but only God knows how He wants this baby to come into the world. And what He choses will be best. Why do I keep having to re-learn that simple truth?
My job is faithfulness in walking the path, not steering the course. Every time I take over the map, I end up lost.

So it's out of the cave, back to the fresh air and sunshine. I don't regret my time there, or what it's taught me. I'm happy that I can now eat oranges without getting sick, go for a walk with Ember without collapsing on the couch, and look at the day with hope in my heart and strength in my bones. Because it's not about my strength anymore. What freedom! Who knows, I may even knit something.

Labor of Love

2008-10-31T14:04:00.000-07:00

My two-year old daughter is out on a walk with her Grandma and I'm spending my few precious moments of solitude making a pumpkin bag for her first Harvest festival. The pumpkin print is making me sea-sick, thanks to my pregnancy nausea, and I'm not sure why I'm doing this when I can be curled up on the couch reading a book or-- wonderful thought-- sleeping. It's not like we're short on tote bags or old grocery bags around here; she'd be happy to lug anything around the festival as long as it was filled with candy. I wonder, for a moment, why I'm doing this when she isn't even old enough to appreciate the difference between a special Mommy-made treat bag and a Food Lion reject.

The answer is the same as so many other aspects of mothering--- it's a labor of love. We gift our children with so much of ourselves and our time but we don't expect them, in the young toddler years, to be overtly grateful. At least not in so many words. Our delight comes from their delight; our joy from their joy. Ember's smile when she sees her "candy purse" will be worth the half hour of rest I gave up to sew for her. No question about it.

I was pressing the seams in the finished tote bag when I realized that it's the same with God. When He gives our family something good-- a raise at my husband's job, a pregnancy after months of prayer-- I instantly worry that He'll take His blessings away if I don't "keep up the hard work" required to deserve such gifts. But He doesn't work like that. He gives good things to His beloveds for many reasons, one of which I believe is simply to see us smile. As with a mother and daughter, our joy is His joy. We're not toddlers--- we should know how to be grateful-- but even our most sincere gratitude is insufficient compared to His overwhelming goodness. Rather than diminish His kindness by expecting it to come with conditions, we should rejoice in what He has given.
It makes His heart glad when we bask in His lovingkindness.

Thanks be to God for His unspeakable gifts!

Nesting

2008-10-08T06:53:00.000-07:00

A little over a month ago, I wrote this poem...

Empty Nest

come, little soul,
rest in my womb.
leave off now your long journey of skies,
dwell on my bough.

my branches are sturdy,
my nest is warm with birch bark,
with pine needles and stolen yarn.

i will nourish you with breadcrumbs
and lullabies,
i will warm you through snowfall and wind,
i will cradle you with evergreen.
i will be your shelter
and you
my promise of spring.

-------------------------------------

Now my womb is indeed become a nest, my prayer child a
tiny flesh and blood miracle, and my heart an overflow of joy.

Sleep well, my little bird. Sleep in peace and grow strong.

Beachcomber

2008-09-11T18:35:00.000-07:00

She is like the tide, moving in cycles through my day; our moments of laughter or discovery are shells that she leaves on my beach, one after the other. I am like a toddler running from one to another with a basket, convinced that every one is more beautiful than the last. Someday the beach will be empty and she will be collecting shells of her own but for now I walk in amazement at the beauty each days brings to my feet.

Unwearable Dresses and Other Possibilities

2008-08-27T19:49:00.000-07:00

I have on my kitchen table, at this very moment, an absolutely adorable, completely unwearable dress.

It started innocently enough.
A generous amount of leftover corduroy in royal blue kept winking at a pile of leftover decorator fabric in a simple blue and brown floral motif on beige. The decorator fabric gave it a come hither look or two and before I knew it, an idea for a retro-inspired jumper popped into my mind. I was even going to wear leggings under it, for crying out loud. I sketched and measured and constructed my little heart out, surprised that the entire process was going so smoothly, since it was my first adult dress.

My surprise was to be short lived. When I sewed up the last seam, snipped the thread, and tried my masterpiece on for the first time, I discovered a catastrophe. The bust was much too big, while the rest of the dress was much too small. I looked like a cross between an ill-dressed hooker and a potato sack.

My heart is still broken. Those two fabrics are so perfect for one another, and their ill-fitting end so tragic. Practically Shakespearean. My initial impulse was to deposit the whole thing in the garbage but I resisted the destructive urges and tried to re-vision my creation. Maybe I will be able to turn it into something I can wear. Maybe it will become a dress for Ember, or even a purse. If all else fails, I can make a scrap dress for her baby doll, who isn't picky when it comes to fit. With failure comes liberation, because new possibilities emerge from the scrap heap of my old plans.

Of course, my creative philosophizing always spills over into other parts of my life. Lately I've been feeling a bit like that dress-- out of proportion, busting at the seams in one part of my life and hopelessly inadequate to fill others. Thank God that he doesn't ditch me because I'm not yet a perfect fit. No matter how much I try to measure out my life, His design is always beyond my calculations yet somehow always exactly what I need. Like my gloriously abysmal dress, potential is inherent even in my current failures. I don't have to stay mis-matched. Every day I can seek to align myself more and more with the pattern God has laid before me. Sure, it hurts when he cuts but he keeps me stitched together and never leaves me dangling by a thread.

