Baptism Blessing

My son was baptized this past Sunday. In most churches, this is a major milestone, but in ours it goes beyond tradition. We practice "believer's baptism", which means that until someone personally acknowledges their sin and asks Jesus for salvation, they aren't candidates for baptism.

Since my son was an infant, I have been praying for his salvation decision to be made early on in his life. I myself didn't trust in God until my later teens. I think every parent wants something more for their kids than they themselves had, and for me knowing God was the number one thing that made a difference in my life. I want that for my kids...

Still, at not quite 5 years old, my HugBug surprised me with the matter-of-fact way he asked Jesus to be his Savior. What I love about it is that this is exactly how God asks us to come to Him: with a child-like faith. My son didn't demand some sort of scientific proof that God exists. He never doubted that our God is loving enough to want him for His own. He doesn't know the Scriptures yet, but he sees and understands that God is at work in our lives, and wants good things for us. He gets it, and it is an incredible blessing to witness.

And so, this week we went to the church for a movie-making session where he was able to tape a little interview about his new-found faith and his desire to be baptized. I adored hearing the whole congregation comment "aw" and "how cute!" as it played during the service. Then, barely able to see his head bobbing above the baptismal, I watched as they dunked my courageous kid.

I've been looking around my world and wondering what sort of "ministry" I will have now that my Jehovah's Witnesses aren't going to be stopping by. Like a thunderbolt, it hit my heart that I have been given a huge one--raising not only a responsible, polite, honest, and loving young man, but raising a Christian one. What did the mothers of Billy Graham, Martin Luther, Saint Patrick, and King David all do right? And how in the world will I ever measure up to the challenge?

Jesus said, "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life;

no one comes to the Father but by Me."

--John 14:6

I have been a popular stop for the Jehovah's Witness group for a couple of years now. It all started one wintry night when we invited the two Witnesses who came door-knocking in to join our Bible study for dinner. They devoured the corned beef, warmed up a bit, and left their literature. Ever since, I have been meeting regularly with a couple of ladies from their faith.

Over the course of time in meeting with them, I have been challenged to find sure Scriptural proof for my faith that Jesus is God, equal to and of the same essence as the Father. Some weeks I was more than frustrated, other times I felt like I had "won" my point. I struggled a lot with whether to be confrontational--which didn't feel very Christlike--or meek--which left me wondering if I made them feel like they were right. I got so I dreaded their weekly visits.

On the other hand, they kept me accountable to be in God's word. They challenged me to "be prepared to make an answer for the hope that lies within you." They have also seen the PBC grow from a swaddled infant to a smiling speedster as he rockets his way across the floor on all fours. They have been evidence of my witness extending beyond my own family. My older son has watched me "contend for the faith" as Jude instructs and I hope that this has had some bearing on his own young faith.

This past week only one of the regular gals came. We had agreed to discuss Psalm 8:22, specifically whether this verse indicates that Jesus was created--a main tenet in their belief system. She hadn't done her homework, but with the unexpected help of my pastor's message the morning before, I was armed with a ton of information to challenge her Arian view. So I started into discussion.

In under 20 minutes--less than half the time we usually spent--she suddenly announced "I see no point in this." She told me to give her a call when I was ready to change my mind (ie. my faith). I was completely surprised, to the point of shock. We've been meeting for over a year.

I have to say I am partly relieved, partly regretful. After all, they are still unsaved. And I am somewhat saddened to not even say a proper goodbye to the other woman. Beyond that, I wonder what sort of ministry I will have now. I am in a place in life where going out to witness to others isn't exactly feasible--considering I have 4 kids, three of whom are under 5! Face it, I'm challenged to accomplish the simple things in life, let alone execute some sort of evangelism! I want to be a testimony of Jesus' salvation, but find myself abruptly absent an opportunity.

Prayer, at least, is one weapon I can wield even while I am chasing kids and changing diapers. Perhaps you would join with me in this: pray for salvation for "Angie" and "Laura." And if you need some convincing yourself, give me a call. Monday mornings are suddenly free.

***

We believe in one God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible.

And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father before all worlds, God of God, Light of Light, Very God of Very God, begotten not made, being of one substance with the Father by whom all things were made; who for us men, and for our salvation, came down from heaven, and was incarnate by the Holy Spirit of the Virgin Mary, and was made man, and was crucified also for us under Pontius Pilate. He suffered and was buried, and the third day he rose again according to the Scriptures, and ascended into heaven, and sitteth on the the right hand of the Father. And he shall come again with glory to judge both the quick and the dead, whose kingdom shall have no end.

And we believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord and Giver of Life who proceedeth from the Father and the Son, who with the Father and Son together is worshipped and glorified, who spoke by the prophets. And we believe one holy catholic and apostolic Church. We acknowledge one baptism for the remission of sins. And we look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.

Amen

--The Nicene Creed; 381 AD--

Magical Mommy Medicine

I'm the kind of mom who will only dish out bandaids for blood, and whose most repeated phrase regarding the common complaints of childhood is "You'll live." I have counselled my four-year-old son to proudly proclaim "Look what I survived!" as he shows off his latest battle scar. I have given fake medicine for illnesses which seem to onset suddenly at bedtime. I rarely panic, and even more rarely coddle. Despite this, I find myself dishing out daily doses of a medicine more miraculous than any drug.

I must confess, I'm in love with the fact that this most unusual medicine is absolutley free. A simple smooch is better than bandaids by far. Although all kids love the beauty of a bandaid, they are inevitably pulled off or won't stick in the first place. Hardly a worthy investment. In our house, if you simply blow on a kiss after you've planted it, it becomes semi-permanent and can only be removed by soap and water. This has its unfortunate side, if the person who has kissed you has cooties. On the other hand, it is a true miracle if instead the kiss contains the marvelous magic of mommy medicine.

The other incredible fact about Mommy kisses is that they are 100% effective. I've kissed swelling heads that are somehow healed despite the remaining goosegg. I've decorated the damage from car doors, hockey sticks, and errant siblings and recieved for my trouble a smiling child who runs away from me content to pursue their former play. I've even held a crying child in my arms, soothed her with my kisses, and known that even though the hurt remained, the tiny heart was somehow healed despite the pain.

How many skinned knees, sore elbows, and smashed noggins must a mother doctor in her lifetime? I think that if I added up the number of times I've repeated each mothering task...from nursing to diapering to reading stories...the simple service of smooching away a sore would outweigh each and every other one. From the most impractical places--face it, bandaids never stick on knuckles--to the downright disgusting ("mommy, my tush hurts...") a mother's love is an ever-effective elixer whose label instructions indicate the appropriate treatment is simply "Apply liberally. Reapply as needed."

Real Time

So, after my last post, a smattering of concern came my direction. Apparently, two melancholy entries in a row are a dangerous symptom of depression, speedily addressed by those I call true friends. In response, I am here to admit that not all my posts are uploaded in 'real time.'

As my world is run by those of ages under 5, there is often a significant lag between prose and post. I find that often my inspirations are shelved in a shed at the back of my mind until such time as I have a moment to bring them out and put them in print. Similarly, sticky notes and assorted slices of serviettes have often been the receptacle of my musings until finally I gather them together to transpose onto something much less likely to be lost.

The circular file sees a lot of my stuff, I fear. By the time I have the opportunity to sit and study something, I decide it isn't worth the effort required to polish it up. Still, when recently reminded of my literary daring (did I really confess to writing a book???), I thought I'd best post something. I chose poorly... Not only a rough work which I didn't take the time to refine, but also something written months ago, in the midst of a depressing bout of difficult circumstances. It's only merit was in being written on a scrap paper rescued from a pocket prior to washing.

