musings on mom

Moving 3,000 miles from your hometown and dear family is not all fun and games. There are, however, a few perks.

Namely, family members you usually only see for an hour or so at a time come to visit and spend whole days with you. Even whole weeks.

And if you’re really lucky, almost three whole weeks.

When was the last time I spent three weeks with my mom almost all to myself, I wonder?

And then I wonder, how many 53 year old women take three weeks of their [busy, crazy, occupied with other adult children, not to mention still homeschooling three younger ones] lives to help their grown daughter and make more memories with her and her little family?

So while she was here, I tried to just absorb.

Here are some things I noted and will try to learn:

1. Mom has tons of energy. Tons. (I’m sorry for all the italics. I really am. It’s just my current mood, I suppose.) I’m not sure I can learn her energy level… but then again, maybe I can. It’s at least worth trying. Oh, and by the way, she has tons of cheerful energy. That’s worth noting, since I’ve been known to whirl through the house in a flurry of stress.

2. She just does it. “It” being whatever needs to be done. I’m prone to putting things off until I can do it just the way I want. For instance, I tend to think that laundry should be folded all at once, on a huge surface where I can make all of the piles I need… But Mom will grab 5 minutes and fold right there, on that half a table while overseeing Jameson’s lunch or whatever. I’ve been implementing this idea this week, and find tasks much more enjoyable when I just dive in, marrying the doing with living.

3. On the other hand, she doesn’t do all of it. First, my issue: I think that keeping house means dust should never have the chance to settle, and if it does, then I’ve failed. Mom’s not quite so easily undone. A bit of dust, a bed that’s not made till late morning, dishes from breakfast that wait to be washed… Sometimes, other things need to be done, and those things need to be put in perspective. ahh.

4. She works and plays all day long. What I mean is… well, again, my issue: I’m too “chore chart.” I have my list of things I have to do, and I try to do them as fast as I can so I can get to the things I want to do. My “real” life. Trouble is, now that I’m the mother and homemaker, and not just the daughter, that chore chart is my real life! So instead of freaking out trying to cross everything off by 10am, why not just settle into the fact that giving baths and making beds and changing diapers and getting lunch is what I do, and mingle it all with a few books, songs, and walks around the block? So what if it now takes all day. What else was I planning on doing, anyway? (The answer, by the way, is nothing.)

5. She spins so many plates partly by just being less OCD than I am. Get a life, Danica. Spend less time fluffing pillows (because I think if the pillows are smooshed ever, then I have failed to keep house) and instead, read a thought-provoking article. Do a little research on something that might stretch your brain. Reply to a few emails now and then. Maybe even a (gasp) phone call! Or just cuddle your babies and realize that is what you do, too. People have been known to grow into healthy adults, even in homes with smooshed throw pillows. (Good gracious.)

And a really big thing I always glean from her?

LIVE LIFE.

(Some of us got that genetically. Others of us have to actually learn to do so.)

it’s not over

If I heard it once yesterday, I heard it a hundred times: “Boy am I glad the election is over. On to life as usual!”

I certainly enjoyed an evening of turning off the TV and shutting the cupboard doors. Thanks Greta, thanks Bill, but I could care less right now about a recount in Missouri. I need a break.

But actually, it’s not over. Not at all.

Because as Mom reminded us this morning, this man has a promised agenda. After months of prayer and passion and proclamation, it’s not time to quiet down; it’s only just begun.

Jackie shares a link where we can make our voice heard in regards to the promised FOCA. Let’s be heard.

As for upping the ante in our daily lives, here’s Randy’s suggestions for how to help unborn and their mothers.

And most of all, it’s time to pray. Pray for repentance, for mercy, for life. And as Mom also reminds me, we can pray for those things with confidence, for as much as God is committed to meting out justice, He also loves mercy.

And we surely need mercy.

two weeks

It’s Tuesday, November 4th.

I don’t know who our next president will be, but I do know that our little William is two weeks old.

So far, he has slipped right into this little family’s life without any fuss. He has yet to keep me up at night, nurses day and night like a pro, and is pretty much happy during his few awake hours every day. Two words: wow and awesome.