Had enough sewing analogies?
Me too. I'm going to nurse my bruised creativity in a cup of hot chocolate. The fabric will still be beautiful tomorrow morning and by then I'll have thought of five new ways to show it off. Long live unwearable dresses! Long live possibility!

Long live grace.

How I Miss You Now

2008-08-23T20:30:00.000-07:00

How I Miss You Now

Not with burning,
not with that ache in my skin,
the feeling that part of me has been
wrenched out to exist elsewhere.
Not with longing,
nights restless under a full moon
in my solitary bed.
Not with grieving,
not with the lean grayhound of
loneliness stalking my steps.

These things I knew before
you became my flesh and bone.

Now I wait for you
like the shore waits for evening tide,
knowing that the water receding must
rush back to cover the sand.
Now I look for you
as a far-flung planet looks for its sun,
spinning in undeniable orbit.
Now I rejoice at your absence
for the returning makes your face all the more
lovely, all the more mine.

In Other Words: After Communion by Christina Georgina Rossetti

2008-08-12T06:28:00.000-07:00

After Communion

Why should I call Thee Lord, Who art my God?
Why should I call Thee Friend, Who art my Love?
Or King, Who art my very Spouse above?
Or call Thy Sceptre on my heart Thy rod?
Lo now Thy banner over me is love,
All heaven flies open to me at Thy nod;
For Thou hast lit Thy flame in my a clod,
Made me a nest for dwelling of Thy Dove.
What wilt Thou call me in our home above,
Who now has called me friend? how will it be
When Thou for good wine settest forth the best?
Now Thou dost bid me come and sup with Thee,
Now Thou dost make me lean upon Thy breast:
How will it be with me in time of love?

Cloudbursts

2008-07-23T12:49:00.000-07:00

It is a raining outside and I am waiting for a baby. I say the same thing almost every day, it seems-- it is sunrise and I am waiting. It is sunset and I am waiting. It is another full moon and, as always, I am waiting for God to bring our efforts at conception to fruition.

I'm not actually very good at waiting but it's become so much a part of my life the past year that it's not so much an action as a state of existence. Like the weather, which currently is pouring and roaring in a classic summer thunderstorm.

It reminds me of a day like this two years ago, when I sat on my front porch thoroughly past my due date and thoroughly tired of my pregnancy. The thunderclouds darkening the sky and the wind in the trees hinted that rain was on the way and as restless and hot as I was, I couldn't wait. I decided to sit on the porch and watch the storm. The wind gusted promisingly, thunder rumbled, and heat lightening flashed. No rain. The humidity, already oppressive, climbed until the air itself seemed to be swelling, inflating to bursting point. I remember sitting in my rocking chair thinking this is what waiting for my pregnancy to end feels like. All the signs that I was ready for labor without actual labor. I felt ready to burst with anticipation and yes, frustration. But then the clouds burst and the rain came, loud and merry, rattling the tin roof of my porch and filling the earth with delicious coolness. I laughed, patted my belly and reminded myself that God was the one to bring both rain and babies alike.

Now, two years later, I again feel swollen with longing. After a year of trying for another child, I can't tell that we are one bit closer to a pregnancy. I know that God is perfect in His timing but I also, pessimist that I am, wonder in my darker moments if He is ever going to end this waiting. The thought crossed my mind today that perhaps I should give up. It is as if all our efforts and prayers, desires and frustrations built like humidity in my soul, oppressive and heavy. I needed the clouds to burst, needed something to give way.

The thunderstorm this afternoon found me again on my front porch, this time watching the downpour with my daughter Ember. We took advantage of a lull in the rain to explore the puddles in our driveway and the miniature waterfalls dripping from the gutters. A cool wind blew away every trace of the humidity that had marked the morning previously and as I watched Ember splash, my own heaviness lifted. Yes, I am waiting. I am not waiting alone. I already have one priceless gift from God, and my life is filled with all the blessings and challenges of parenting-- as well as moments of sheer puddle-splashing joy.

As long as there are days of rain to break the humidity, daily joys to break the longing, I think I stand the wait a little longer.

Freewrite No. 3

2008-07-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

It's the kind of day in which during my daughter's nap polite thunderstorms settle in above my house. No downpour here, no wild lightning and tropical wind-- just a steady hum on rain on the tin window awnings and self-contented thunder rolling around in the clouds like a dog in tall grass. Really, I almost feel it's rude not to open the windows and invite the storm in for tea but who wants to mop up after that? Think of the carpet, after all.

I'll settle for a blanket over my lap, mug at my hand, and my pen dancing across the page in the hushed gray afternoon.

Chicken, Casserole, and Other Comforts

2008-07-08T18:32:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's been deader than week old roadkill here, between a most inconvenient bout with pneumonia followed by my father's knee surgery. I've been trying out my Florence Nightingale skills during his recovery, which has left me little time to blog but lots of time to think. About family, community, comfort....and casseroles.