Still, friends, when writing a book, there must first come the rough draft. Remember English class? A book begins as bare bones of a concept only partially fleshed out, and imperfect in most any means imaginable. This is what I have begun to create...a skeleton, stripped and ugly, and truth be told, just as brittle as dry bones. I hesitate to share it, for critique may nail its coffin closed. I resist the attempt to flesh it out in the realization that the entire effort may be wasted on a work destined to remain dead. I have so few breaths of my own that aren't already claimed by some obligation, that to spend them in an attempt to breathe life into something bigger than my own refreshment will simply have to wait until I can find some honest-to-goodness real time.

How long, Lord
will the salt brine of sadness simmer within me
the steam rising up until it is trapped by the glass ceiling of my pain
and again descends
refreshing the depths of my defenselessness
drowning my hope of deliverance with despair

How long, Lord
will the taste of tears season each supper
my brokenness bubbling, boiling over and bursting upon me
blistering

How long, Lord
until this kettle of my calamity
the pot with my portion an pain
finally boils dry
Who but you, Lord
can remove my future from this fire and spare me the scorching

Of if You choose, my God
add to me grace instead of affliction, freedom from anger
and create of me a broth of Your blessing
a savory sample of how You redeem

Very Last First Times

I am simply watching his face tonight. He doesn't sleep; at least, not for more than a moment or two at a time. Perhaps its his dreams, or transient gas, but his smile wakens him as it flashes across his face. I cannot help but adore his expression, here in these quiet, dark moments in the night.

I'm tired. I, too, remain awake, although reluctantly. My energy wanes as his re-surges. He wants to play, eat, babble...while all I desire is the deliverance of sweet sleep. Most nights, my frustration level escalates along with the numbers on the clock. Dawn gathers like storm clouds on the horizonof my soul as I face another weary day.

Despite this, tonight I am content. I mimic his little laugh. I mirror his great grin. I'm not sure if it is because I know tomorrow will change things. That as I hold him skin-to-skin, our days together like this are numbered. And the number is small, ever-decreasing, winding--no, rushing--down to a zero-threshold, a moment of no return. Tonight, I have the premonition that it is the beginning of the end. That as we lie here on the couch it is one of our very last first times.

As the youngest child, I wonder if he knows. If he'll ever understand. His is my last first laugh. It is the last time I will ever be someone's first love. Our last secret moments before the day steals him away from me, and after that, the years.

I've been here before. My other baby boy is now a little man who would rather leap from my arms than burrow into them. He slept for the first six weeks right on my chest, and breathing in sync, we snuggled. Now, he is all his own. I love him, lead him, teach him, kiss his bruises and boo-boos. But long gone are the long nights of infancy.

I don't wish them back. Not really, not yet. Someday I'm sure I will. The first time they spend the night with a friend. The first birthday they're away from home. The night they marry and suddenly belong to some other woman. It seems so distant sometimes, this future I know is only a split second from being the present. But not tonight.

Tonight feels suspended between reality and regret. This chasm of sleeplessness can only be crossed by relinquishing the right to these tiny moments of terrible joy. I entertain the knowledge that as we press forward, I may be forever glancing backward, trying to remember the joy of it--my very last first time. I'm not even sure which moments to memorialize. Is it my last time nursing him, or only nearly so? And which time is the last time I'll swaddle him to sleep?

He cries now. Hungry? Lonely? Tired? Just for tonight I have all the patience he demands. I have willing arms and waiting sustenance. I have a spot saved by my side for his sleeping. And I cry with him. Not for sleep this time. Tonight my tears are for these deep blessings. For the mystery of these momentary miracles. For all the last first times of being mommy.

"But Mary treasured up all these things

and pondered them in her heart"

--Luke 2:19

Why I Eat Ice Cream and Other Mysteries

As a dietitian, I feel a fair amount of professional pressure to be a shining example of how to have a healthy relationship with food. Society, with its ubiquitous emphasis on thinness, also crowds my conscious with cries of "get thin, be thin, stay thin." Currently, I am failing miserably in both these pursuits.

I have a love-hate relationship with food right now. I hate that I love it. Inappropriate guilt for satisfying physical hunger is a symptom of disordered eating. That's not what I have, however. I have well-deserved guilt for using food to attempt to satisfy my emotional needs. Much of my guilt lately flows out from the fount of my ice cream addiction.

I love ice cream. I eat it by the bowl full--bowl, not measuring cup! Until recently, I have not taken the initiative to examine my deep need for this delicacy. In preparing for a recent counseling session with a weight loss client of mine, it became quite obvious that I was in a situation of the 'pot calling the kettle black'.

What is behind the behaviors I have that I know aren't beneficial for me? I don't have every answer, but I do have one for the ice cream. Here's the scoop: ice cream feeds my soul.

When I was little and went to stay the week with my grandparents (affectionately known as 'vacation'), we had coffee (well, I got hot cocoa) and ice cream at 9 pm nightly. It was their ritual, and one that I looked forward to immensely. Both during and after college, I lived with Gran and Gramps on-and-off. Those were great days for me. There is something incredibly comforting about Gran's quiet faith, and my Grandpa was a better dad to me than my dad ever was. During those years, ice cream was still standard.

Now, I find myself headed to the Haagen Daas on a near-nightly basis. In a brilliant moment of insight, I realize that I am attempting to recreate the peace, companionship, and sense of security that Grandma's house gave me all those years ago. In the midst of a chaotic, sleep-deprived, financially stressed and busy life, I am seeking something to soothe my soul.

My challenge for myself is to find a fitting substitute to seek solace in. Epiphany is rarely valuable without some sort of action stemming from the revelation. Perhaps prayer--for I, too, share that faith I found so welcoming as a child. Writing letters to Gran, maybe? A moment--a quiet one?--of soothing reflection. I'm not sure just yet. The appropriate answer is a mystery still waiting to be revealed.

Garment of God

From mountain tiara
To the hem of the sea
Dressed in the clouds
And adorned in beauty

From the ribbons of flowers
to the seams of the lands
All of this glory
Made by Your hands

Each bit of creation
Sewn from spire to spire
demonstrating Your wisdom
Your love and desire

To see this body
through scarlet redeemed
Each captivity broken
And sinful heart reemed

The glory of heaven
The majesty earth
Like muslin to satin
Of the soul's deep worth

The train of Your robe
Cathedral length
Reaching down to me
With incredible strength

Drawing my praise
Like a bobbin of thread
Stitching Your garments
With glory instead

"...I saw the Lord seated on a throne, lofty and exalted, with the train of His robe filling the temple." --Isaiah 6:1

The Road to Forgiveness

I seem to be encountering an unusually high level of anger in my daily life lately. The particulars of the situations need not be discussed, but I have found myself reflecting on what it is like to feel lonely, unlovely, betrayed, abandoned, and abused.

I want to be able to share with these angry friends, family members, coworkers that I, too, have journeyed through some pretty intense anger. What I've learned has redefined my life in ways I could never imagined. I learned that the end of the journey begins with forgiveness. Sometimes I forget, it's true. But mostly, as I watch you in the midst of your anger, I remember my time there, and the way of escape I was offered--if I dared take it.

I had every right to be angry. What I lived through, what I survived, should never happen to anybody. My secular counselors told me it was good to be mad at the person who hurt me. And it felt right, finally allowing expression after being forced to hold all that emotion back year after year as the abuse I suffered went on. There’s even some truth in what those counselors said, I did find a measure of healing there. Yet, the longer that anger lived on, the more of my self I felt dying away. I found that if you stay in all that anger, eventually it eats you up.

