There, I said it. Call me a Grinch or a Scrooge or whatever you want to. But that's what I think about it.
I keep coming across this idea that Christmas is all about making children happy, that all of the decorations and gifts and lights are just for them. The prevailing mindset seems to be that everything grownups do from the last week of November through December 26 is for the children. And that it's the way it should be.
Maybe I'm just weird, but I'm of the opinion that Christmas should be enjoyed by everyone, no matter their age. Maybe it's because I never had Santa Clause as a child. Maybe my parents "ruined" Christmas too early for me. Or maybe I'm the only one that gets it. Regardless of the reason, I'm here to tell you that I am a 25 year old mom of two (or three or four, depending on how you want to count), and I have no doubt that Christmas is for me, too.
You see, I have grown up with a totally different perspective on Christmas than many kids my age did. We didn't have Santa. I'm not sure all of the reasons my parents didn't do Santa, but I'm grateful to them. Around Christmastime, we always focused on the story in Luke chapter 2. My parents have been in ministry my whole life, so we celebrated Christmas with songs about Emanuel, Christmas pageants that always included a little baby in a manger scene, a very breakable nativity set that I loved to look at and play with very carefully. Yes, we had presents. My parents sacrificed a lot (probably more than they should have some years) to make sure we had Christmas presents in our stockings and under the tree. But that was not usually the focus, even in our young hearts. The focus was that God came to us, became one of us, so that he could save us.
One of my favorite Christmas movies is "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever." Have you ever seen it? This rough and tumble family with six kids starts coming to church because they heard there were snacks. Through a series of events, they end up with all of the principal roles in the Christmas pageant. As a result, they learn the true meaning of Christmas in a way most adults still have yet to grasp. "HEY! Unto you a child is born!"
That means YOU, too!
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
'Tis the season
Today is Thanksgiving, the day when we traditionally give thanks to God for the blessings he has bestowed on us, enjoy the bounty of harvest, and watch football. In the past couple of decades, something else has crept into our Thanksgiving traditions. Have you noticed it? It's the annual planning of the Black Friday shopping excursion.
I'm sure almost everyone knows what Black Friday is and why, but I feel the need to give a little explanation tonight. The time between Thanksgiving and Christmas is obviously the biggest shopping season of the year. Therefore, if a retail company has been in the "red" for most of the year, Christmas shopping will bring them back up into the "black." As you well know, the media has helped this process along by hyping up the deals that retailers offer and covering the chaos that is Black Friday shopping. At first, retailers would shockingly open at 6am to catch the early birds with great "doorbuster" deals. How could another retailer compete with that? By opening at 5am, of course. This competition has led to what is now being dubbed this year as "Black Thursday," when some stores such as Walmart and Toys R Us are opening as early as 9 and 10pm on Thanksgiving night.
Which is an awesome thing for companies, and for some customers who are looking for great deals. And arguably great for the economy, which we all know could use a little help these days. But is it really so great in the long run?
As I have been gearing up for work tomorrow, I have to wonder what this kind of consumerism does to us as a people, and to us specifically as Christians? I look at my precious little ones and think about how I want to make Christmas so special for them this year, since we've been through so much in the past several months. But when I think about the ways I can do that, it seems none of them really include toys or movies or games. I want to find creative and fun ways to teach my kids about what Christmas really is all about. For me, what that means is carefully explaining why we decorate, letting them play with a kid-friendly nativity set, teaching them to be generous and kind to others, and telling them the story of Christ's birth and our redemption. Of course, the will get toys. There will be puzzles and games, pajamas and sweaters, cars, and maybe a movie (anyone know if Cars 2 is on DVD yet?). But those are extra things. They are not what Christmas is about.
As you are standing in line and getting online for your deals this weekend, please remember a few things.
First of all, be nice to your cashiers and retail workers. Contrary to popular belief, most of them have not chosen this as their life's work. They have taken whatever job they could because they had few other choices. Yes, we all know the downsides when we apply for retail. But you don't have to make it worse for them. Also, keep in mind that since many of them were hired specifically for the Christmas season, they may not be as knowledgeable as you think they should be. Some of us who have been doing this for years are overwhelmed. The newbies are even more so. Be patient.
Secondly, tip well. Did you know that as minimum wage has gone up for most everyone else, the standard federal minimum wage for servers is still $2.13 per hour? And even though restaurants are required to make sure their servers are being tipped enough to equate to minimum wage, many still don't. The industry standard for tips is now 18%. Of course, you will have the occasional rude or hard to find server. But if you can see that your server is working hard to take care of all of their customers, make sure you give them a fair tip. Most of them are working very hard and long hours and need that extra couple of bucks more than you know. Fun fact: It is a well known fact that Sundays are horrible for servers because church people are horrible tippers. Don't be that customer.
Third, make an effort to keep Christmas what it is supposed to be. As I stated earlier, it is NOT about the deals, the presents, the endless lists of friends and family members. It is about Christ, about celebrating family, about being content with what you have (okay, that was today, but it goes for the rest of the year as well). It may sound strange coming from a retail associate to say things like that, as I can only have a job as long as my companies are making money. But it is no less true. So pay attention to what it's really all about. It's so easy to get caught up in the crazy. Don't let it steal your real Christmas joy.
I'm sure almost everyone knows what Black Friday is and why, but I feel the need to give a little explanation tonight. The time between Thanksgiving and Christmas is obviously the biggest shopping season of the year. Therefore, if a retail company has been in the "red" for most of the year, Christmas shopping will bring them back up into the "black." As you well know, the media has helped this process along by hyping up the deals that retailers offer and covering the chaos that is Black Friday shopping. At first, retailers would shockingly open at 6am to catch the early birds with great "doorbuster" deals. How could another retailer compete with that? By opening at 5am, of course. This competition has led to what is now being dubbed this year as "Black Thursday," when some stores such as Walmart and Toys R Us are opening as early as 9 and 10pm on Thanksgiving night.