This little thought-worm started chewing its way through my brain when I heard a woman in my Weight Watchers group mention that she was having a hard time sticking to her food plan while her daughter was in the hospital. I have never been one to randomly offer food to strangers but for some reason I knew I should offer to bring her a dinner. God pokes us at odd times, in odd ways. Her daughter is the same age as mine, and I could only imagine how I would feel were it Ember in a sickbed. Cooking a meal for her wasn't just about food but about extending my domestic sphere, temporarily, to include her and her daughter. A small, tiny bit of homemaking in the middle of a hospital corridor.

So I brought chicken, along with the requisite side dishes, not entirely sure what to expect. I worried I'd seasoned it wrong or forgotten the napkins or some other such nonsense. Certainly I wasn't thinking about her reaction which was perhaps why I was so blown away at how much she was moved by the meal. She seemed genuinely touched that someone would cook for her, which made me realize how rare this type of hospitality is in our society.

Perhaps my urge to offer comfort food in a crisis can be pinned on my grandmother, a bona fide Arkansas cook whose pies sold out around town and whose biscuits and gravy will probably be served for breakfast in heaven. Women from her generation didn't send Hallmark cards; they sent casseroles. And pies, and homebaked breads, and roasts....and you get the idea. Whether the occasion was joyous or solmen, whether the recipient was family or friend or simply a neighbor in need, these women rolled up their sleeves and cooked.

Until now, I never realized the value in what they were doing. When the feminist movement ousted women from the kitchen and into the workforce, domestic gifts-- such as comfort casseroles-- were dismissed as artificial and silly. The stereotype emerged of an overly hair-sprayed woman bringing a rock-hard tuna casserole to a grieving family, expecting her food to be a panacea for all their ills. It was portrayed as naive, even silly, for a women to put so much value on mere food. Perhaps domestic women, with nothing else to offer, had to make do with such poor gifts but liberated women could give a real gift with the financial resources they had at their disposal. I bought into this image, as did many women of my generation.

My first glimmer that this might be a skewed image came in the first week after the birth of my daughter. I was flat on my back, hormonal to the point of insanity, sleep-deprived....and starving. My husband, bless his heart, made me toast. A woman trying to breastfeed a newborn cannot survive on toast. It was the evening meals brought by the women of my church family that nourished my body and encouraged my spirit. Each meal bore the unmistakable imprint of the home where it was prepared, and each meal served its purpose-- not as a cure-all but as a stepping stone towards normalcy. The practical needs of daily living do not stop even in the midst of the most life-changing events. Even to meet those needs for one night is a gift, for it allows those in the midst of change to focus their finite energy where it is most needed. I came away from those meals with a profound gratefulness and a desire to show other women the kindness I had received.

My second encounter with the blessing of shared meals came after my father's surgery. Again, the gift of food brought my family into a sphere of domestic care that edified our souls as much as it fed our stomachs. To know you are not alone in a crisis, to know that at the end of a long day there will be a hot meal waiting for you-- these are not trifles, no matter how much our society portrays them as such.

Of course, a meal given out of sheer duty can be stripped of its power. Of course, we need to make sure we provide something more than yesterday's spaghetti. This does not mean that we need to aspire to five-star gourmet cuisine, simply that we put thought into the preparation of the meals we intend for ministry. The real beauty of comfort food isn't that it is high-class or expensive or elaborate, but that it comforts. Every woman has the potential to give that gift, in a way that is hers alone. Every time she does, she serves not only those receiving the meal but also her own family, and most importantly Christ Himself.

Making and Mending

2008-06-16T21:55:00.000-07:00

A long-awaited new sewing machine arrived at my house for my last birthday, and it has opened a floodgate of creativity. While sewing has its usefulness in any domestic arsenal, my love-affair with fabric and design goes back to high school when I would design my own prom dresses and have them tailored by a seamstress who was a family friend. Together we planned my first prom dress, my college wardrobe, my wedding dress, and my daughter's summer clothes. Now that I have my machine, I can figure out how to make such wonderful things myself. As soon as I get down sewing in a straight line.

Making things, whether it's with fabric, yarn, or words, lights my fire. I can work for hours barely noticing the time, happily absorbed in creation. In my pre-momma days all it'd take was a cup of coffee and I could write until the birds started singing and the sky turned blue. Even now, when I know I have to be up with my daughter at seven, I often find myself staying up late to finish a few more rows of knitting, a little more of a sewing project, another paragraph of a story. The half-finished skirt on my kitchen table calls to me even now, well past midnight.

But there is another side to sewing-- and any other creative venture-- that is not so exciting. Skirts rip, shirts lose their buttons, pants wear holes at the seams. Mending these things takes time and concentration and doesn't usually inspire flights of creative passion like making things does. But at the same time, once I drag out my needle and thread and sit down to work, the often simple repetitions of mending hold different possibilities. My mind settles into a meditative state, contemplating the things of the day stitch by stitch. The whole process leaves me with a satisfaction that isn't nearly as flashy as raw creativity but sweet all the same, like chamomile with honey.