There’s a line between anger which is good and when that same anger takes on a life of its own and becomes destructive. Maybe you’ve heard about how Jesus got angry at the people who were selling stuff for a ridiculous mark-up at the Temple in Jerusalem and just generally turning a place of worship into a local bazaar. In His anger, He dumped over their tables and told them they were making His house a den of thieves. All this He did in righteous anger. Righteous anger, however, is not allowed to go on and on unchecked—for instance, Jesus didn’t continue to chase after them for miles as they left the place, throwing things at them and cursing them. Jesus would never let the justified anger that He felt go on too long or get out of its rightful boundary, and we must watch that we don’t either. When we finally allow ourselves to express the righteous anger we have against the hurt we have suffered at someone else's hand, it is a good and healing thing. But if you linger in that release, you will find that bitterness and unforgiveness don’t destroy the offender, they destroy you: the one left holding all that rage in her heart.

For me, these realizations took years. It wasn't fast and it wasn't easy. There were a lot of times along the way I wanted to simply give up. I alternately wanted to wrap myself up in anger like a soft blanket which would keep out the hurt or simply quit life entirely and become oblivious to the rage I felt.

There was—and sometimes still is—a whole lot of hurt to parade out in front of God and ask “Do I have to forgive him for this, too?” And it can be a day-by-day, ongoing process. It is a matter of will. I choose to forgive. I don’t feel like forgiving. I feel like hating him, like hurting him back. But I know, because I lived it, that the anger, bitterness, and desire for revenge grow like a terminal cancer that eventually destroys you.

Like me, many of you have no contact with the abuser anymore. Your anger can’t hurt him. It will wound you more than it will ever hurt your abuser. This is why God wants us to forgive: because He is in the business of mending our broken soul, and He needs that anger out of His way.

It is much easier to forgive when you are past the situation, have worked out the deepest of your anger, and stand in a place of safety. Your soul is still aching from what you have endured, but there is the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Forgiveness still feels foreign and, if not impossible, then certainly unlikely. But, there is serenity in knowing that the pain you have endured has finally ended. That your body and mind are free, and now your heart only needs to follow.

Other times we face an even greater challenge. I have found that forgiveness while in the midst of relationship, and while still at risk for harm, can be a much harder calling. For instance, for a wife to forgive a husband for consistently ignoring her needs for communication or romance can create tremendous reluctance in her decision to forgive simply because that wife knows she is not immune from being ignored or overlooked again in the future. Perhaps in these situations there is an even greater imperative to choose forgiveness. After all, how can you truly live with all that fear and the anger inside of you? How can you love?

For me, it was like ice on fire to practice forgiveness. It did not belong--it was a radically different thing than I had ever done before. And it saved my life. Am I angry that I was abused, my innocence and childhood stolen away? My future forever haunted by the hounds of hatred? Yes. But am I glad that I took the hand of God and walked His path, even though it hurt? Yes--a thousand times yes.

When you are ready, dear ones, I will pray for you on that same journey. Thank you for reminding me of all that God has done and is able to do.

The Road to Forgiveness

Pain,
The sand of the soul
creating pearls of great price
Love,
The kind that sustains you
as you overcome hate
Prayer,
As you fall on your knees
to face another memory
Courage,
To forgive what everyone knows
is unforgivable
Persistence,
Because the anger and hurt
will always haunt you
Freedom,
Which awaits you with joy
at the end of this road

Embrace the Rain

Today's message at church really hit home for me. It seems lately that no matter what I try, I never get ahead. We tried to help someone out with a car repair and wound up over-stretching our finances--a serious oops which has caused some worries lately. I tried to adopt a dog from people who were getting rid of him and wound up with a severely sore and bloody leg from where he bit me. And I'm not the only one I know going through this kind of stuff. A friend is redoing her basement for the third time after it has flooded once again. Another almost lost a second job after being unemployed earlier this year. I have been wondering lately--"why, God?"

Today the Pastor talked about the ark and Noah. About how God kept him through the flood. About how He promised through setting His bow in the clouds to never destroy all life like that again. And he reminded me that we can only see God's promise in the rain. If every day were sunshine, what need would we have to be reminded of His faithfulness? If every circumstance in life were rosy, when would we be drawn to the Savior? The Pastor was simply quoting some Scripture from Genesis 6-9 and Isaiah 54, but I felt the whisper of God superintending his words: embrace the rain.

Embrace the Rain

When the tears of your trials

fall like rivers from your eyes

When the difficulties gather

Like storm-clouds in the skies

*

When you cannot understand

the overwhelming flood

when you're lost within the waters

and cannot see God's love

*

Embrace the rain that He is sending

For with it comes His grace

Embrace the storm assailing you

And in it find your faith

*

Like Noah and the animals

Trapped a year upon the sea

Send out your doves and pray

Until God has set you free

*

Like the cypress of that ark

Run to Jesus to stay dry

Amidst the storms of life that threaten

to make the strongest cry

*

Embrace the rain that He is sending

Though it be the breaking of the deep

Embrace the pain that He's allowing

Though the price may feel too steep

*

Embrace the storm that hurt unleashes

When the waves crash upon your soul

For with them comes God's promise

To restore and make you whole

*

Embrace the rain...

"For this is like the days of Noah to Me; When I swore that the waters of Noah should not flood the earth again, So I have sworn that I will not be angry with you, Nor will I rebuke you. For the mountains may be removed and hills may shake, But My lovingkindness will not be removed from you, And My covenant of peace will not be shaken," says the Lord who has compassion on you. --Isaiah 54:9-10

Joys of Motherhood

As I watch the PBC grow, I am taking great joy in seeing each new stage. I think it is because every time he develops a new skill, I remind myself that this is the last time I will get to see it happen. I never anticipated having this child, but I now I am glad that I can take the time to truly savor the baby stage.

I really love watching the baby flail his arms at his toys. It makes me smile to hear him start, especially how he laughs at his mobile. He slept seven hours straight last night--that is a major milestone for a mommy to savor. His latest achievement is rolling over and surprising himself with a whole new view of the world. The boy's got skills.

Actually, they all have skills. My oldest wrote and performed a song for me for my Mother's Day gift. It was the most wonderful gift ever--and before you go thinking that is just the mom in me talking, it truly was a work of art. My first son can make anyone laugh. His stories are so creative that it is impressive, and he is so darn cute when he's telling them! Even his school teachers are charmed. My little princes has got the brightest eyes and best dimples on the planet--even if she does use them to her advantage at times. Her looks are backed up by her brains since at two she can already count in two languages and recite most of the alphabet.

I guess each age has its own beauty. Its just that I forget to actually see it in the midst of daily life. Whether it is nursing the PBC, singing 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star' with my princess, racing monster trucks with the class clown, or girl-talk with the teenager, I want to remember to take a moment just to enjoy them. To smile simply because they are smiling, to praise their latest accomplishment. Of course, hopefully they won't test my resolve by dumping the toys out of their box or unfolding the clean laundry all over the floor (again)...

Ah, the joys of motherhood!

Queen for a Day

I have several mothers. Many of us do, these days. There's Mom, and my mother-in-law and my 'Other Mother' and then there's the ones who mother me in other ways--like one of the nurses at work.

I went to a Mother-Daughter banquet the other day with my Mother-in-Law--fondly known as Nana. As part of the ceremony, one deserving woman is crowned Queen for the Day. The catch--you have to be nominated for the honor in the form of an essay. This year, I decided I would finally submit one on Nana's behalf.

Queen for a Day

Nana is a special lady. She has a sharp wit and a gentle tongue. She has any number of unique talents. She made our wedding cake—a gorgeous affair of layers and hearts decked out in white frosting. She wraps Christmas packages better than anybody, complete with fabric ribbons and adorned with birds, bangles, or bells according to her mood.