And so he’s quietly grown into a 9lb8oz baby, already shedding so many of his newborn traits. There’s a little stab in my heart when I look at his face and realize he’s changed (again!) This time around, there’s less time for all-day cuddling; two boys need me now. But I knew it would be like that, different, more elusive. Rather than wish for a first baby experience all over again, I’m reveling in the multiple little hands and arms and cheeks and mouths to hold and kiss. How can I not feel filled to overflowing when I’ve a newborn in my arms, nursing, and a toddler’s arms wrapped around my neck, his head buried in my shoulder?

william’s HOMEbirth

Birthing at home: ahhhhh.

Honestly, once the ball started rolling, I was not really even aware of the “strangeness” of what we were doing. It was so completely easy and natural. It was wonderful. I honestly don’t know how I could ever go to a hospital again. Really. The thought makes me want to cry, and I swear it’s not just the hormones.

As labor progressed, not having the decision of when to go to the hospital looming over me was such a relief. There was no pressure at any point to feel like I had to know. It was all so fluid, so go-with-the-flow, just waiting for nature to take its course. Emotionally, being able to just settle back into my couch and not have another thought for what the next moment would, could, or should hold was amazing.

In early labor, when I could still crack jokes between contractions, and when Ryan could still dare to ask things like, “So, does it hurt?,” my mom quietly was lighting candles, making pretty arrangements in the bathroom, on the dresser in my bedroom, in the living room. I suppose you might not actually take note of such things when in the throes of childbirth, but I did. The first time I walked into the bathroom and saw the tea lights reflecting off of crystal, I was overwhelmed by how beautiful everything was. It was my home, the place I work so hard to make lovely. There were no dimmed hospital lights (with a spotlight ready for when the pushing began), no plastic beds and metal bedrails, no clammy tile floors that scream “Industrial!” Small things, yes, things that didn’t faze me last time around, yes — but still. If you could have one or the other?…

It was my home. Ronnie, the midwife, was clearly in charge of managing the birth — but it was my birth. I felt the whole time like I could tell her what I wanted, and that would be that. I could say, “No, I don’t want to be checked, I want to wait until I can’t stand it,” and that was fine. That’s what we did. Granted, it was my second time around, so I was a little less of a rookie, but I felt so much more confident during the second stage of labor than I did with Jameson. Again, just no pressure. Awesome.

When things got intense, guess what? No one was there to strap monitors on me, insist that I change my clothes (what are they thinking???), or ask me to sign paperwork. Need I say more?

And when it was time to push, the midwife suggested what she considers the ideal position for such things, a position that would be impossible at the hospital where Jameson was born. And I have to say, it would seem that she was right. For such an uncomfortable moment in a mother’s life, it was the most comfortable I can imagine. :)

But best, best, best of all was that when little William was at last delivered and set into my arms, and we were helped onto my bed and made comfortable in a nest of my pillows, I was home. That was that!

The care that Ronnie gave me after the birth was stellar. Obviously I can’t vouch for this as an across-the-board homebirth feature, but having one person spend hours with me during lengthy, chatty prenatal visits also attend my birth, doing her best to help me succeed at what she knew my goals were AND care for me for the next hours of recovery was just grand. When Jameson was born, I had very sweet and kind nurses, but, well, I was just another patient who they had to get through their mandated procedures. That meant getting up when their chart said I should, whether or not I almost passed out from sudden loss of blood. (NOT PLEASANT memories.) Ronnie and her assistant were amazingly sensitive to my needs and ready to get as creative as possible in order for me to be comfortable. When they slipped out my front door 7 hours after William was born, I was showered and refreshed and fast asleep on clean sheets in my bed. ahhhh.

William would also like to say that his arrival into this strange, new world was as easy as he could possibly imagine. There were no goopy eye drops, no bizarre hearing tests involving electronic sensors taped to his head, and NO heel pricks that would simply be ruled invalid, anyway. In fact, William probably would say that The World is all peaches and cream, except that he was circumcised this morning. That sort of blew that idyllic illusion. Poor boy.

So, off the top of my head, those are my homebirth thoughts. Do you have any questions, things you wonder, musings to add?