Which is an awesome thing for companies, and for some customers who are looking for great deals. And arguably great for the economy, which we all know could use a little help these days. But is it really so great in the long run?
As I have been gearing up for work tomorrow, I have to wonder what this kind of consumerism does to us as a people, and to us specifically as Christians? I look at my precious little ones and think about how I want to make Christmas so special for them this year, since we've been through so much in the past several months. But when I think about the ways I can do that, it seems none of them really include toys or movies or games. I want to find creative and fun ways to teach my kids about what Christmas really is all about. For me, what that means is carefully explaining why we decorate, letting them play with a kid-friendly nativity set, teaching them to be generous and kind to others, and telling them the story of Christ's birth and our redemption. Of course, the will get toys. There will be puzzles and games, pajamas and sweaters, cars, and maybe a movie (anyone know if Cars 2 is on DVD yet?). But those are extra things. They are not what Christmas is about.
As you are standing in line and getting online for your deals this weekend, please remember a few things.
First of all, be nice to your cashiers and retail workers. Contrary to popular belief, most of them have not chosen this as their life's work. They have taken whatever job they could because they had few other choices. Yes, we all know the downsides when we apply for retail. But you don't have to make it worse for them. Also, keep in mind that since many of them were hired specifically for the Christmas season, they may not be as knowledgeable as you think they should be. Some of us who have been doing this for years are overwhelmed. The newbies are even more so. Be patient.
Secondly, tip well. Did you know that as minimum wage has gone up for most everyone else, the standard federal minimum wage for servers is still $2.13 per hour? And even though restaurants are required to make sure their servers are being tipped enough to equate to minimum wage, many still don't. The industry standard for tips is now 18%. Of course, you will have the occasional rude or hard to find server. But if you can see that your server is working hard to take care of all of their customers, make sure you give them a fair tip. Most of them are working very hard and long hours and need that extra couple of bucks more than you know. Fun fact: It is a well known fact that Sundays are horrible for servers because church people are horrible tippers. Don't be that customer.
Third, make an effort to keep Christmas what it is supposed to be. As I stated earlier, it is NOT about the deals, the presents, the endless lists of friends and family members. It is about Christ, about celebrating family, about being content with what you have (okay, that was today, but it goes for the rest of the year as well). It may sound strange coming from a retail associate to say things like that, as I can only have a job as long as my companies are making money. But it is no less true. So pay attention to what it's really all about. It's so easy to get caught up in the crazy. Don't let it steal your real Christmas joy.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Whirlwind. That's the most accurate way I can describe much of the last few years. We've worked so hard to keep our heads above water that we ended up missing out on life.
This is most evident to me as I watch Malachi and enjoy this time in his life. He's just shy of two now, and he's such a riot. I love his expressions, how he laughs and plays. I love how he tries to make me laugh no matter what. Thinking back two years ago, I realize I barely even remember Toby at this age. I don't know if it's just time passed or what we were going through then. I remember being very tired, stressed, and always frustrated with him. What happened between then and now?
I think a lot of it has to do with change. When Toby was about to turn two, Malachi was being born. I was looking at the calendar and realizing that winter was coming. Our house didn't have heat, and I worried about keeping them warm. We were not in a good place in our marriage. Not to bore anyone with unnecessary details, but it was just bad all around. We were on the brink. And we never had time. Nathan's job kept him away twice as much as he was home, and he was always tired.
It's different now. Nathan is still looking for work, but we are optomistic. We live with his parents right now, but it's not nearly as stressful to me as one would think it should be. I'm working two jobs, but it makes me appreciate the boys even more instead of making me too exhausted to see them. And I was told by a guy that I work with last week that he wants to go out to dinner with us so we can tell him how to have a good marriage. In two years, we've gone from the brink of disaster to the couple someone else is looking to for advice.
I can't pinpoint everything that has changed, but I do know one thing for sure. It is so much better to depend completely on God. That's what has changed in me. At that time, I was determined that it was my job to fix it. And I was overwhelmed because I knew I couldn't. What a difference a couple of years makes! I have to wonder where we would be if we had continued on the path we were taking.
And I wonder what I will say when I look back two years from now.
This is most evident to me as I watch Malachi and enjoy this time in his life. He's just shy of two now, and he's such a riot. I love his expressions, how he laughs and plays. I love how he tries to make me laugh no matter what. Thinking back two years ago, I realize I barely even remember Toby at this age. I don't know if it's just time passed or what we were going through then. I remember being very tired, stressed, and always frustrated with him. What happened between then and now?
I think a lot of it has to do with change. When Toby was about to turn two, Malachi was being born. I was looking at the calendar and realizing that winter was coming. Our house didn't have heat, and I worried about keeping them warm. We were not in a good place in our marriage. Not to bore anyone with unnecessary details, but it was just bad all around. We were on the brink. And we never had time. Nathan's job kept him away twice as much as he was home, and he was always tired.
It's different now. Nathan is still looking for work, but we are optomistic. We live with his parents right now, but it's not nearly as stressful to me as one would think it should be. I'm working two jobs, but it makes me appreciate the boys even more instead of making me too exhausted to see them. And I was told by a guy that I work with last week that he wants to go out to dinner with us so we can tell him how to have a good marriage. In two years, we've gone from the brink of disaster to the couple someone else is looking to for advice.