She is a woman of character. I knew her before she become “Mom” through a ladies Bible study. Her faith extends to the simple things in life—a timely green light, a close parking space. Her sense of humor is sparked by a playful side that is downright hilarious—she once organized a moving scavenger hunt for a long car ride using signs, one of which read “We are doing a Scavenger Hunt. Show Us Your Dentures!” (Even more unbelievably, other drivers actually took out their teeth for us!)

Nana is home of the hot cup of tea, the M&M dispenser, and an elegant ambiance which has been concocted from her years of garage sale-ing. Every summer, we scour the yard sales and find a little treasure to come home with. We’ve even found a few not-so-little things, too, like the toddler bed she helped me load up in her van. She is the best at bargaining the price down—she even got the lady with the bed to throw in the spare silverware organizer for a dishwasher for free. She uses what she saves to treat us to lunch.

She is a woman who loves her family. She spoils us all at Christmas. She taught her granddaughter to play piano. She and I carpool together once a week, and she has never once asked for gas money. Along with the free ride, she gives me the update on Grandma’s adventures with the Red Hats and a nephew’s new job. She laments about how she stayed up too late watching the Tiger’s game, and still dreams of the grandkids getting her season tickets.

Nana is wise. I will always remember my mother-in-law best for her very special view of dirty socks. The socks themselves, mind you, are not hers. The particular ones I’m concerned with happen to belong to my husband. Her son somehow escaped her attempts to instill general housekeeping courtesies such as might be learned in Laundry 101 or Hitting the Hamper for Beginners, and is now a full-grown man whose socks lie wadded up wherever he happens to take them off at. When I complained once about having to constantly pick them up, she simply mentioned that his father had done the same thing. Then she quietly reflected that she would give anything to be able to pick up his dirty socks again.

She is unQuestionably the most Unique, Entertaining, Endearing, Nana at the conference today. She’s already a queen…now I nominate her to wear today’s crown.

Snip Trip

Well, it is finally official. More than one year--and one unexpected baby--after his initial consultation, I drove my hubby down to his doctor for the infamous 'snip'. I have to confess to some guilt about this whole affair. Essentially, he did this for me. For us both, and our family, sure. But mostly for me.

The other night, about two days before his appointment, I asked him how he was feeling about it. He confessed to some trepidation and asked innocently if I really didn't want any more children. His tone suggested that he might be reconsidering our "four's enough for us" policy. I have to say, it rocked me to the core. I started crying. "Please, honey, I can't do that again. All the nausea and vomiting, the getting so big I can hardly walk, the sleeplessness both before and after the delivery..." It was all I could do not to wail. Certainly not the response my partner had pictured. "I thought you'd smack me and say 'What, are you, crazy?'" he told me later.

This whole week as he has put up with the pain, swelling and stitches without once blaming me. He has been helpful around the house, playful with the kids, and it was wonderful to have him home for several days in a row. If I was a less sensitive spouse, I'd tease him that we should do this more often. As it is, I just want him to know that I'm thankful.

Yes, I've been warned about the six-month stint where the little spermies are still swimming. Even still, my sweetie picked the proper time to have this taken care of. Our upcoming anniversary marks the seventh year of our wedding--and the month we have gotten pregnant every time around. Perhaps next year we can resume our customary anniversary vacation...and come home without a souvenir that eats, sleeps and cries.

Super Hero Isn't Saved

I had an epiphany yesterday. Unlike the realization that I have too many daily obligations, too few dollars in the bank, and not enough marbles left, this one was actually a good one. Here is my revelation: super-heroes aren't saved.

Somehow, I feel as though I am supposed to be Wonder Woman. My family expects groceries, clean clothes, and that I know where every object they've ever misplaced is located. The baby expects to be held (all the time!). The dog expects to be fed, watered, and walked. The creditors expect to be paid. My job expects promptness, concentration and professionalism. Add on top of all this my relationship with the Lord--Who expects righteousness, devotion, and communion--and instead of flying high I want to cry. I simply can't manage everything with the exhaustion and frustration I feel.

I'm sure I'm not the only one out there who feels a constant time crunch. With the demands of daily life, small kids, a job, and marriage all crowding in on me, my 'God-time' is next to nil. I actually signed up for the Ladies Bible study at church simply to get a few moments to grow spiritually without having to wipe spit-up off my Scripture. (Praise the Lord for that precious phrase 'Childcare Provided'!) Nevertheless, I found myself completing the week's homework all in one marathon session the day before--and I had to forfeit my precious nap to do it. Even God, it seems, wants more from me than I can give.

My epiphany came at Bible study, where I spent most of the discussion time complaining about my hectic schedule, my sleep-deprivation, and my desperate desire to be a better person despite the daily pressures. It was a revelation that struck me like lightning when the video-presenter (Beth Moore) said this phrase:

"Don't you dare leave your problems at home! You bring them here, you put them out in front of God's word, sister, 'cause that's where the power is! Amen?!"

So often, at the beginning of a church service, I will hear a pastor say or pray that we must clear our minds of our distractions. That we need to put aside the worries of our week and concentrate solely on the sermon. I'm sure this is a valid idea. What I loved about Beth Moore's statement, though, is that it made it normal to be distracted by my stuff! It made me realize that the Lord cares about my load! It made me feel accepted despite my anxiety, loved no matter my listlessness, and forgiven for my fears.

I have decided that super-heroes aren't saved. They run around in their super-sleek threads, showing off their super-model bods, and have all the strength they need to save the day. They can do it all and still bench-press a Bentley. I, however, am a completely different creature. My tush would tear a pair of tights, my bod is in pretty bad shape, and I get so little sleep that I run out of steam before seven. The only strength I've got is the Savior's.

My new intention is to do just what I heard in Bible study. Instead of trying to find time to stick God in my day, I'm going to take my day to my God. See, Lord, how this baby screams when I don't drop everything to feed him (again!). Help, Lord, because these kids are driving me up the wall and I want to scream my head off! Give me energy, Lord, because I have to stay awake today at work. O Father, let my little sum of money go farther than it should. And Lord, hide the HoHo's, because I'd really like it if all my fat just fell off me, too.

One last, thing, God. I pray for Wonder Woman--it must be lonely when you have to do it all alone.

"...cast all your cares upon Him, for He cares for you." 1 Peter 5:7

Constant Communion

A prayer for a friend.

O Master,

Most Gracious, Redeemer, Shepherd

Who loves to listen

Who lavishes grace upon grace

Be near

.

O Lord,

Savior, Comforter, Rock of Ages

Who hides me when hurting

Who is my help and shield

Hold me

.

O Father,

God Almighty, Holy, Righteous

Who bends to behold us

Who grants every breath

Bring healing

.

O God,

Creator, Alpha, Omega

Who sustains and summons

Who searches within me

Give life

I Scream, You Scream

...we all scream for ICE CREAM!

In case you don't follow the liturgical calendar, yesterday not only marked the celebration of the resurrection, but was the end of Lent. As typical during this 40-day season, I chose to fast from a specific food item. Mine happened to be ice cream.

I LOVE ice cream. Smooth, cool, delicious. I eat it year round. A half-cup portion--with which I am intimately familiar from my work as a dietitian--is simply ridiculous. I can plow through the whole carton in just a couple days. Of course, it doesn't help me in my quest to lose this baby weight. And it doesn't signify good things when your food is your comfort instead of your Bible. So, for 40 days I opted to say goodbye to one of my favorite sweets.

