the beauty, the wound, the comfort

I just read about my writer-friend's miscarriage. She compared her soul to a frail origami crane, yearning for release from the pain, fly to heaven, where she can hold and never let go. She wrote of the failure of not being able to bear, to bring forth the life that began inside. 

And I think about another blogger who recently wrote about her abortion, about the humility that comes from knowing she was the one who ended the miracle. About the pain, about the inescapable longing to hold the one she said goodbye to. (She writes of forgiveness and healing and hope, too.)

I think of one of my heroes who got pregnant in high school and courageously chose to carry her child, while culture screamed 'abort,' and to then place her baby in the arms of a couple who would raise her. I think of her pain, of her regret, even in the face of choosing right, of her longing to know the one she birthed.

And another, so many others, who silently pray and hope and suffer and try again to conceive. Who receive sterile words for conditions, for procedures, for tests, from doctors in sterile rooms, all the while, hearts bleeding inside.

Then there is the motherhood--come after the waiting, and for some, it doesn't ever come. The motherhood is beautiful and it is worth the stretch marks and the labor and the sleeplessness and sacrifice. But if refuses to be the escape from pain. It holds its own weaknesses, its own regrets and failures, its own reasons to feel incapable and unworthy. It breeds its own kind of burden, one that causes divisions and sects and labels for different kinds of mothers, all fighting to make good decisions for their children, all fighting to stave off the guilt monsters.

And I wonder what makes it so difficult to be a woman. 

Why a mother of five healthy children can still be plagued by her abortion decades past, why the mother of one adorable daughter still pangs inside when she sees a stroller past and her womb reverberates with emptiness, why a working mom feels less for not staying home,

why a stay-at-home mom feels guilt for dreading Monday, when the husband leaves and she knows she'll probably despise the pleas to play with the preschooler, to fill that juice cup just one more time?

We're insatiable, we women.

We who give life and love, we who nourish bellies and nurture souls, we want so much.


We want beauty and health for the ones we love, we want security and safety, and to know that we can do this thing, this being a woman, this becoming the mother, and do it well. And we don't want the pain, the guilt, the failure, and the uncertainty. But it all comes, it surely comes, wrapped in the promise, embedded in the cells of the embryo twisting deep inside the womb.

I wonder why this had to be our curse, why longing to contain and bring forth life became so closely intertwined with our identities. Becoming Mother is our power, our pride, and maybe God saw its mystery, its majesty, and considered how it might render unchecked in a fallen world. Maybe the wound of motherhood is a wooing of sorts, an invitation to fellowship with the One who started this whole giving life thing. He, after all, knows the pain of losing a child, the burden of raising rebellious ones, the grief of laboring, of carrying the promise of life, only to see it refuse to come to fruition.


I hear these stories and I am humbled. Stories of women who aborted, who adopted, who lost, who bore many, and I am filled with a new resolve to judge less, to carry mercy in my thoughts towards all.

Motherhood is beautiful, but it is no escape from pain. And with the tears, no matter what the source, the quieted will hear a whisper from the very soul of Mother God,

to come close,

to grieve together,

to rest on the bosom of the One who knows.

"For this is what the LORD says:

   'I will extend peace to her like a river,
   and the wealth of nations like a flooding stream;
you will nurse and be carried on her arm
   and dandled on her knees.
 As a mother comforts her child,
   so will I comfort you...'" Isaiah 66:12,13

the most important thing I can do

 I find myself impatient. Incredibly impatient and ready to be done with this season. It has to do with the sleeplessness, with the unsolved mysteries, the unanswered questions.

Why is my baby not sleeping through the night yet? 


Why is he still needing to eat every three hours? 


Is my milk supply enough? Is he making up for unmet caloric needs during the day?


Does his thrush affect his nursing? Why is the nystatin not working?


Should I let him cry it out this time? Is he over-stimulated? Is my presence keeping him up? Are his feelings hurt when I don't come right away? 


How did I do this with Carter? 

                      Why is this not working?

These questions weigh on me,

resting on already tired shoulders,

hovering like Eeyore's cloud,

unmoved by the fleeting distractions my happy life provides.

The dishes are calling, my dirty floor needs mopping, my sweet three year old wants to play, my marriage needs a date, a night away from parenthood, but I tell myself

this is the most important thing you can do right now. 

My blog needs updating, women's ministry needs events planned and coffees had and women contacted and loved and listened to, but I tell myself

this is the most important thing I can do right now.