I can't pinpoint everything that has changed, but I do know one thing for sure. It is so much better to depend completely on God. That's what has changed in me. At that time, I was determined that it was my job to fix it. And I was overwhelmed because I knew I couldn't. What a difference a couple of years makes! I have to wonder where we would be if we had continued on the path we were taking.
And I wonder what I will say when I look back two years from now.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Morgan
Last summer was an interesting time. School was starting, and we were working hard as usual to keep our heads above water. Malachi was eight months old and just starting solid foods (my kids never took to purees), still nursing day and night. Toby was potty training. Things were hectic. There was one week in particular, though...
We had severe flooding in May, and August was threatening the same. One night when it was raining particularly hard and the news was broadcasting flash flood warnings, I went outside to check the water level in the storm drain. As I was heading back inside, I went down, feeling my ankle snap on the way. Laying on my couch, I called my boss and told her I wouldn't be able to make it in the next day, because my ankle was pretty badly sprained.
The next day, I was sitting on my porch while the boys were napping, and I realized something: My period was late. I had a pregnancy test in my bathroom, so I took it, and surprise! I was pregnant. Quite a shock, and I was a bit terrified. We were so broke. We had trouble providing for our family as it was. I couldn't imagine adding another child to the mix. I called Nathan and we agreed not to say anything to anyone for awhile.
That Sunday at church was special. The choir had been preparing a worship concert, and God's presence was palpable. We sang songs of God's provision and awesome power. We lifted our voices in praise and adoration. And I knelt at an altar and gave God my burden. I remember praying, "God I am so scared. But I know you are in control. I know you have it all taken care of, and I'm just going to trust in you. No matter what happens, I will trust you." Little did I know.
The next day, I had an appointment at the health department for a confirmation of pregnancy. I had scheduled it as early as possible so that I could get it done and get to work at nine a.m. I went in to give the sample and started bleeding. I wasn't sure if something was wrong or maybe I was just starting my period after all. When the nurse came in, she said, "Oh, about thirty percent of pregnancies are lost like this. It's not a big deal." They sent me to a doctor in Lebanon, where I gave a vial of blood and had a transvaginal ultrasound done. I was told it may just be too early to see anything, or it may be that I was miscarrying. They wouldn't know till they checked my hormone levels and then checked them again two days later.
It was a big deal to me. I had barely resigned myself to not having anymore kids because we couldn't afford it, and then I found out I was pregnant and might be losing a baby before I even knew for sure how I felt about being pregnant. I was a basket case. I had to call my mom, my mother in law, and my best friend with the news that I was pregnant, but I might not be for very much longer. I told God, "I know I said no matter what, but this wasn't what I meant." The response, "Peace, my child. I'm still God." I still had hope. After the initial blood at the health department, I didn't bleed anymore that day.
I went to work after I left the doctor's office to let the ladies know what was going on. I worked with some pretty interesting women at the time. They all liked to think they were my mother or grandmother, and had all kinds of advice for me. Mrs. Gari, one particularly interesting lady, said to me, "Why would you want another one?" As it turns out, those were her last words to me. I was sick the next day, and when I called in to work I was told she had passed away that night. Tragedy, but I was too focused on my baby to mourn. I'm not sure still what I was feeling at that time.
Wednesday, I went in for the next blood sample. I waited all day for the call telling me whether the levels had gone up or down. It never came. I went to church that night and told our choir and worship pastor what was going on. The prayer that was prayed did not ask for healing or the baby's health, but that God's will would be done. I resented that a little bit. I was beginning to think I was the only one who wanted this baby. That hurt.
Thursday morning, I got a call from the doctor. I was miscarrying. I cried for the rest of the day. But strangely, there was a kind of peace. God was still whispering in my ear, "Peace, my child. I am still God. You are still mine."
That weekend was an all church retreat. We went to the campground and spent time together. It was wonderful and peaceful. I lost my baby on Saturday.
I am so grateful for God's peace. Throughout that week, as hard as it was, God allowed me to know that I was firmly in his hand, that nothing was too big for him to handle. I never once questioned that I would someday get to meet my baby, that he or she was in the presence of God from the very beginning. I was surrounded by friends and family who have been through the same thing, who knew how to comfort me.
It's popular in these situations to say things like, "Everything happens for a reason," or "God wanted another flower in his garden," or "Your baby is an angel looking down on you from heaven," or "God took your baby because he knows what's best for you." None of these things are true or biblical, and I am thankful that I know that. Sometimes bad things happen, and there is no reason. And sometimes God allows it, even though it breaks his heart to see us endure so much pain. I don't serve a God who steals children from families because he wants them for himself. I serve a God who hurts when he sees his children hurting, who longs to give them peace and comfort if we will only let him. While I have grieved over the past year, I have for the first time known what it is to truly know the Peace of God.
We named our baby a couple of weeks ago. Morgan. It means "bright sea dweller." Fitting. In the Chronicles of Narnia, the bright sea is the sea that is at the end of our world, just before the land where Aslan comes from. Maybe one day we will meet there.
We had severe flooding in May, and August was threatening the same. One night when it was raining particularly hard and the news was broadcasting flash flood warnings, I went outside to check the water level in the storm drain. As I was heading back inside, I went down, feeling my ankle snap on the way. Laying on my couch, I called my boss and told her I wouldn't be able to make it in the next day, because my ankle was pretty badly sprained.
The next day, I was sitting on my porch while the boys were napping, and I realized something: My period was late. I had a pregnancy test in my bathroom, so I took it, and surprise! I was pregnant. Quite a shock, and I was a bit terrified. We were so broke. We had trouble providing for our family as it was. I couldn't imagine adding another child to the mix. I called Nathan and we agreed not to say anything to anyone for awhile.