Honestly, it wasn't that hard. There were a few God-moments when I was really craving it and had to say to the Lord that He was worth more than the Brownie Fudge Explosion. Other than that, no big deal.

Until the other night when my husband brought home a large chocolate shake for me. It was a peace offering to end an argument we'd been having. And it sounded sooo good. I had to remind him that I couldn't accept. I was sure my refusal would aggravate him. It aggravated me, that's for certain. Nobody else would appreciate that cold, chocolate-y goodness nearly as much as I would have.

Needless to say, despite the difficulty of finding a place open on Easter evening, last night I enjoyed my no-longer forbidden chocolate shake.

Reflecting on the title for today's blog, I think in hindsight it would have meant more had I given up the screaming instead of the ice cream. I have had a terrible time lately with my escalating stress level, and the volume in our home has gone up right along with it. My poor kids--instead of chocolate I should have purchased ear plugs for their Easter baskets.

I missed ice cream, but I knew I could get along without it. How would I do if I ditched my dangerous decibel level instead? I think I would have to rely on the Lord a lot more. I'm actually not sure I could even accomplish it. Hmmm. Why is it that God doesn't care one fig about the liturgical calendar? He's in the business of sacrifice and holiness every day of the year.

"For thus saith the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel;

In returning and rest shall ye be saved;

in quietness and confidence shall be your strength:

and ye would not."

--Isaiah 30:15

Once Crucified

I feel the weight of Your crown
Pressing down, pressing down
It isn't made of solid gold
It is no treasure to behold
It's made of thorns, yes wicked thorns
Braided thick with hate and scorn

I feel the nails piercing in
Breaking skin, breaking skin
I see Your blood run deep and red
From both Your hands and sacred head
I hear them yelling "Crucify!"
I stand and watch it while You die

I see the darkness deep as night
I feel such fright, such chilling fright
To hear You cry as the Father turns
Away His eye as sin He spurns
To see them take You to the grave
How, O God, will this death save?

Then finally, three days have passed
Joy at last, great joy at last
When I hear that angel speak
When I lie prostrate at Your feet
I touch Your hands, Your head, Your side
My Risen Jesus, once crucified

"He was pierced through for our transgressions,
He was crushed for our iniquities;
The punishment for our peace fell upon Him,
And by His scourging, we are healed"
--Isaiah 53:5

Bent on a Byline

I am writing a book. Unbelievable, I know, but I think it even has a title already. I have somewhere between 50 and 80 useable pages done.

God has done a lot of amazing things in my life. He has given me so many of the things that I really desired to have. Good friends, for instance. My college experience was particularly fruitful in the number of close, longstanding friendships I made their. People that I could still call on today and say "Hey, girl, what's up?"

God has given me the opportunity to travel to Africa twice on mission trips. I have a whole new appreciation for indoor plumbing, organized trash pickup, and mosquitos that--while certainly annoying--aren't likely to kill you with some horrid disease. To top off all that, I get to say zebra in a cool, foreign way that I picked up during my stay in South Africa.

God has also blessed me with my family. Although I spend most days complaining about how they drive me insane, I love my kids. I have more of them than I had planned, but they each are such a miracle to me. Constant reminders of God's creative work, and unending incentive to pray my way through each desperate day. My husband is a huge answer to prayer as well. When I think of the guys I wanted to marry, I cringe. I'm so glad God had a bigger, better plan for me. This guy loves me better than anyone else in the world, even if he has no idea whatsoever how to pick up his dirty socks (love you, honey!).

Despite having so many of the desires of my heart fulfilled, there is one dream left waiting. It is the one that is the oldest of them all. Long before thinking about boys, or missions, or a family of my own, I was thinking about writing. I always wrote a lot, mostly poetry. I won several cash prizes in writing contests. I got published once. Writing became an avenue for me of healing, self-expression, praise to God, and so much more. But I have yet to write a book.

I'm going out on a limb, here, by telling you this. If I keep my dream a secret, then I am the only one any wiser if it never materializes. But to put it in writing makes it real--especially if you are a writer. I am now accountable to someone else (the 4 of you who read this, anyway, lol) to pursue my dream. To chase the rainbow until it becomes reality. After all, that was the journey I intended the Alpha Pages to be. I was just interupted there for a while with a pregnancy to stay sane through...

So, if you see a few more poems on here than you're used to, or if I occasionally throw in a snippet of 'book', you'll know why. It won't be all Shakespeare, I promise. Some days I just have to process through my regular old day in print. But I need to take more days to pursue the passion God has placed in my heart. I don't need my name in lights, but I'm bent on a byline.

"But these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that believing you may have life in His name" --John 20:31

Rush to My Rescue

Rush to my rescue

a sword descending from the sky

to defeat the darkness

surrounding me

Beat back my brokenness

a shield of protection from the Sovereign

pushing away my pursuers

freeing me

Embrace my infirmity

a suit of armor from the Spirit

wrapping my wounds

creating a warrior

Hurry to help me

a swift steed from the Savior

carrying me away from my chains

releasing me

I will lift up my eyes to the hills whence cometh my help...Ps 121:1

I Don't Know How You Do It

It seems to me that this parenting thing just keeps getting harder and harder. I need maybe 20 minutes to create and post on this website, but I never seem to have that much time to spend all at once. It is rather difficult to be creative in 2 minute bursts--especially when interupted by life in the form of small children!

Between the kids, my job, the bills, and my deep desire for an adequate amount of sleep, I am being pulled in too many directions at once. It feels a bit like being emotionally drawn and quartered--although I think I'm being split into more than just four pieces. Its no wonder that the evil post-partum depression is attacking full force. I'd have to have multiple personality disorder to effectively deal with the amount of chaos in my life.

People have been telling me lately that they don't know how I do it. I asked my boss this morning if I looked as tired as I felt. Thankfully, she told me I looked fine (she was kindly overlooking the slightly disheveled hair and the fact that I wore the same pants just a day ago.) Friends and family have let it be known that if they had to live with my kids, they'd go insane. Personally, I don't know how I do it either. I just try to survive.

Actually, I don't think I'm doing it particularly well, either. My kids don't listen and I'm too tired to make them. I yell with unfortunate regularity. All I really want to do is curl up with a good book or sleep in on a Saturday, but since I can't do those things I self-medicate with large amounts of chocolate. My house looks like a disaster--and that is after I've straightened up a bit. Only FEMA needs to know what it looked like before a quick cleaning...

I'm glad that God is a loving Father. I'm very happy that He rarely yells to get my attention, and that when I deserve a time-out, He gives me a hug instead. He is more concerned about cleansing my heart than my house, and He loves me even though He knows that I turn to Cadbury Creme Eggs instead of prayer when life gets overwhelming. Amazingly enough, He never for one second regrets that He's got me for a kid. Now, if I could just be a little more like Him, maybe things around here would go a bit smoother.

"For you did not choose Me, but I chose you..." John 15:16a

Sunday Selah

I know...it isn't Sunday. Oh well!

I bow my knee
before Your grace
I lay my life
down in this place
I feel Your presence
like a cloud
Pressing down
upon me now
Your holiness
Is like a glow
Streaming from
Your heavenly throne
You call my name
and my heart leaps
Your Word a promise
Your Spirit speaks
You are so holy
I cannot stand
I fall beneath
Your mighty hand
And as I bow
my voice I raise
O Holy God
accept my praise

Seventh Week Stretch

As we approach our 7th week with the PBC, he is beginning to become a little more active. His habit of curling up into a fetal ball is becoming alternated with periods of s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g himself out. Consequently, he looks a bit longer to me.