My body needs more sleep, my legs need stretching, my heart needs the challenge of a three mile run, but I tell myself to be patient, that even my body can wait, because

this is the most important thing I can do right now.

My books are strewn across my floor, right next to the pump that's part of attempt number 17 to get this thing right. They speak to my questions, offering up seemingly simplistic solutions, but I take them anyway because it's something. Something to try. Something to tell the pediatrician. Something to tell myself.

I tell myself that these three months of discomfort are nothing when compared to the span of my life. There will be no significant event to mark the passing of these three months, or the next three, or even the next nine. I'll turn 29 and might gain a crease or two around the corners of my mouth and eyes, discernible to me alone. But for this little one, these three months are everything. And the next three, and the three after that are all definitively foundational to his life-long development and health. So, again I conclude that

this is the most important thing I can do right now.

My husband and my God are patient. They seem to understand that this is my life. They don't sulk, or throw pity-parties for lack of attention. There's no deep Bible study right now, no convicting challenge for me to work through. When my thoughts turn to God and scripture, they seem to tell me,

It's okay. Keep going. My love will sustain you. I gave all for you, so lean on my strength and give all for your baby.

When my attentions turn to my husband, he meets my weariness with praise and encouragement and trouble-shooting. We work through the questions and write new plans and try new things. Sometimes we're met with success, it seems these days mostly failure. So we start all over again.

Because this is the most important thing we can do right now.

This is the most important thing I can do.

and there will be glitter everywhere for the next month

Shortbread cookies and hot cocoa

glitter and pine cones and glue

a boy who creates

and a baby who coos

 

 

 

make for one. perfect. afternoon.

a December prayer

thank you, God, 

that the dishes I wash mean I have a well-fed family;

that the gifts I plan mean I have children, brothers, parents, in-laws and a wonderful spouse to celebrate;

that the toys I pick up, strewn throughout the house, mean I have a happy son;

that the Christmas cards that take hours to address mean I have friends and family who love us;


that the spit up on my shirts, sheets and blankets mean my baby is feeding well;

that the clothes that don't yet fit my postpartum body mean God enabled me to carry and birth a miracle;

that the weariness I feel means I've been been running after my two sons, and not after a paycheck;

that the life I live is beautiful and blessed and filled with wonder,

and may gratefulness always be my response.

return to the red tent

I read The Red Tent years ago. It's a historical fiction account of what one author imagines might have happened between the matriarchs of our faith. Leah, Rachel, Zilpah, Bilhah--these four mothers of the 12 sons of Jacob (and subsequently, the 12 tribes of Israel), along with Dinah, the only daughter of Jacob, and their imagined relationships make for the basis of this book.

The concept of a "red tent," a place where menstruating or women in labor found refuge, isn't exactly factual, either. The author created such a place based on evidence from other tribal traditions in the area, portraying the red tent as a place where the women could gather, temporarily released from the daily demands of domestic life, to laugh, gossip, commiserate and share in life together.

What I should have gleaned from The Red Tent was an appreciation for the unique bonds women can share.

What I got, instead, was a strong distaste for the cultural values of that time--it only served to perpetuate my unanswered questions with God over what I perceive to be sexism and unjust treatment of women in the Bible.

From the marches of Susan B. Anthony to the we-almost-had-a-female-vice-president-or-president-in-2009, women in this country have been fighting to leave the proverbial red tent. We've protested and lobbied and debated and fought, all for the cause of equal pay, equal rights and equal respect.

And so should we.

We should have whatever career choice we desire, the option to work or stay home with babies, access to education and a culture to live in that grants us the respect we deserve as the other sex created in the image of God. We no longer live in an agrarian society, where physical strength is the capital of the workforce. Barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen (which is what I was for most of 2010) should not be the prescribed destination of every adult woman.

As much as a I believe in what I just wrote,


all I want to do right now is return to the red tent. 

The desire introduced itself when my mom came up and stayed with me for a week. We took care of the babies, cleaned, cooked and even finished a cornice board. We made coffee and talked about transitioning a family to two children and compared birth experiences.

I felt the urge again while visiting a girlfriend with a newborn only 2 weeks younger than Walker. We sat on her bed, curling and uncurling the babies' tiny fingers, swapping stories of c-section recovery, husbands' reactions, body image concerns and things only new mommies will share.

Later that afternoon, I reached for that connection with another friend, a mommy of three. I expressed my fears, choking through the tears, of failing Carter because I'm just...so...tired. We shared things you don't talk about until you're there, fears and insecurities, coping strategies and the perspective from someone who's further down the road than I.