And it was while staring down the large pile of damaged clothes awaiting me that I realized the contrast of making and mending extends beyond garments. The same dynamic shows up time and time again in our lives. We fall in love and our entire being is dizzy on the wings of endless possibility. We marry and smile with anticipation at the prospect of forging a new life as one. We discover that a baby is on the way and our souls rejoice at the creation of new life. This is making, in all of its flushed splendor. But lovers quarrel, and grow familiar. Domestic bliss turns out to involve a great deal more dish washing than we initially planned and no matter how many times we make our husbands dinner they are still hungry the next night. The nerve. Even our little bundles of joy quickly reveal that they are one hundred percent human and require constant shepherding. Life seems to hold a great deal of mending, everywhere we turn. How do we keep from growing discouraged?

By remembering, just as with clothes, that a stitch in time really does save nine. The work we pour into our marriages, our homes, and our children may seem repetitive and at times dull but it's these little daily efforts that the things we love most in good repair. A meal, a made bed, a changed diaper....all are stitches that hold together our families. If instead of resenting these routines we allow ourselves to settle into the satisfaction they can bring, we are wise. After all, God knows when we need the sparkler-bright excitement of a new adventure. But he also knows that what we need even more regularly is the chamomile and honey sweetness of a common job done uncommonly every day.

Here's to every woman who is tailoring a home-- may your needles be swift, your thread strong and may your well-mended family praise you in the gates.

Coming Unspun

2008-05-14T11:34:00.000-07:00

Recently, I've been systematically destroying a sweater I knit last winter.

In knit-speak, such wanton unraveling is known as frogging, because you "rip-it, rip it" (ah, knitting humor) until your faulty project is yarn again. It's a cute name for what can be a painful process-- all that work, hope, inspiration, and time unraveling like it never existed. I first condemned the sweater to frogging back in January and only now, in May, have I executed the sentence. It took me that long to get the nerve.

But about one sleeve and half a torso into the deconstruction, I realized something. The whole process didn't pinch nearly as much as I thought it would. I was actually finding something relaxing, deeply satisfying-- even fun-- at watching my hopelessly mucked-up sweater transformed back into soft gray skeins of woolly potential. I could make anything from the reclaimed yarn, and my next sweater would be even truer to my vision because I knew what didn't work.

Lucky for me, last night was a two-for-one special on epiphanies because I've been struggling with something very similar concerning my writing.

Over the past months, I've been re-examining my long-held writing goals and aspirations in light of my real-world responsibilities. I have a daughter who's almost two and insatiably curious, a house that refuses to keep itself clean of its own accord, and still only twenty-four hours in a day. Fifteen, really, because my intelligence and creativity nosedives after nine p.m. My previous vision of my writing just doesn't fit anymore; like my poor, malformed sweater, it isn't functional for my current needs.

So I'm unraveling it too.
Slowly, with a grimace, I've been taking apart my preconceptions of what writing should mean for me right now. Now probably isn't the time to write my masterpiece of American literature, or try to launch my grandiose writing career. I really don't know if I should even worry about submitting at all at this point. I'm breaking my dreams down to raw material-- a love of words and their
possibilities-- and finding joy just in exploring that richness. Just like with frogging my sweater, I've discovered there is a satisfaction, even a peace, at transforming my writing from a frustrated mess to a ball of potential.

I can write anything from here. I could even write nothing and my words, my story-children, would still be there waiting when I came back.

Here's to coming unspun. In our knitting and in our lives, sometimes it's exactly what we need.

Freewrite No. 2

2008-05-08T12:58:00.000-07:00

I like walking in the early morning
when the sun is fresh and the breeze cool,
when the humidity is not yet sticking to my face and arms like flypaper,
I like passing coin laundries and coffee shops, watching the
big money people drop their dogs at daycare, watching the
pocket-change people wait for the bus.
I like the smell of honeysuckle and the exasperated horns of the morning traffic
to which I am immune with my stroller and tennis shoe freedom
I like my daughter's bare feet and pink toes
and the entire day stretching before us, like the sidewalk,
one uncluttered line of potential not yet criss-crossed with detours and regrets.

And Yet Another One...

2008-05-03T19:39:00.001-07:00

You Are Teal Green

You are a one of a kind, original person. There's no one even close to being like you.

Expressive and creative, you have a knack for making the impossible possible.

While you are a bit offbeat, you don't scare people away with your quirks.

Your warm personality nicely counteracts and strange habits you may have.

What Color Green Are You?

Random Quiz Results

2008-05-03T19:35:00.000-07:00

Admit it, you all love the occasional online quiz.....digital introspection and amateur head-shrinking all at the click of a mouse.

Apparently, I am

Your Thinking is Abstract and Random

You are flexible, adaptable, and creative.

There's many ways that you can learn - and you're up for any of them.

You relate well to other people, and you do well working in groups.

You can help people communicate together and work with each other's strengths.

You don't work well with people who are competitive or adversarial.

You prefer to work toward a common goal... not toward conflicting goals.

What Kind of Thinker Are You?