He is also much more active. His eyes almost follow you around now, if you talk to him as you are moving. He is reaching and grabbing at things. I held up a toy in front of him the other day and he got this huge smile on his face. It seems the formula is doing more than just putting weight on him--it is enabling him to reach those other developmental milestones as well.

Mommy has been much more active this week as well. And I don't just mean the workout class and half-mile walk yesterday in the gorgeous weather. I was officially back to work this week for two half-days. On the one hand, it was a blessing. It'll be a huge relief to get a paycheck again! On the other hand, although this week went well, I'm dreading leaving him for three full days next week.

Pumping was a bit of a problem. I confess I knew it would be, and that was even before I started supplementing him. I've never had great production from the pump, but an ounce in eight hours has to be a record low. I'm not sure how much longer I'll even be able to nurse at all. Supplementing is killing my supply.

Sleeplessness is killing me too--specifically my creativity. I keep thinking that this blog has to be more than a simple journal, that I want it to be the beginning of a book project (hence the name). Still, I have barely enough brain cells to remember my kids names--a book feels like a huge reach. I guess, like the PBC, I will have to work at s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g myself in order to pursue that ambition.

Off the Edge of the World

To answer your question--yes. I did fall off the edge of the world. I have my own little world now--and it is chaos! Here is the update:

JJ is a wonder, but we have been having a few problems. Specifically, he lost a pound from his birthweight and a month later is still not back to where he started out. I had to make the painful decision to supplement his feedings instead of exclusively nursing him. The feelings of failure that this has caused is not helping my post-partum depression at all. Still, he has gained weight very nicely since he started to get more calories from the formula can. The next bridge we will have to cross looms next week when I have to leave him with the sitter to return to work.

My little princess is still fascinated with her new brother. I constantly fend off requests to "hold him, sissy hold him." Not to mention that she has decided to potty train herself. Or at least try. I, for one, am too tired to deal with the whole potty business, but since she refuses to leave her clothes on for more than 10 minutes I really have no choice. At least it will be cheaper to only have one in diapers...

My big boy is really relishing his self-appointed role of Big Brother. He has decided he is in charge of the "little kids" because he is, after all, four years old. His latest trick in helping take care of his brother is to pick him up and carry him to me when JJ cries. As you can imagine, this is NOT a good idea (although I have been impressed with his success at supporting his brother's head) but how do you tell one son that he is a danger to the other? I do my best to not freak out, and remind him not to pick the baby up.

My oldest, bless her, has been distracted by drama at school (not the class, the I'm-a-teenage-girl kind). She has also adjusted well to her new responsibility in babysitting since there are now three she must watch when I go out--which, honestly, isn't often! I'm much more likely to ask her to babysit so I can go upstairs and catch a nap. We got to go shopping tonight, just me and her, and it was nice to get to pay attention to her without the distraction of the others.

My husband and I are simply trying to pay the bills and get enough sleep. Life with four kids is a little more than we bargained for. Thankfully, we've been blessed by family and friends who support us with their prayers, presence, and occasional offers of free babysitting!

I'm still considering what direction my writings here will take now that I am no longer pregnant. In the meantime, so many of you have asked when I will return to blogging that I felt it was time to simply write something. It is, perhaps, good therapy. And I can certainly use some of that!

A Whole New Normal

This week has been one miracle after another. I, personally, think one of the best is being able to get up off the couch without help! Of course, the biggest miracle (and I do mean biggest) is the birth of our son. But I'm getting ahead of myself. After months of blogging on here about this new arrival, I plan to subject you to every detail fit to print in a public forum...

Despite having steady contractions for most of Monday, they did indeed taper off and then stop towards late evening. I moaned to my husband that the child I carried just refused to come out of me, and went to bed dreading the amnio test in the morning.

It turns out, the amnio wasn't as bad as my imagination had anticipated it would be, although they didn't get a good "stick" the first time, and had to repeat the needle insertion. Ouch. Afterward, the doctor sent me up to the labor and delivery floor for routine monitoring just to be sure the procedure hadn't caused any problems.

I got hooked up to the monitors and promptly tried to nap. It had pretty much been another sleepless night. After about an hour, the nurse came back in and casually commented "I think you're in labor." Then she left. Five minutes went by, a resident came in, checked my cervix and discovered I had dilated to 4 cm. The nurse returned and told me they were putting in an IV even though they hadn't talked to my doctor yet. "We've decided you're having this baby," she told me. "We see women in and out of here all day," she continued, "but you we feel sorry for!" Ah, beautiful sympathy!

They got the ok from the doctor, and sudenly things were in full swing. Somewhere in the midst of all this, a second resident broke my water and put monitors on the baby. They were going to hook up some pitocin, but I asked them if they really thought I had to have it, since in the 20 minutes or so they had been getting prepped, I had dilated to 6cm. So, we skipped pitocin and moved on to good drugs instead--yeah! I hadn't wanted an epidural, but after two previous "natural" labors (no pain meds at all with the last one) I was ready for some relief. Whatever they gave me worked real nice for about an hour. Then, just about the time the contractions were getting especially intense, it wore off and since I was almost to 10 cm I wasn't getting any more.

It is a good thing I have fast labors, because otherwise I think it would kill me. This time around, the whole ordeal only lasted just over 2 hours, and at 11:19 on Tuesday, January 20th, there was my baby-- all grey and slimy and laying on my belly. They took him from me pretty quickly since he was only whimpering a bit and didn't appear to be breathing well. My husband watched as he stopped breathing entirely, and they had to resucisitate him. They kept me distracted by delivering the placenta and giving me a few uncomfortably placed stitches. (That's what happens when baby has a 14 cm head!)

It was quite a while before I heard the baby cry again, and even longer until I was able to hold him. The serious breathing issues continued throughout his first several hours, so much so that they eventually took him to the Neonatal Unit for monitoring. That was pretty tough on me. We couldn't hold him--he was hooked up to a bunch of machines. I also couldn't nurse him--he didn't have the coordination to breathe and suck at the same time. They were debating whether to give him an IV or tube feeding, since they couldn't get his blood sugar to stay high enough. It was also difficult when the visitors started showing up to see the baby. We could only take one guest at a time into the NICU, and no one could hold him.

I guess my doctor and I will have to share that humble pie I mentioned a few posts ago. Although I never did hear the results of the amnio--by the time they would've come back from the lab, the baby had been born--I assume from his breathing troubles that he might've needed to bake a bit more before being born. On the other hand, since he weighed in at 9 pounds, 14 ounces, had we waited another two weeks, he very well may have had to be delivered by c-section. The good news is that he only spent 2 days in the NICU and has been doing well ever since.

We've had a few issues since he came home, and of course the monumental chaos that having a new baby brings to your life has been magnified by the existing 3 kids and a dog. We're tired, and stressed, and overjoyed. I am loving being able to reach my own feet. I no longer have to take pills to keep from throwing up. And I can actually get comfortable in bed--not that I get to spend any time there! Things are slowly adjusting to a whole new "normal" and we wouldn't trade it for the world.

Best Case Scenario

As it turns out, I didn't need plans A-D, took only one herbal medicine today (NOT castor oil) and--pending test results--won't have to keep waiting much longer for my PBC to finally appear.

When the doctor walked into the room with me this morning, the first things she said were "Your ultrasound was good, except of course that he's real big. I have to go by the Feb 8th date, but you and I know that might not be it." Suddenly, after months of unsucessful persuasion, she is on my side and we are buddies in the "I've been right all along" basket. I might've throttled her, but I was too happy thinking she was about to say something good.