That Sunday at church was special. The choir had been preparing a worship concert, and God's presence was palpable. We sang songs of God's provision and awesome power. We lifted our voices in praise and adoration. And I knelt at an altar and gave God my burden. I remember praying, "God I am so scared. But I know you are in control. I know you have it all taken care of, and I'm just going to trust in you. No matter what happens, I will trust you." Little did I know.
The next day, I had an appointment at the health department for a confirmation of pregnancy. I had scheduled it as early as possible so that I could get it done and get to work at nine a.m. I went in to give the sample and started bleeding. I wasn't sure if something was wrong or maybe I was just starting my period after all. When the nurse came in, she said, "Oh, about thirty percent of pregnancies are lost like this. It's not a big deal." They sent me to a doctor in Lebanon, where I gave a vial of blood and had a transvaginal ultrasound done. I was told it may just be too early to see anything, or it may be that I was miscarrying. They wouldn't know till they checked my hormone levels and then checked them again two days later.
It was a big deal to me. I had barely resigned myself to not having anymore kids because we couldn't afford it, and then I found out I was pregnant and might be losing a baby before I even knew for sure how I felt about being pregnant. I was a basket case. I had to call my mom, my mother in law, and my best friend with the news that I was pregnant, but I might not be for very much longer. I told God, "I know I said no matter what, but this wasn't what I meant." The response, "Peace, my child. I'm still God." I still had hope. After the initial blood at the health department, I didn't bleed anymore that day.
I went to work after I left the doctor's office to let the ladies know what was going on. I worked with some pretty interesting women at the time. They all liked to think they were my mother or grandmother, and had all kinds of advice for me. Mrs. Gari, one particularly interesting lady, said to me, "Why would you want another one?" As it turns out, those were her last words to me. I was sick the next day, and when I called in to work I was told she had passed away that night. Tragedy, but I was too focused on my baby to mourn. I'm not sure still what I was feeling at that time.
Wednesday, I went in for the next blood sample. I waited all day for the call telling me whether the levels had gone up or down. It never came. I went to church that night and told our choir and worship pastor what was going on. The prayer that was prayed did not ask for healing or the baby's health, but that God's will would be done. I resented that a little bit. I was beginning to think I was the only one who wanted this baby. That hurt.
Thursday morning, I got a call from the doctor. I was miscarrying. I cried for the rest of the day. But strangely, there was a kind of peace. God was still whispering in my ear, "Peace, my child. I am still God. You are still mine."
That weekend was an all church retreat. We went to the campground and spent time together. It was wonderful and peaceful. I lost my baby on Saturday.
I am so grateful for God's peace. Throughout that week, as hard as it was, God allowed me to know that I was firmly in his hand, that nothing was too big for him to handle. I never once questioned that I would someday get to meet my baby, that he or she was in the presence of God from the very beginning. I was surrounded by friends and family who have been through the same thing, who knew how to comfort me.
It's popular in these situations to say things like, "Everything happens for a reason," or "God wanted another flower in his garden," or "Your baby is an angel looking down on you from heaven," or "God took your baby because he knows what's best for you." None of these things are true or biblical, and I am thankful that I know that. Sometimes bad things happen, and there is no reason. And sometimes God allows it, even though it breaks his heart to see us endure so much pain. I don't serve a God who steals children from families because he wants them for himself. I serve a God who hurts when he sees his children hurting, who longs to give them peace and comfort if we will only let him. While I have grieved over the past year, I have for the first time known what it is to truly know the Peace of God.
We named our baby a couple of weeks ago. Morgan. It means "bright sea dweller." Fitting. In the Chronicles of Narnia, the bright sea is the sea that is at the end of our world, just before the land where Aslan comes from. Maybe one day we will meet there.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Malachi's birth day
Birthdays are a big deal in our family. I am one of very few people that doesn't share a birthday with someone else or a holiday. My mother in law and younger brother in law have the same birthday. My husband's birthday is the week after theirs, and he shares it with our "adopted" sister. Toby's birthday is three weeks after Nathan's, and it will sometimes fall on Thanksgiving. My sister in law shares a birthday with a very close cousin. My brother and my brother in law's birthdays are only three days apart. You get the picture. Almost everyone in our family shares birthdays.
So when we found out I was pregnant and calculated the due date, my husband got very excited. His birthday is November 10, and I was due November 7. He said for nine months straight how he hoped I went past my due date. And I replied with some comment about kicking him if I did. I didn't think I would, seeing as how Toby was a couple of weeks early, but I also wasn't that worried about it. I figured he would come when he came, and I wasn't going to rush it.
I made an appointment with a local midwife soon after I found out I was pregnant, and the first thing she said to me was, "So I guess we're scheduling a repeat section?" I said, "No. I did that already. I want a VBAC." She went on to explain that since our local hospital was not staffed for 24 hour emergency surgery, they did not accept VBAC patients. I was pretty disappointed. We had driven over an hour to the hospital with Toby, and I was really hoping to give birth locally this time. But I soon found the midwives' practice in Cookeville, and my disappointment faded quickly. It was so worth the drive.
Fast forward to my due date. Nathan was scheduled to work overtime in Nashville. Our midwives' practice and hospital were in Cookeville. We live in Carthage, and only had one car. If you're looking at a map right now, you see why this might pose a problem. We packed Toby up in the car along with the hospital suitcase, and went to Nashville with Nathan. I didn't want to be stuck with no vehicle and only a crappy hospital nearby if I went into labor while he was an hour's drive away.
