What We Made Wednesdays

We get a little crafty around here at times, and it's mostly so I can have some structure to the mornings Carter's not in preschool. It's good times, these quiet mornings. Baby naps and we sit outside, creating, spilling, wiping up, just generally making messes.

But they're good messes. 

And so begins my new posting series, every Wednesday. Whether in the kitchen, or on the patio, it's what we made. 

Today we made thank you cards.

Carter thought this one was hilarious--he painted a pink sun, green branches, a blue tree trunk and brown flowers--his version of silly!

the stamp I used for the text

so proud!

I know family members will cherish these cards, and prefer them over store-bought. And, it reinforces the principle of gratitude and the importance of saying thank you!

What you'll need:

-any kind of paint, we used both acrylic and children's paint
-paper plates, for dollops of paint
-paper towels
-cup of water (for cleaning fingers between color changes)
-white note cards (found mine at Joann's, and used a coupon for 30% off)
-thank you stamp

at day's end

You've busied yourself with your work,

 it's important stuff, these tasks you carry,

and I see you, doing your best to balance relationships and responsibilities, 

and you hide your face when attempts fall short. 

Sometimes you feel you've succeeded with it all,

and sometimes, you just want to quit.

 I see you, there, oh busy one.

But at the end of the day, come home to Me. Find your way back to My presence, rest your head against my chest, and breathe deep the rest I alone can give.

Psalm 131

 ¹ My heart is not proud, LORD,
   my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
   or things too wonderful for me.
² But I have calmed and quieted myself,
   I am like a weaned child with its mother;
   like a weaned child I am content.

 ³ Israel, put your hope in the LORD
   both now and forevermore.

walker meets the sea

We went to the beach last week.

It was the baby's first time.

He was slathered with sunscreen, but there was less than precedent called for; he wore a hat but it didn't match; he had no special sticker indicating the amount of UV exposure on his chubby left arm;

this is the blessing of Second Time Around--a little more relaxed we've become...

We took pictures, but he won't remember.

He couldn't know that the ocean is where his mother meets her God. 

That she grew up close to the sea, brought home from the hospital to a tiny apartment on 16th Street, right off of Balboa Boulevard in Newport Beach. That her headbands were used for structural support in castles made of sand. That her pale skin was once bronzed; that she rocked the hottest diaper tan.

He couldn't know that later, her mother and brothers would have to wind through the Santa Monica mountains, breaths held as they passed over the mountain's crest, first view of the ocean falling on excited eyes trying to discern whether the fog would lift, whether the sun would come out to play.

He wouldn't know that she was the one who persuaded her camping friends to leave their tents on the beach for a dew-soaked night sleeping under the stars, sea spray matting down 12-year-old hair, smearing mascara that shouldn't have been there.

He won't be able to picture the iridescent blue-green glow, radiating from broken waves that night. He won't hear their crash and the lightening-like charges of light that flew across the foam for one joyous invitation to listen in on God laughing.

He couldn't know that nine years ago his father took an ocean-sick girlfriend away from Tallahassee's hills to the Gulf to invite her to join him as lover and friend for the rest of their lives. Or, that their honeymoon would be had overlooking the ocean in Barbados; or that three years later her Grief-Consummate would manifest on a hilltop overlooking the Pacific, where her uncle would breathe his last as she stood at his bedside.

He will hear about it, but won't be able to fathom the very experience that ushered him into this world. That God would whisper to his mother the morning before his birth,

I will be with you in deep waters.

That she would find each contraction present like the commanding waves of Zuma. That she would take a deep breath, dive into its power and then emerge, tired and weary and grasping for rest before the next wave. That fear would never own her, that she would let herself go to the ancient rhythms of childbirth, promise in hand, God standing by.

Death and life and promise and grief, have all been met by the sea.

God speaks of his majesty, of his forever-ness through the endless horizons. He says,

"you are but dust"

with the sand that creeps between the toes. He says,

"I am Big"

with the stretch of water from the shore to where it meets the sky. He says,

"I know you"

when happenstance finds me, again, at the shore, for a time of celebration or mourning. He knows I meet him there, he knows I worship at the water. And he keeps bringing me back.

Walker met the sea last week, for which I am glad.

But my heart's cry is that he meet its Maker, the Grand Designer of it all. The call may not come through the roar of a breaking wave, but may it come, loud and strong, until my son is brought to the feet of the One who knows him best.

heaven sounds delicious

Who needs trinity theology when you have a three year old to explain it all:

"Mommy, God makes chocolate and Jesus makes chocolate chips and Jesus gives God chocolate chips."

Happy (late) Valentine's Day!

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.

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.

naptime

I laid down with you today

(Bear was in the wash)

you slung your arm around my neck

warm yogurt breath down my cheeks

you whispered,

Mommy, you maeel pitty

Mommy, you smell pretty

I wondered how much longer

you would be holding on

how many years do I have left

            of being Your Only Girl?

of compliments and kisses

and jealous hugs when Daddy loves

---

My promise is to love you

to build you up and make you strong

to let you risk and kiss the wounds

to help you find who you’ll become.

One day, you’ll see Another Girl

more beautiful than me

you’ll pour your soul into her

and be her everything

you’ll take the strength we’ve lent you

and the strength you’ve found on your own

you’ll build her up and make her safe

and together you’ll create your home.

---

For now, I’m holding onto you

and Bear and naps and yogurt breath

from here to there and what lies between

you’re my precious son; I call myself blessed.