Then came the big blow. Due to hospital policy (as a result of that Feb 8th date she has to go by) the earliest she will induce the baby is Feb 3rd. Yup. Feb 3rd. "You'll only be a week and half overdue by then" she says, using my date as the baseline. "That's fine," she comments. I tell her it is only fine if you aren't the one carrying around a bowling ball on your bladder. In order to get around this particular policy, I will have to consent to an amniocentesis to determine the baby's lung maturity. An unpleasant experience, I'm sure, but one which ranks as slightly less unpleasant than another two plus weeks of pregnancy.

So, tomorrow I troop myself into the hospital at 6:30 am. To my understanding (and I've done as little research as possible, having decided that ignorance, in this instance, is bliss) I will then have a three-foot needle shoved through my belly and into the sack around the baby. I'll hold still while they extract less than an ounce of fluid to send to the lab. After being monitored for a while on the labor and delivery floor to be sure that the process hasn't started labor (oh, please!) and that the baby is doing fine, I will be sent home to await the test results by phone. These, according to my OB, take all day to come back and I won't hear a thing until between 3-5pm. At which point, if all has gone well, they will tell me what time to expect to be induced the next day. Hooray!

So, I have won. The OB basically said today that my due date is more reasonable than hers. I still have several skirmishes to survive, however. One being the amnio. Really not looking forward to that. The next being that the results actually bear out my theory and we (the PBC and I) are given the green light to go ahead with the rest of the plan. Lastly, of course, the joy of labor (ha!) awaits. Somehow, although thrilled with my success at getting something started, I feel as though I may have won the battle only to land myself in the middle of the mine field. Ah well, if every soldier of motherhood came through unscathed, we wouldn't have stories enough to embarass our teenagers or blackmail our offspring.

If you pray, however, (and I know many are) I still have about--oh, 5 1/2 hours or so--to have this little one pop out on his own. Best case scenario. Somehow, I think in training the Navy Seals or Army Rangers rarely plan for the best case scenario. But I'm trusting that God's got my back on this one--He specializes in best case stuff, right?

"And we know that all things work together for good

to those who love God, to those who are the called

according to His purpose"

--Romans 8:28

Pregnancy Hall of Fame

I imagine most people look forward to their induction into the Hall of Fame. Since my hubby is a hockey guy, I know about retired numbers, jerseys hung from the rafters of the home rink, and the privilege of joining the greats in the Hockey Hall of Fame. At the opposite end of the spectrum, take kids. As a little girl, my oldest often set out to make a world record and get into the Guinness Book. Let's see, she tried jump-roping, hula-hooping, and gum chewing. Never came close, since perseverance isn't really her strong suit.

I have no such ambitions toward either recognition or fame. See, according to the Guinness Book of World Records, the largest baby ever born weighed in just over 23 pounds. Depending on your source, the longest pregnancy ever was either 42 years http://www.scielo.br/scielo.php?pid=S1516-31802000000600008&script=sci_arttext, 17 months 11 days. http://www.bly.cc/roast/1999/sld031.htm, or 375 days http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,797153,00.html. Most people are inducted into the Hall of Fame. I am desperate to be induced out of the running!

During this pregnancy, I have already passed some personal milestones that I'm not thrilled about. First, this is the largest my girth has ever measured. Not a pleasant reality. Second, I have puked more during these past 10 months than ever before in my life. Yum. Third, going according to my dates (not the OB's), this is my longest pregnancy. Ugh. And last, but not least, I am the oldest, slowest, sorest, crabbiest, and ugliest I have ever felt. Not one gold medal has come my way. I retire my clothing because they no longer fit, not for any grander reason. And no one has offered to publish me in any book, let alone one of world records. Matter of fact, I don't even have a baby to show for it.

I see the doctor again tomorrow. I intend to lobby every argument that I have in my rather ample arsenal against her refusal to induce this baby. If that fails, plan B includes calling my husband and letting him tell her how miserable I am. Just in case she simply doesn't believe me. Plan C is crying. Puking didn't work last time, so this time I'm gonna lay on the tears. None of which will need to be faked, let me assure you. Plan D will probably get security called on me--not that I'd be much of a threat considering I can hardly walk let alone do anything more acrobatic. Plan E will likely consist of coming home and taking every herbal self-induction method I've ever heard mentioned. Maybe even the dreaded caster oil. Plan F (for Failure) is simply to keep waiting. This is an absolute last resort option to be used only in the event all other plans do not succeed.

I'm planning to emulate a proven method of success during this attack. It is based on a widow described in Luke 18:1-8. She wanted justice in her case, and kept on bugging the judge who could help her until he finally gave in just to get her off his back. I want this baby off my belly--and between God and the doctor, someone has got to help me out here, before I get inducted into the Persistent Pregnancy Predicament Hall of Fame.

"Then He spoke a parable to them, that men always ought to pray and not lose heart, Saying: 'There was in a certain city a judge who did not fear God nor regard man.

Now there was a widow in that city; and she came to him, saying,

'Get justice for me from my adversary' And he would not for a while;

but afterward he said within himself, 'Though I do not fear God nor regard man,

yet because this widow troubles me I will avenge her,

lest by her continual coming she weary me.'"

Luke 18:1-5

Gestation Hibernation

I have decided to enter a 'gestation hibernation'. My friend the science teacher may disagree, but "winter sleep" doesn't rhyme with gestation, so I am taking a little literary license. Generally, what I mean is that I eat (when not completely nauseous), curl up in a ball, and sleep for as long as possible. Preferably until this baby is born.

Which can't be today. Of the past two months, I have had only 3 "off-limits" days for the baby to arrive. The first was the above-mentioned friend's wedding day. The next two are today and tomorrow while my husband is away at a mandatory business meeting. The pressure to give birth has been replaced by incredible pressure in my pelvis. I can hardly walk. Luckily, not much of that is needed while hibernating.

Another essential element of hibernation is isolation. Not that I don't love my family and friends. I just have nothing new to tell them, and so avoid most conversations. My mom called the other day to check in. She asked if no news was good news and I replied that no news is simply NO NEWS. Against my better judgement, I did attempt to attend church this past Sunday. I made it through less than half the musical portion of the service, went to the ladies room to get sick, and promptly had my spouse drive me home and put me to bed.

My other mother is staying with me for the time that my husband is gone. This is a wonderful blessing since it allows me the ability to do more of that essential element of hibernation: sleep. It also gives me a ride to the hospital should this unborn child prove as obedient as all my others and come while Daddy is unavoidably AWOL.

I'm not sure how long my hibernation will last. I had an ultrasound of the baby this week which showed he was "only" a hair under 9#. Plus or minus a pound, of course. (I'm guessing plus). Since I've already had two 9-pounders, I doubt I'll get any more sympathy from the doc than I have at any other point during this process. Which means that I will probaby be pregnant until this little guy grows facial hair, or Feb 8th, whichever comes first. By then I truly will be like a bear coming out of hibernation: hairy, hungry, and horrible company.

When Bad Isn't Bad Enough

I've finished work. The last two days of the week were a bit difficult to get through, especially Thursday, which is my late night. Friday was a bit of an adventure because even as I wrapped up seeing clients and finalized paperwork, I was experiencing contractions.

On the way home, those contractions progressed to become quite regular. By the time I picked the kids up from the sitter's house, they were about 5 minutes apart. I was rejoicing as I came home and stayed busy in order to encourage the process. My OB said to come to the hospital after 2 hours of contractions 5 minutes or less apart. The contractions quit just 20 minutes shy of my goal.

Since then, they have repeated the whole scenario several times, always subsiding at some point prior to that prized pinnacle. I have relatives on standby. I have gas in the car. I have baby outfits packed. The only thing I don't have is a reason to go to the hospital!