It was a beautiful day. I took Toby to the park, and we walked the 1.1 mile loop about fifteen times. We went to a basketball game at my alma mater and went up and down a flight of stairs about twenty times. And then we went out for Mexican food, where I downed about five shots of Pico de Gallo. I was so determined to get this baby out, because the OB overseeing my case had mentioned "induction" if I went too far past my "due" date. I did not really want to be induced.
Needless to say, Malachi was still in there when I went for my appointment on the 10th. Poor Nathan had to spend his birthday taking me to the midwife. Dr. Casal (who I really do respect and appreciate) pretty much looked at me and said, "You're still pregnant? Let's schedule you to come to the hospital in the morning and we'll break your water."
At this point, my parents were already on their way up from Florida. I had already been pregnant two weeks longer than I felt like I should have been (remember Toby was born at 38 weeks). And Nathan didn't have too many more vacation days left to spend on this situation. So I agreed. We went to an Italian restaurant and ate eggplant parmesan at the nurses' suggestion. It didn't send me into labor, but it sure was yummy.
My parents got in at 2am, and we got up at 4am to get to the hospital. They broke my water at 7am, and started the Pitocin. I was at a 7 by about 11am, and begging for an epidural (have you ever had Pitocin contractions? They are PAINFUL!). So I started pushing about an hour later, and Malachi was out after less than an hour of pushing. Dr. Casal wanted to do an episiotomy, but I talked him out of it, and managed to tear just enough for my little thumb sucker to come out with his fist up by his face, already trying to get it in his mouth.
I wrote in Toby's story that I dealt with horrible PPD. I knew throughout my entire pregnancy with Malachi that I was still a little messed up. I promised my husband that I would get help after he was born if I was still feeling off. I mention this because of what happened when I pushed Malachi out. I felt the most amazing sense of "rightness." I told Nathan later that it was as if a switch had flipped, and I was back to normal. All of those feelings of failure, of worry, of anger and bitterness at the people who violated me, they were gone. Malachi wasn't the only one born that day. I experienced a rebirth, too.
When little piggy came out, he was wonderfully red and had a beautiful lumpy head, just like babies are supposed to when they enter the world. He weight eight pounds even, and was born with fat rolls around his little legs. He was so adorable. He came out with an appetite, too. He cried for me the whole time he was being weighed and checked, and went right for the breast as soon as they gave him back to me. He nursed like a champ from the get-go, and didn't stop until I decided I needed to get some sleep a year later.
I knew that the recovery would be better than the cesarean recovery, but I didn't know how much better. The day after Toby was born, I was struggling to make a lap around the maternity floor in the hospital. The day after Malachi was born, I was packing up a heavy suitcase to go home. We went home the day after he was born, and I was out running errands while my mom watched him sleep. I felt incredible! I could not (and still can not) imagine why anyone would choose to have a c-section.
Malachi and Toby will be two and four years old this November. Their birthdays fit them so well. Toby was born the day after Thanksgiving, the day we spend every year giving thanks to God for His blessings and provision, and for bringing us through times of trouble. Malachi was born the day after his daddy's birthday, on Veterans' Day. I think after his birth, we all felt like veterans. Obviously not of war, like many of our family members, but veterans of birth. We had fought a terrible experience, depression and frustration, and we won. I saw a t-shirt a couple of weeks later, and it fit so well. "ICAN. I did it, and I would do it again."
So when we found out I was pregnant and calculated the due date, my husband got very excited. His birthday is November 10, and I was due November 7. He said for nine months straight how he hoped I went past my due date. And I replied with some comment about kicking him if I did. I didn't think I would, seeing as how Toby was a couple of weeks early, but I also wasn't that worried about it. I figured he would come when he came, and I wasn't going to rush it.
I made an appointment with a local midwife soon after I found out I was pregnant, and the first thing she said to me was, "So I guess we're scheduling a repeat section?" I said, "No. I did that already. I want a VBAC." She went on to explain that since our local hospital was not staffed for 24 hour emergency surgery, they did not accept VBAC patients. I was pretty disappointed. We had driven over an hour to the hospital with Toby, and I was really hoping to give birth locally this time. But I soon found the midwives' practice in Cookeville, and my disappointment faded quickly. It was so worth the drive.
Fast forward to my due date. Nathan was scheduled to work overtime in Nashville. Our midwives' practice and hospital were in Cookeville. We live in Carthage, and only had one car. If you're looking at a map right now, you see why this might pose a problem. We packed Toby up in the car along with the hospital suitcase, and went to Nashville with Nathan. I didn't want to be stuck with no vehicle and only a crappy hospital nearby if I went into labor while he was an hour's drive away.
It was a beautiful day. I took Toby to the park, and we walked the 1.1 mile loop about fifteen times. We went to a basketball game at my alma mater and went up and down a flight of stairs about twenty times. And then we went out for Mexican food, where I downed about five shots of Pico de Gallo. I was so determined to get this baby out, because the OB overseeing my case had mentioned "induction" if I went too far past my "due" date. I did not really want to be induced.
Needless to say, Malachi was still in there when I went for my appointment on the 10th. Poor Nathan had to spend his birthday taking me to the midwife. Dr. Casal (who I really do respect and appreciate) pretty much looked at me and said, "You're still pregnant? Let's schedule you to come to the hospital in the morning and we'll break your water."
At this point, my parents were already on their way up from Florida. I had already been pregnant two weeks longer than I felt like I should have been (remember Toby was born at 38 weeks). And Nathan didn't have too many more vacation days left to spend on this situation. So I agreed. We went to an Italian restaurant and ate eggplant parmesan at the nurses' suggestion. It didn't send me into labor, but it sure was yummy.