For all of my fighting, for all of these years, against an identity solely comprised of Wife and Mom, all my heart longs for right now is the fellowship of other Wives and Moms. A safe place to gather and connect and cope and care for each other appeals to the deepest parts of me.

Let the feminists have their rights; for me, for now, a red tent is all I need.

16 minutes before my next feeding

16 minutes before this cow gets back into action.

16 minutes before my 2 week old starts rooting and grunting and whining for momma's milk.

(Now) 15 minutes to churn out a quick post, trying to sum up the past 3 weeks.

Walker Neal McCullohs was born two Thursdays ago, October 21 at 9:30 a.m. weighing 7 pounds, 9 ounces and measuring 20 inches long.

My birth experience was awesome. I got to have my VBAC, thanks to a freakin' awesome doctor and the fact that Walker finally chose to get his heart rate nice and stable. I abstained from drugs, working through contractions on a red exercise ball, getting Moroccan Rose massage oil rubbed all over my back,  squeezing my husband's hands until little capillaries popped all over them, and receiving lots of praise from Neal, my friend Sarah, and Mom.

Pushing sucked.

Recovery was surprisingly much more painful than I anticipated. Thank God for sitz baths, Epifoam, Dermoplast (with menthol), refrigerated Tucks pads, Percoset, Motrin and a red donut seat.

Hormones are hard to negotiate with right now.

As is the sleeplessness.

My son is beautiful, worth it all, stealing my heart with smiles as early as day 5.

Carter is adjusting well.

Neal is the most amazing partner. I can't imagine doing this without him.

God is so good to me. 

To wrap it up, a quote from my son that every mother desires to hear two weeks after she's given birth (and some pictures):

"Mommy, I like your belly! It's sooo squishy!!" 

my Christmas Eve

I remember the anticipation. The giddy butterflies that compounded in my stomach as my family and I drove up the 101, back home after an evening of celebration with family. We passed through the hills of Camarillo, by Lady Face Mountain of Agoura Hills and finally crept into quiet Thousand Oaks. Every inch closer to my bed that night meant we were closer to the Wonderful Inevitable.

It was Christmas Eve.

I didn't know then that those butterflies, as much as they contributed to the sheer glee of Christmas, had a shelf life. Year by year, their population diminished and the magic seemed to wear off. I had that awkward, "it's-not-about-the-gifts-but-I'm-still-thinking-too-much-about-them" phase, where I'd try to guilt myself back into the anticipation, back into the magic, but for less materialistic and more noble reasons.

And so it goes.

With the birth of my son, Carter, the magic started to return, the welcomed fluttering of intangible excitement. And we, my family of husband and me, still love Christmas.

My Christmas Eve no longer falls on the 24th of December, though. My first Grown-Up-Christmas-Eve fell closer to the New Year of 2008. The anticipation, the wonder, (the fear), the loss of breath over what-may-be all built around the coming of my first child.

And we're hear again. In this season of pumpkins and plastic front-yard ghouls, my soul is being brought back to the childlike joy over the imminent arrival of one of the greatest gifts and privileges of my life. Motherhood. Again. To a distinct, unique and marvelously crafted son.

It's kept me up at night. I've slipped out of bed and quietly crept to the nursery to muse. To finish thank-you cards. To write in his baby book. To appease the butterflies that denied me sleep.

I love that I'm brought back to the wonder. That the privileges of childhood are not completely lost along with the innocence and naivete. That once again, my soul is invited to dream and to hope and to skip a few soul-beats over the promise of what's to come.

This is my Grown-Up-Christmas-Eve.

And I can't wait to share with you the gift.

O Working Mama

I've been thinking of you, Working Mama.

It happens when the kitchen clock hits 8:00 a.m. and we're still eating breakfast. I think about how you're probably already commuting to work, kids fed, dressed, and dropped off at school-- and you've already had your shower.

It happens when I hit Publix mid-morning, my only stressor being how-to-prevent-my-two-year-old-from-running-over-the-elderly-shoppers and which new recipe I should try for dinner. I think of you and how you manage to buy groceries for the family during the crowded evening rush, or over the weekends.

I remember being a Working Mama, too--when my Saturdays fell to Catching Up on Laundry and my Sundays guaranteed no nap; when I jealously eyed the Gym Mamas dropping their kids off at my class, decked out in the latest Nike workout outfits, declaring their morning belonged to Toned Muscles and Just-A-Little-More-Fit-Than-I-Presently-Felt; when I wished for more time with my newborn and prayed for the grace to make it through another week.