Scrubbing Couture

2008-04-30T05:33:00.001-07:00

Once in a while, I realize that there's this whole other plane to domesticity of which I am rarely aware let alone part. Like when I visit Martha Stewart's website, out of morbid curiosity, and find a Valentine's feature on how to make handmade paper envelopes for distributing your home-baked, hand-decorated cookies.

What amazed me was the thought that there were housewives out there who had time not only to bake and decorate gift food but to handmake individual envelopes for them. Are there stay at home moms out there with that kind of time? Apparently. I would love to meet one....I have a few chores she can help me with in her free time.

I was equally amazed, as I browsed a magazine in the doctor' office, that you could purchase designer cleaning items-- rubber scrubbing gloves, dustpans, mops, scrub brushes-- in a bewildering array of modern colors and styles. And darn it, some of that stuff is cute. The bright blue rubber gloves, with their bold floral cuffs in a contrasting retro print, were so obviously a symbol of Ultra Domesticity that I felt a bit guilty for sneaking a look at the price tag to see if I could afford them. Ten bucks for a pair of rubber gloves is certainly beyond Walmart prices but not unreasonable. Perhaps the Martha Stewart woman wears these sort of gloves so her hands aren't rough for all that delicate paper she uses in her handmade envelopes.

All of this got me thinking.

Is it so wrong to want to bring beauty into the more mundane aspects of homemaking? The Martha Stewart Syndrome, embodied by the envelope-making house goddess I describe earlier, is really just a hyperextension of a good idea--- that everyday tasks deserve a bit of the extraordinary. Ms. Stewart has made an empire by commercializing that concept and creating a cult of the domestic where perfect women fill their perfect homes with exquisite creations that display their feminine prowess. Think Stepford Wives and pink angora sweaters. This stereotyping of the feminine role is just as damaging as the
Power Woman myth or the Sex Kitten myth or any of a dozen distortions of womanhood society thrusts in our faces.

But I really did like the cute scrubbing gloves. Does this mean I'm one step away from become a pink-sweater drone?

I don't think so.

Because, like I said above, the everyday truly does deserve touches of the extraordinary. Those of us who labor at home face any number of routine, mundane tasks daily. Dishes need washing, floors sweeping, clothes laundering...the list goes on. Even the most motivated house-cleaner-- which I am not-- has to admit there is something rather plain about dish soap and mop buckets. So why not infuse a little beauty into the process? Will cute scrubbing gloves remove my dislike for cleaning the bathroom? Not entirely but it will give me a bit more joy in the process. Will a mod-striped dustbin inspire me to dance Cinderella-like with my broom? I doubt it, but the artistic part of me will sigh happily when I see the colors.

When we take time to elevate aspects of our housekeeping routines, we elevate our attitude towards those routines. It could be as simple as picking out a cooking apron in a fun print that you wear each time you prepare a meal--- not only do you spare your clothes but you've created a small ritual for yourself, a tiny space for beauty to inhabit part of your day.

Certainly, moderation and common sense must be a part of this incorporation of beauty. It's all too easy to be swept up in our consumerist society's notion that being is the same as having. The things we use in our homemaking do not, in and of themselves, define us as homemakers. Nor will they give us a heart for tending our household. As with anything in life, a right perspective is important.

We all could benefit from small, deliberate acts of beauty in our daily routine. Maybe for one woman this means flowers on the kitchen window; for another it may be a little bit of lip gloss even though only a toddler will see it. Deliberate beauty could surface in way a wall is painted or the color of a pair of curtains.
It could even be found in a pair of bright blue, retro print scrubbing gloves.

Which I still just might buy.

Oh, and the gloves, among other interesting household items, can be found
here

Freewrite No. 1

2008-04-29T09:06:00.000-07:00

Driving down the edge of the storm:
ogre-faced clouds grimacing from the south, wind devils spinning circles in the tops of the trees. Tornadoes are afoot, pouncing on small towns like cats after a mouse, unaware they are tearing through the china cabinet. Rain slithers under the dark sky,
but I am safe
behind my glass, tourist to a downpour.

Evening Litany

2008-04-24T19:18:00.000-07:00

Thank You for the food we share
Thank You for the hands that break the bread
Thank You for this shelter from the cold.

Thank You too for those we love
Even when it brings us sorrow
Thank You for the joy of hearth and home.

Thank You that You call us friend
Thank You that we know You
not as myth or legend but our Father
why should we be called Your children?

Thank You that You chased our hearts
Thank You that You poured Your life out
That You that we are made part
of Your very flesh and blood.

Thank You for the living Body
all the saints as one before Thee
Thank You for the family of faith.

Thank You for Your soon return
until then our hearts are yearning
Thank you for the life that has no end

As we go now into night
we lift up these praises to You
Father, Lord, Redeemer, Savior,
grant us peace till morning's made new.

Nothing Special

2008-04-18T09:52:00.000-07:00

Over the past century, our society has undergone a radical transformation in world view with the rise of secular humanism and all its philosophical baggage.

This is news to no one.