My parents got in at 2am, and we got up at 4am to get to the hospital. They broke my water at 7am, and started the Pitocin. I was at a 7 by about 11am, and begging for an epidural (have you ever had Pitocin contractions? They are PAINFUL!). So I started pushing about an hour later, and Malachi was out after less than an hour of pushing. Dr. Casal wanted to do an episiotomy, but I talked him out of it, and managed to tear just enough for my little thumb sucker to come out with his fist up by his face, already trying to get it in his mouth.
I wrote in Toby's story that I dealt with horrible PPD. I knew throughout my entire pregnancy with Malachi that I was still a little messed up. I promised my husband that I would get help after he was born if I was still feeling off. I mention this because of what happened when I pushed Malachi out. I felt the most amazing sense of "rightness." I told Nathan later that it was as if a switch had flipped, and I was back to normal. All of those feelings of failure, of worry, of anger and bitterness at the people who violated me, they were gone. Malachi wasn't the only one born that day. I experienced a rebirth, too.
When little piggy came out, he was wonderfully red and had a beautiful lumpy head, just like babies are supposed to when they enter the world. He weight eight pounds even, and was born with fat rolls around his little legs. He was so adorable. He came out with an appetite, too. He cried for me the whole time he was being weighed and checked, and went right for the breast as soon as they gave him back to me. He nursed like a champ from the get-go, and didn't stop until I decided I needed to get some sleep a year later.
I knew that the recovery would be better than the cesarean recovery, but I didn't know how much better. The day after Toby was born, I was struggling to make a lap around the maternity floor in the hospital. The day after Malachi was born, I was packing up a heavy suitcase to go home. We went home the day after he was born, and I was out running errands while my mom watched him sleep. I felt incredible! I could not (and still can not) imagine why anyone would choose to have a c-section.
Malachi and Toby will be two and four years old this November. Their birthdays fit them so well. Toby was born the day after Thanksgiving, the day we spend every year giving thanks to God for His blessings and provision, and for bringing us through times of trouble. Malachi was born the day after his daddy's birthday, on Veterans' Day. I think after his birth, we all felt like veterans. Obviously not of war, like many of our family members, but veterans of birth. We had fought a terrible experience, depression and frustration, and we won. I saw a t-shirt a couple of weeks later, and it fit so well. "ICAN. I did it, and I would do it again."
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Toby's Birth Story: How I Learned the Hard Way to Expect the Unexpected
I've read a ton of birth stories. Some of them horrific, and others, so beautiful they bring me to tears. A couple of months ago, I was with a wonderful group of ladies from ICAN, telling my birth stories once again, and it occurred to me that I have never actually written down the stories of the days my boys were born. So I figured I should do that.
I should preface this by saying that the following is my experience of Toby's birth as I remember it. I was in and out of it for a little while, and it has been three and a half years since Toby was born. I know a few of the details are a little off, but my husband has assured me I do remember everything that matters.
I got pregnant with Toby the week after I dropped out of college. Yes, you read that right. I didn’t drop out because I was pregnant. I got pregnant because I dropped out. Something about feeling so free and relieved, I guess. We just weren’t being very careful.
While we were clearly not prepared to have a child financially or in any other way, we got pretty excited. We always knew we wanted a family, we were just starting younger than we hoped. So I started researching. I researched everything. I joined a forum site for moms, and asked all the questions. I read books, looked up gestation pictures, talked to my one friend who had a child (coincidentally, right before I got pregnant). I watched videos, ate right, and made a birth plan.
My birth plan was pretty simple: Don’t touch me, just let me have the baby. I didn’t really think any further than that. After all, natural birth was supposed to be pretty simple, right? No further explanation needed. I even skipped over the parts of the books that talked about pain meds, c-sections, inductions, and every other scenario. There was only one scenario I wanted to think about: naturally birthing my healthy child. I read one book that talked about the scary things, Pushed: The Painful Truth About Childbirth and Modern Maternity Care by Jennifer Block. I couldn’t believe those women were so stupid and gullible to just believe everything the doctor had told them, and go along with it. Where was their willpower? I would never be such a pushover.
We bought a house and moved in when I was seven months pregnant. It so happened that we moved about an hour and a half drive from the OB practice I was going to. And we learned after moving in that our cell phone carrier didn’t cover our neighborhood. We had to go up the street to make or receive calls. And my husband worked second shift (3pm-11pm), also an hour and a half away. Not exactly the best situation for a woman who was about to give birth, but it was the choice we made.
My water broke two weeks early, the day after Thanksgiving. This was the first of many things I was not expecting. I rolled over to my husband, who had just fallen asleep, and told him. His reply, “No it didn’t, go back to sleep.” But it really had. I had the wet pajama pants to prove it. We got in the car to go call the doctor on call, who told us to come in to the hospital at about six a.m. unless the contractions got pretty close and regular. We called our moms, as well, and went back home. At this point, I wasn’t really having contractions. I thought I was, but it was mostly a lot of pressure in my lower back. If I hadn’t skipped over those parts of the book, I would have known that I was probably having back labor, and needed to get in a good position to get the baby to turn face up. But I didn’t know that.
We went to the hospital around six or seven the next morning, to be greeted by a nurse who promptly told me to lie down in the bed, and strapped a fetal monitor on me. I knew this wasn’t an optimal position to labor in, but I was so tired, so I lay down. It didn’t take very long for the nursing staff to inform me that the monitor wasn’t picking up the baby’s heart rate very well, so I would need an internal fetal monitor. I knew I didn’t want that, but again, I was tired. So I agreed.