I'm frustrated. Annoyed. Desperate. (I actually priced cod liver oil tonight--only the tablet form, though). I don't want to go anywhere (except the delivery room), since I'm sick of hearing people's comments. The other night in Walmart an obviously pregnant woman looked at me, and then said to her friend "I hope my stomach don't get that big like that. I don't wanna be that fat." I was actually so hurt that I could't think of a good comeback. She went on her merry way unaware of the effect of her insensitivity--although I may have silently wished her a nice 42 weeks of pregnancy.

To top it all off, my honey has to leave next week for a business trip that he can't get out of. Everything is arranged--my mom is coming to stay with us--but I really don't want to have the baby when he isn't here. And I REALLY don't want to have to wait until he gets back. I asked God tonight if herbals would be more effective than my prayers--which haven't produced labor thus far. I know He's in charge, but I want it to be NOW. I'm really struggling with the wait.

Its probably a good thing that the phone company has disconnected our line again (chronic problem with them). It means fewer calls "just checking in" which is code for "have you had that baby yet?" Let me clarify--when I have the baby, you'll know. I'll let everybody and their second cousins know. But it may be hazardous to your health to inquire early--especially ouch if I'm in the midst of another round of bothersome (but not quite bad enough) contractions.

"He has made all things beautiful in His time" --Eccl 3:11

Humble Pie

After skipping out on my last appointment with her, I went back to see my OB yesterday. Frankly, I couldn't persuade myself that it was worth the trip to go last time. This time, I was hoping for a better visit--and was perhaps even prepared to confront her lack of sympathy.

I arrived on time--a feat for a waddling womb such as myself, this time mostly due to my wonderful mother-in-law who came over early so I could leave the kids home. (My mom came down later to play Gramma for the rest of the day--yeah!). Of course, the office was running late so I sat and waited.

As I did so, the cramps and nausea continued their rather constant attacks. By the time they called me back to an exam room, I was feeling quite ill. As it turned out, I needn't have prepared any type of scolding for my doctor. She was appropriately sympathetic after I wound up sick and puking in her office.

After dealing with that delightful episode, the appointment continued on a more normal note. She listened to the heartbeat--135 beats/min. She did a swab for a bacteria I had at my last delivery. She measured my girth (dream on--I'm not telling). That prompted her to suggest yet another ultrasound--to make sure the baby isn't too big. HA! I would have laughed right in her face except I was afraid I'd puke again.

We discussed my Leave of Absence paperwork--I dread going back there this week, but at least it will be my last. Baby or no baby, I can't handle my job anymore at this point. Then I listed my "concerns" (read: complaints) for her consideration.

1. Vomiting--the only symptom she deigned to treat--perhaps due to my rather decisive display of the day. I'm now on 3 meds to control the nausea.
2. Swelling--we're talking feet the size of grapefruits and having to wear my husband's sport socks. My hands are also swollen to the point of numbness for several hours of the day.
3. Cramps--although I did discover that some of this "pre-labor" is actually helping to dilate me, albeit not much.
4. Insomnia--between the Braxton-Hicks contractions, leg cramps, my belly crushing my lungs so I can't breathe, and the other multiple discomforts of late pregnancy, I can't sleep more than a couple hours a night. And this is before the baby comes!
5. Induction--I reminded her that if we went by MY dates, this baby is already 38 weeks and could be safely induced. She stuck to her guns--especially the one pointed at my head firing out FEB 8TH bullets. The best she could to at confessing that she's wrong was to say that they won't stop my labor if I go "early" and that she didn't think I'd be pregnant for another month. "I'm hoping you'll just go on your own soon, here" were her words. Is there a recipe for humble pie? I'd like to take one along with me when I finally get to go to L&D.

Then we scheduled that ultrasound. Why? I don't know. They scheduled it in two weeks--I wanted to scream. First, I don't want to still be this miserable for that long. Second, by that time, even using the doc's date, an induction should be allowable even without proof that Goliath (formerly known as the PBC) is huge. Then, since I usually see the OB on Mondays and the u/s was on a Tuesday, the receptionist helpfully said we could discuss the results at my next appointment. This would've been on Feb 3rd. I couldn't help myself. I looked at that lady and said "Look, lady, I don't plan on being pregnant that long." After glancing at my chart, she agreed, and changed the appointment to Jan 23rd. I didn't have it in me to tell her I didn't plan on being pregnant that long either.

Matter of fact, I am planning, hoping, PRAYING, to be pregnant for as short a time as possible at this point. I disappointed my Mommy by not giving her a grandbaby for her birthday yesterday. (She know's I wouldn't LOVED to grant that wish). Now I'm thinking, an Epiphany baby would be great. That's today. If I have to wait until tomorrow, my 4 children would be born on Monday, Sunday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Thursday is almost exactly between two of our other kids birthdays. If he hasn't come until Friday, his birthday would be 1/9/09. Kinda cool. At this point, whatever day is TODAY, whatever time is NOW would be kinda cool. Just let it be soon, dear Lord! I want to serve that humble pie to the doctor, not myself!

"By You I have been upheld from birth;

You are He who took me out of my mother's womb.

My praise shall be continually of You."

--Psalm 71:6

Sunday Selah

I come before You begging
for deliverance
for Your awesome power
to accomplish what I cannot

To spare me from my own folly
To lift me from a dark mire
To hold me together when the world quakes
To rescue and redeem

I come before You waiting
for the Divine
for the answer of Your presence
to achieve what I cannot fathom

To glorify the daily trials
To enchant a heart grown stony
To waken a life spent sleeping
To reality and romance

Cod Liver Coward

It's official. 2009. And no baby. My husband didn't get his tax deduction or a write-up in the newspaper for first baby of the year. And me? With the dawning of the New Year, I have been pregnant for at least part of almost every one of the past 5 years--FIVE years!

Lately, whenever I pick up the phone, I identify myself and answer the "How are you" question with "Still pregnant." A friend of mine laughed at this last night, and said to me "I was asking about other stuff, too, y'know." Bless her. I'm just getting so sick of people wondering if I've had this baby yet.

My mom is still rooting for him to make his appearance on her birthday. That would be better than any day after that, of course, but I truly don't want to be pregnant for even those next few days. I see my doctor on Monday, but I'm not holding my breath for her to say anything useful or encouraging after how the last visit went.

I've been exploring the homeopathic ways to induce labor. Cod liver oil is out. I guess as sick as I am of being pregnant, I'm not that desperate. Last pregnancy I tried pineapple. That didn't work--just gave me sores on my tongue--so I'm avoiding that one too. My friend brought her "magic mostaccioli" for dinner on our New Year's Eve get-together, but I saw no results from that, either. (Except a full tummy and a need for Zantac.) I have so many plant allergies that I'm afraid to mix it up with the herbal remedies such as cohash, although raspberry tea is an option, I suppose. The truth is, I don't hold out much hope for any of them, and there is the very tiny, traitorous thought in the back of my brain that whispers "What if the doc is right and its too soon???"

Let me just tell you, it doesn't feel too soon. I'm the size of a jumbo blimp--even the maternity clothes are tight. Just the other day at work someone commented that I looked like a missile silo. Brilliant--that's what every girl wants to hear! Between my grapefruit feet, the numbness in my hands which has become pretty permanent, the delightful night wakings to leg cramps, and the fact that I can hardly move my own body--I simply want to be DONE. The bun in this oven is baked. My goose is cooked. I'm ready to hop out of the frying pan into the labor fire. All I need to know is: how many more clever phrases will I have to come up with until it actually happens?

"...And in Your book they were all written,

the days fashioned for me,

when as yet there were none of them."

--Psalm 139:16