What's interesting about this shift in thinking is the practical impact it's had on our culture's view of ourselves-- human beings, that is. Philosophically, we are told that we are the product of random chance, sheerly biological entities who just happen to be inhabiting this planet for the past two millenia or so. We are told that there is no real right or wrong, so we cannot truly condemn the actions of another no matter how offensive to us. Pedophilia is just another form of human sexuality. Murdering an unborn human being is an exercise of female choice. Even such tragedies as terrorist bombings and even the Holocaust are "contextual"-- they are wrong to us but to the participants, in their time and place, the actions were what was right to them.

Philosophically, the value of human life is no more than that of any other animal--- important, perhaps, given the circumstances but also just as easily dismissed under other circumstances.

But ironically, this is not our society's practical stance towards humanity. While our culture's attitude toward the value of the human shows the negative influence of modern philosophy-- just visit an abortion clinic-- overall the dominant attitude is that human lives are intrinsically worth something because they are human. Many object to the war in Iraq due to the human cost, both military and civilian. Thousands protest the Bejing Olympics due to the way that country has treated human beings in Tibet. And it's not just about global or national issues-- such institutions as welfare and child protective services are in place because our society thinks that a jobless single mom or a battered five year old are worth the money required to care for them. We lock up violent people so they won't do anyone else violence. Sometimes we even kill them.

It's an everyday tension between what the scholars say is true in theory and what regular people on the street believe in pratice. Even academics will rarely come out and state the full conclusion of the amoral values they claim. But once in a while, someone thinks secular humanism through to its logical end and has the guts to say where our modern worldview really means.

And interestingly enough, such logic comes from an alien hunter.

This article discusses the so-called "failure of the planet of the Apes hypothesis" which is the brainchild of Charley Lineweaver, a scientist with the SETI Institute. These guys get paid to scour the universe in search of intelligent, human-like life but Lineweaver had an epiphany. What's the big deal about being human anyway? He thinks we're making a mistake by "assuming that there is something about humans that is unique or special."

Finally-- someone acknowledges the elephant in the secular humanist living room. Any hard look at modern philosophy (or post modern, or post-post modern or what have you) will show that it gives no reason why we should care about human beings at all, other than self-preservation and species preservation. Any decent behavior is just a construct, a leash to keep back the animal that wants to rip out the throat of the guy who cut us off in traffic.
But here's the thing-- people don't really want to believe that. We want to believe that we special, that we are unique. That something intrinsic to us beyond simple biology makes us different than Joe Amoeba.

Cue the truth.
When the benevolent mask of secular humanism slips, we should be there to point out the gargoyle beneath. Ignore the disdain of the smug college professors in their academic towers, forget the scientists with the impressive white coats and clipboards-- they've already decided we're retarded, or insane, or both. We truth-bearers in a truth-forgotten world want to reach those people on the street who are finding that amoral worldviews are awfully empty beneath the promised freedom. We can tell them, on an individual basis, that their suspicions are right. We are of eternal value. We are hand-crafted, one-of-a-kind works of art.

If we say it in humility and boldness and compassion, if we say it enough, people will listen. So stop reading and go do something about it.

Ten Things Learned In the Trenches

2008-04-16T07:37:00.000-07:00

I think of laboring like parachuting. You can read about parachutes, take classes on parachutes, practice the correct way to put on your suit and the right way to pull the cord....but you won't really understand parachuting until you're falling through the air. Also, if you lined twenty people up and had them jump out of a plane, each of their experiences, while sharing common aspects, would be unique. The birthing process goes through the same stages for every woman but is at the same time highly individually. A woman in a naturally progressing birth process, for example, will labor differently than a woman in an induction or other situations. But there's something we all have to share with each other hopefully to make the process a little less scary.

In that thought, this is what I learned from my free-fall.

10) If you can, eat a really good meal at the beginning

When my childbirth instructor, Claudia, gave me advice for preparing for the induction, she told me to make sure I ate a high-protein breakfast. We're talking about three or four eggs and a bit of toast with juice....something to give energy and strength for the laboring process. Common medical knowledge encourages women to labor on an empty stomach but you're going to need fuel for the hard work of laboring. Eat whatever is comfortable for you. If you start labor naturally, you probably aren't going to plan a meal beforehand but you can, at the beginning of labor, eat something nutritious to help you build energy reserves. Listen to your body.

9) Bring a pillow or two and blankets.

Hospital rooms are even worse than hotels when it comes to comfort. The pillows are pathetic and the blankets are inadequate. Bring your own pillow-- one that is washable, no heirloom feather pillows please-- and use it to help you get into comfortable positions during labor and in recovery. You can also consider bringing a nursing pillow to ease the awkwardness of early nursings. The same rule goes for blankets-- it's good to have an extra one but make sure it's one that you can wash if necessary. I'd recommend one of the inexpensive fleece blankets you can buy for as little as $5....it keeps you and your little one warm and is very durable.

8) Don't be afraid to make noise when you labor.

Society loves the ideal of a placid, docile, passive birthing woman, one who doesn't make much noise and doesn't argue with the Doctors Who Know Best. It's one of the reasons why drugged labor is so popular; it's much quieter.
Real birth is noisy. Sound is a release, one that can help you deal with the pain of a contraction, but don't choose panicked, high-pitched sounds that will make you tense. I had a repetitive moan that I used during contractions--- actually I said "out, out, out" in a rhythm that I found soothing. In combination with breathing, the sound helped me stay calm and focused. Figure out what works for you and don't be afraid to use it, especially during pushing. You're pushing out a baby not taking tea.