For the next several hours, the nurse and OB on call (not my OB, by the way) took turns fiddling with the monitor, telling me to lie down during contractions so they could read the monitor, and checking my cervix. And by checking, I mean the OB rammed her hand up my vagina with very little warning or anything. My husband even cringed just watching her do it. At one point, I grimaced, and she said, “If you can’t handle this, there’s no way you’re going to be able to push a baby out of there.” I overheard “c-section” once or twice during this torture session, but I didn’t really get it until that moment. She didn’t really think I was going to push him out.
This was the moment I wanted to run for the hills. Everything in me was screaming to get the heck out of there. But what was I going to do? I had a sleep-deprived husband who hadn’t read any of the books, who didn’t know what was going on in my head. I was uncomfortable. Not just because I was in labor, but because I was scared.
Throughout the process, they had been telling me what I was feeling weren’t contractions. They were just “irritability” of the uterus. And to be honest, I didn’t really think they were contractions, either. I knew labor wasn’t supposed to be this easy, but I was hanging on with all I had to those peaks and valleys on the chart. I knew if I wasn’t in labor, then I would be in trouble soon. So I tried to relax (yeah, right!) I found a little step stool and did stair climbs on it for forty five minutes. I walked around. I sat on the toilet. I kept feeling a lot of pressure in my back, but no real contractions. And the “irratibility” was very irregular. Two minutes apart, then five, then eight, then constant for a few minutes, then another five minutes till the next one. I was all over the place.
They decided to give me Pitocin to augment my labor. Almost as soon as it went into my IV, I puked. The nurse rushed out, saying something about getting me something for the nausea. When she came back in, she put something in my IV, and told me it would ease my stomach. Then she told me what it was. Phenargen. If I had known before she gave it to me, I would never have let her. I knew that stuff made me really sleepy. I passed out, and woke up only for the occasional “irritability” for a few hours.
At about seven p.m., the OB came in and told me we needed to talk about me having a c-section. She told me a myriad of things, including my pelvis was too narrow to birth such a big baby, and he was at least eight pounds (she said this without ever seeing any sort of ultrasound. His birthweight was seven pounds, two ounces). She said my water had been broken for eighteen hours, and they really don’t like to wait longer than thirteen hours. She said all kinds of things, but she said one thing that made my husband’s face go white, “The baby’s heart rate is getting dangerously low.” She left us alone to talk about it for a few minutes, but I knew already what was going to happen. When she came back in, I looked at her and said, “I can basically choose to do this now or wait a couple of hours and be forced to do it, is that about right?” She said yes. So I gave up the fight.
They gave me a spinal block, and prepped me for surgery. My husband went to get all bunny suited up, and we met back in the O.R. I started shaking uncontrollably (a side effect of the spinal block), and they put heavy blankets on my arms. When the O.B. lifted my gown and saw my abdomen, her comment was, “Wow, this kid really did a number on you, huh?” The anesthesiologist must have known I needed to be distracted from what was happening, so he and my husband told Chuck Norris jokes while I was being cut open. When they brought him out, I could barely think straight. A combination of exhaustion, the drugs, and the emotions inside of me. All I remember is seeing him and thinking, that’s not my baby, this isn’t my experience. It doesn’t feel real enough. My husband took him and they whisked them out while I was being put back together. During the last half of the procedure, I started feeling everything they were doing. I panicked, and they had to put me out. Obviously, I don’t remember much of anything from that point on.
I do know I got to hold him and nurse him later, in my room. I decided to play superhero and refuse pain meds because I truly didn’t feel much pain. I just felt numb. My postpartum nurse was amazing, and almost made up for the horrible bedside manner of the Labor and Delivery department. But I lay there in my hospital bed, and I felt like a gutted fish. Like no one cared that I had been violated. It didn’t matter how I felt, because of course I got a beautiful baby out of it. That’s what they kept telling me. “All that matters is that you’re both healthy.”
Now, I found out later that the O.B. on call that day was new to the practice I was a patient with, and her specialty was Juvenile Gynocology. That explained why she treated my husband and me as if we were children. That’s who she was used to treating. I got a letter several months later saying she was no longer with the practice. I’ve always wondered if I wasn’t the only one she treated that way. I sure hope no one else had to go through what I did.
It took me over a year to really deal with my feelings about Toby’s birth. I was in a dark place for a very long time, and I didn’t even really know it. That's not to say I didn't (or don't) love Toby with everything inside of me. It took me a few weeks to really know that I did, but I love him to pieces. But for a while, I couldn't look at him without reliving that experience. It was really only after I started going to ICAN meetings, talked through it with one of my dear friends, and was able to VBAC my second child that I was able to deal with those feelings and felt like I was back to normal.
The lessons here? Read all of the books, even the scary parts. When you make your birth plan, make a contingency plan for everything. Research the doctor or midwife practice and hospital before you choose them. And if you find yourself in a dark place after giving birth, get help. It is out there, and you don’t have to suffer alone.
When it comes to birth, we really do have to plan for every "what if," and expect every unexpected.
I should preface this by saying that the following is my experience of Toby's birth as I remember it. I was in and out of it for a little while, and it has been three and a half years since Toby was born. I know a few of the details are a little off, but my husband has assured me I do remember everything that matters.
I got pregnant with Toby the week after I dropped out of college. Yes, you read that right. I didn’t drop out because I was pregnant. I got pregnant because I dropped out. Something about feeling so free and relieved, I guess. We just weren’t being very careful.