Maybe you're a Working Mama by choice and you don't have a stitch of envy for Gym Mamas. Maybe you love your career and feel immensely satisfied with the roles you so graciously juggle. Maybe being a Working Mama is in your blood and you wouldn't have it any other way.

Whatever the case,

Working Mama, I think

you.

freaking.

rock.

And I hope you get the praise you deserve.  

the day after

the day after

a sleepless night because the whirling helicopters filled my mind with worries

the day after

my worries were confirmed--the predator was in Karate Man's house, some doors down

the day after

a visit to the walk-in clinic, just to make sure Carter's newly acquired wound was okay

the day after

the Dr. sent us to the ER for x-rays, drugs and monitoring of the swelling

the day after

we leave the ER, passing a room with an infant who's just been resuscitated, his worried mom's eyes catch mine for a sad moment

the day after

we're told that everything's okay, prescriptions are filled, the pantry is stocked with applesauce the freezer with popsicles

the day after,

the PJ's stay on till noon, as does the TV

the Providence of God is praised

sighs of relief are had

emotions let down and try to settle

embraces and snuggles and too many squeezes fill our home

the day after.

welcome back, crazy

Although we've been going to Busch Gardens since Carter was en utero, he's just recently noticed the roller coasters.

And he's obsessed.

This whole week, the couch cushions have been piled on the floor as he's tunneled his way under and over them declaring the whole time, "I'm a roller coaster!" He even has a weird cute noise that makes, which sounds nothing like the actual ride.

With the recent departure from my lovely, uneventful, emotionally-manageable second trimester, I can wholeheartedly relate to Carter's new-found identity.

Hormonally, I'm a roller coaster.

I remember the bipolar-like surges of emotions from my first trimester. I swore I would quit ministry at the slightest discouraging thing, even as I drove to church. Those were negative surges. And I cried one time, with real tears streaming down my cheeks, while Neal and I sat and ate at Ikea's food court. When Neal asked what was wrong, I replied that nothing was--the whole Ikea Experience was just so moving to me. Ikea promoted recycling and living simply (as shown by their 756 sq. ft. sample homes and awesome storage solutions), the cafeteria food was organic and affordable, and I felt like I was back in Europe. They were tears of joy. Right there. Over my Swedish meatballs.

So, this roller coaster is quite familiar to me.

It just sucks to be back.

for the mommies

While some of you commented on the analogy made in my post Celestial Sticker Rack , a lot of comments were made about the literal story line: Carter freaking out at swim lessons.

So, here's some reassurance. We're getting into trouble with the teacher and looking pretty cute doing it.

the unsexy days

I'm coming to terms with this.

This transition from working full-time to part-time to not-really-any-time at all. This transition from the exhilarating, production-filled days to

the unsexy days.

You see, I was the girl who aspired to be the next Condoleeza Rice. Who waltzed through Banana Republic, dressing herself in the sharp grey and tan power suits, readying herself for the days when her clothes would communicate power and importance.

(I am that vain...)

I was the girl whose husband was shocked to find, upon completion of my timeline, The Next 20 Years of Our Lives, I had totally forgotten to factor in kids.

Grad school for me? Check.

Grad school for hubby? Check.

House? Check.

Children before 40? 

Oops.

So, here I am on the other side of college-girl fantasies. I'm home, full-time, with my lovely two-year-old.

I sort of roll through my days, through my weeks, trying to be as intentional as possible with this time God's granted me. And it's beautiful and fulfilling and sometimes slow, but altogether good. 

It's days like yesterday when I'm forced to come to terms with just

how
unsexy
these
days
really
are.

It's when Carter's washing his hands for lunch and I glance in the bathroom and I literally flinch at seeing my un-make-uped reflection. It's when I realize, 15 minutes before my student comes over, that I haven't yet showered that day. It's when I look forward to dinner out because I'll have my first reason that day to get out of a sports-bra.

We've come a long way from the April-with-the-JD-after-her-name.

I'm stumbling upon a different kind of beauty right now--one of quietness and contentedness. One that's slowly becoming okay with not measuring the day's worth by an Outlook task list. A beauty that's desperately trying to inhale the energy of each moment, fully knowing that this season will soon pass.

I'm thankful for these days.

Whether or not mascara makes the cut.