7) Ask questions.

Along with preference for a quiet birth, society likes a docile birthing woman, one that goes along with whatever the doctors or nurses recommend. Your doctors are your birth partners, not birth generals. They are there to help you through the birthing process and, if necessary, step in the event of a crisis. You certainly can question or refuse any non-necessary intervention about which you feel uncomfortable.

6)Have someone who can say no for you.

This goes hand in hand with the previous tip. When you get going into labor, and especially when you get into transition, you aren't going to be the most rational you've ever been. It's usually at the point when you're tired and in pain that well-meaning individuals-- be they doctors, or nurses, or family members-- suggest pain medication or other interventions that may not be in your birth plan. Have your birth partner-- whether it's your husband or someone else-- designated to refuse things you don't want. Decide ahead of time what your criteria will be for interventions-- under what circumstances you would use them-- and have your partner stick up for you when you're immersed in birthing.

5) Limit the number of guests or observers.

My instructor Claudia said something to the effect that every additional observer you have, besides your partner and hospital staff, adds ten minutes to your labor. I don't know whether or not that's true for everyone, but you aren't a circus attraction. Labor is done best when it's as private as possible, and that may mean kindly telling friends and family to pace the halls. If you want family members or friends present, that's okay, but make your choices wisely.

4) Have relief support lined up to give your husband a break.

While you don't want a crowded labor room, you do want to have someone lined up to support your husband while he's supporting you. This could be a professional doula or a family member or friend-- just as long as someone is designated to give him a chance to grab a soda and sandwich or a bathroom break. Also, some husbands have trouble with the messier parts of birth and there's nothing wrong with having someone who can step in if he gets overwhelmed.

3) Remember that your birth plan is flexible and doesn't determine the success of your birth

We touched on this in the last post but I want to reiterate that the goal of birth is the baby in your arms not a perfectly executed birthing plan. Even a textbook natural labor may not be exactly as you planned. If circumstances require interventions that you would have preferred to avoid, such as induction, medication, or even a c-section, keep your focus on the destination-- your baby.

2) Keep your baby with you after

Some hospital staff get downright hostile to the thought of a mother actually keeping her baby with her after labor rather than letting the newborn spend hours in a hospital nursery. The hours after birth are important not only for bonding but for establishing milk flow, and both are accomplished by keeping the baby with you and allowing them to nurse on demand. A hospital does not have the right to take your baby to the nursery against your will. While you may concede to leave the baby in the bassinet when they are sleeping, since many hospitals have an aversion to co-sleeping, you can fully insist that the baby be left in your room. You will have to be vigilant; even after my husband and I made it clear that under no circumstances was our baby to be in the nursery, the nurses still tried to keep the baby on the grounds that they knew what I needed better than I did. My husband ended up accompanying our daughter to the nursery for any necessary procedures and then accompanying her back. Don't be afraid to be insistent.

1) Trust that God is in control

No matter how crazy your labor gets, God is directing your path and your that of your baby. You can cry out to him for strength at any time-- even if it's a wordless moan-- and He will come to give you strong and sure aid. When it came time to push in my labor, I couldn't feel much due to the epidural and subsequently couldn't use the pushing techniques I'd learned in class. At the final moment, my body and spirit were absolutely drained and I remember calling out to God, silently but with all my soul. At exactly that moment, a primal, indescribable strength filled me and I was able to deliver Ember. I am no mystic, but I do know that God is with us through our labor and is our greatest comfort. There are no atheists in foxholes and delivery rooms.

So there. That's what I've learned, and it may be totally irrelevant for your labor. But then, it may help you just a little, which is my hope.

Happy parachuting!

Baby In Waiting

2008-04-13T14:31:00.000-07:00

I was going to write about meatloaf today. Really.
But, Dear Reader, you are spared my musings about meat because something much more interesting has come up. One of my friends in South Carolina (shout out to F elicia) is mere days away from birthing her baby girl Abigail Jane, and she asked me about my experience at a birthing center. Birthing my daughter was simultaneously one of the most joyous and frustrating events in my life so far, which means I am going to blog about it. Saw that coming a mile away, didn't you?

BIrth, like weddings, first kisses, and many other social milestones, is a loaded pistol. We supply the ammo, in the form of expectations and aspirations for what the experience will be like, and hope it goes off in the direction we planned. Bullseye! A dream come true! Take a wedding. Sometimes we get so excited with the fulfillment of our own personal fairytale that we don't stop to ask where exactly we got our idea of what that day should look like. What do you mean I can't have a hundred doves released in unison at my exit, each bearing a single long-stemmed red rose in their beak? The wedding industry makes billions of dollars off women who buy into the pre-packaged fantasy of the Perfect Day and then spend the first five years of their marriage paying for it.

Birth dreams are even trickier. We have nine months to plan-- and sometimes panic-- for the arrival of this brand new person who is entirely dependent on us to make sure they get through customs okay. Sure, we know we have midwives and ob-gyn docs and husbands and family and friends but when the rubber meets the road, we're the ones pushing the baby out on D-Day. (Delivery Day, of course). The pressure is on to have the Perfect Birth, one that occurs without a hitch, without any messiness, and, for many women, without any pain. Dominant social and media images reinforce this fantasy with the In Depth Exclusive World Features of celebrity mothers who pose for glossy magazine covers, cooing over their angelic babies. They are graceful. Elegant. Thin. They speak in glowing terms of their Birth Experience and leave me wondering if they were actually even there for their own labor.

For those of us who see through the obvious birth propaganda, the Perfect Birth dream can be even sneakier. As you plan and prepare, the temptation is to focus on one certain type of birthing process as The Way the baby absolutely must be born in order for the birth to be that mystical, magical experience we've been told it should be.

My hopes for the birthing of my daughter were formed based on extensive reading I did about natural childbirth. I wanted to be strong, aware, and actively participant in my labor. I knew it would hurt, that it would be messy, and exhausting. I was okay with that. I didn't want to tear. Above all, I did not want medicine, whether for pain or otherwise, or any other unnecessary medical intervention. My husband and I chose to work with midwives that operated from a birthing center within a regular hospital, thinking at the time it would offer the best of both worlds-- midwifery service with a neo-natal unit just down the hall in case of complication. We took a natural childbirthing class. By the time the end of my pregnancy came, I was ready for anything--- except the news that the midwives wanted to induce my labor due to their concerns over my ability to deliver a large baby.
Looking back, I should have refused. Medically, both the baby and I were fine. I knew in my gut that I could have the baby just fine but I was a first time mom and they were the Professionals. We agreed to the procedure on the assurance that they would start with the least invasive methods of induction.

We showed up at the hospital, bright and early, with my suitcase full of all the labor helps I'd learned about in class-- music, castor oil, washclothes for compresses-- only to be met by a doctor and a nurse who did their best to convince me of a c-section. I could have thrown my bedpan at them. When my husband and I refused the c-section, they started me on pitocin, a common labor-inducing drug that is certainly one of the more invasive induction options.

Even though my childbirth instructor had told us that induced labor almost always required pain medication due to the severe intensity, we decided to hold off as long as I could and try to manage the pain using the techniques we'd learned in class. Of course, I couldn't use most of them because I was strapped to a bed full of machines-- none of which I wanted but at that point had no option. After several exhausting hours, the nurse informed me that if I didn't have the baby within a few more hours, the doctors were going to do a c-section on me whether I wanted it or not. An epidural, she said, would speed up the labor and allow me to still give birth vaginally. I agreed. Just before the labor deadline, I started pushing-- completely numb mind you-- and ended up with a third-degree tear. The last shred of my Perfect Birth Experience disappeared.

But I was holding my daughter. The moment I felt her head begin to emerge, as I pushed, all I remember is crying out my baby, my baby, over and over again. I didn't care how she got there; she was in my arms, already looking to nurse. I lifted her to my breast, awkwardly, and whispered her first Bible verse in her ear. For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotton son....

As happy as I was to finally have my daughter, the deep-set disappointment in my birthing experience lingered. I felt inadequate, somehow a failure as a woman for not being able to follow my natural birth plan. I wondered if I was weak and spineless for not insisting on what I felt was best. Then it clicked...
no birth experience is perfect. I was holding onto my Perfect Birth Plan so tightly that I'd forgotten that God, in His sovereign grace, had a plan of His own that was far superior. He knew exactly the steps needed to bring Ember Rose into the world at the time He saw fit, in the way He saw fit.

So to Felicia, and anyone else with a Baby in Waiting, I'd say this-- certainly dream, certainly plan, certainly hope for the best birthing possible. But at the same time, rest assured that God's planning too, and be aware that His plan may look different. The birthing process, while important and beautiful (yes, I mean beautiful, even in the midst of the mess and the chaos), is just a journey. It's the destination that is really the point.

Tomorrow--- Ten Things I Wish I'd Known Before The Trenches, and other thoughts on laboring.

Some Sort of Introduction

2008-04-10T06:36:00.000-07:00

New blog, first post.

::listens to the crickets in cyberspace::

Why does starting a new blog always seem to be so formal? As if all of the cyberpeople are lined up, in suits and dresses with big flower hats, waiting for me to hurry up and cut the virtual ribbon so they can hit the cake and punch tables.

Disturbing the Universe is all about books, Domestic Dissident is more about what's going on in my head about life, especially life as it pertains to keeping a home and raising my daughter. Also expect lots of random stuff about yarn and other things knitting. What could homemaking and mothering possible have in common with dissidence? A dissident, in any culture, is one who questions normalized trends and chooses a path that is deliberately different or in opposition. That's what I'm doing, and although it may not seem that washing dishes or making peanut butter sandwiches sounds edgy, godly femininity is a radical choice in our culture, one that I'm proud to make. And occasionally blog about for anyone who is listening.

All right, cyberpeople. Speech over.