While we were clearly not prepared to have a child financially or in any other way, we got pretty excited. We always knew we wanted a family, we were just starting younger than we hoped. So I started researching. I researched everything. I joined a forum site for moms, and asked all the questions. I read books, looked up gestation pictures, talked to my one friend who had a child (coincidentally, right before I got pregnant). I watched videos, ate right, and made a birth plan.
My birth plan was pretty simple: Don’t touch me, just let me have the baby. I didn’t really think any further than that. After all, natural birth was supposed to be pretty simple, right? No further explanation needed. I even skipped over the parts of the books that talked about pain meds, c-sections, inductions, and every other scenario. There was only one scenario I wanted to think about: naturally birthing my healthy child. I read one book that talked about the scary things, Pushed: The Painful Truth About Childbirth and Modern Maternity Care by Jennifer Block. I couldn’t believe those women were so stupid and gullible to just believe everything the doctor had told them, and go along with it. Where was their willpower? I would never be such a pushover.
We bought a house and moved in when I was seven months pregnant. It so happened that we moved about an hour and a half drive from the OB practice I was going to. And we learned after moving in that our cell phone carrier didn’t cover our neighborhood. We had to go up the street to make or receive calls. And my husband worked second shift (3pm-11pm), also an hour and a half away. Not exactly the best situation for a woman who was about to give birth, but it was the choice we made.
My water broke two weeks early, the day after Thanksgiving. This was the first of many things I was not expecting. I rolled over to my husband, who had just fallen asleep, and told him. His reply, “No it didn’t, go back to sleep.” But it really had. I had the wet pajama pants to prove it. We got in the car to go call the doctor on call, who told us to come in to the hospital at about six a.m. unless the contractions got pretty close and regular. We called our moms, as well, and went back home. At this point, I wasn’t really having contractions. I thought I was, but it was mostly a lot of pressure in my lower back. If I hadn’t skipped over those parts of the book, I would have known that I was probably having back labor, and needed to get in a good position to get the baby to turn face up. But I didn’t know that.
We went to the hospital around six or seven the next morning, to be greeted by a nurse who promptly told me to lie down in the bed, and strapped a fetal monitor on me. I knew this wasn’t an optimal position to labor in, but I was so tired, so I lay down. It didn’t take very long for the nursing staff to inform me that the monitor wasn’t picking up the baby’s heart rate very well, so I would need an internal fetal monitor. I knew I didn’t want that, but again, I was tired. So I agreed.
For the next several hours, the nurse and OB on call (not my OB, by the way) took turns fiddling with the monitor, telling me to lie down during contractions so they could read the monitor, and checking my cervix. And by checking, I mean the OB rammed her hand up my vagina with very little warning or anything. My husband even cringed just watching her do it. At one point, I grimaced, and she said, “If you can’t handle this, there’s no way you’re going to be able to push a baby out of there.” I overheard “c-section” once or twice during this torture session, but I didn’t really get it until that moment. She didn’t really think I was going to push him out.
This was the moment I wanted to run for the hills. Everything in me was screaming to get the heck out of there. But what was I going to do? I had a sleep-deprived husband who hadn’t read any of the books, who didn’t know what was going on in my head. I was uncomfortable. Not just because I was in labor, but because I was scared.
Throughout the process, they had been telling me what I was feeling weren’t contractions. They were just “irritability” of the uterus. And to be honest, I didn’t really think they were contractions, either. I knew labor wasn’t supposed to be this easy, but I was hanging on with all I had to those peaks and valleys on the chart. I knew if I wasn’t in labor, then I would be in trouble soon. So I tried to relax (yeah, right!) I found a little step stool and did stair climbs on it for forty five minutes. I walked around. I sat on the toilet. I kept feeling a lot of pressure in my back, but no real contractions. And the “irratibility” was very irregular. Two minutes apart, then five, then eight, then constant for a few minutes, then another five minutes till the next one. I was all over the place.
They decided to give me Pitocin to augment my labor. Almost as soon as it went into my IV, I puked. The nurse rushed out, saying something about getting me something for the nausea. When she came back in, she put something in my IV, and told me it would ease my stomach. Then she told me what it was. Phenargen. If I had known before she gave it to me, I would never have let her. I knew that stuff made me really sleepy. I passed out, and woke up only for the occasional “irritability” for a few hours.
At about seven p.m., the OB came in and told me we needed to talk about me having a c-section. She told me a myriad of things, including my pelvis was too narrow to birth such a big baby, and he was at least eight pounds (she said this without ever seeing any sort of ultrasound. His birthweight was seven pounds, two ounces). She said my water had been broken for eighteen hours, and they really don’t like to wait longer than thirteen hours. She said all kinds of things, but she said one thing that made my husband’s face go white, “The baby’s heart rate is getting dangerously low.” She left us alone to talk about it for a few minutes, but I knew already what was going to happen. When she came back in, I looked at her and said, “I can basically choose to do this now or wait a couple of hours and be forced to do it, is that about right?” She said yes. So I gave up the fight.
They gave me a spinal block, and prepped me for surgery. My husband went to get all bunny suited up, and we met back in the O.R. I started shaking uncontrollably (a side effect of the spinal block), and they put heavy blankets on my arms. When the O.B. lifted my gown and saw my abdomen, her comment was, “Wow, this kid really did a number on you, huh?” The anesthesiologist must have known I needed to be distracted from what was happening, so he and my husband told Chuck Norris jokes while I was being cut open. When they brought him out, I could barely think straight. A combination of exhaustion, the drugs, and the emotions inside of me. All I remember is seeing him and thinking, that’s not my baby, this isn’t my experience. It doesn’t feel real enough. My husband took him and they whisked them out while I was being put back together. During the last half of the procedure, I started feeling everything they were doing. I panicked, and they had to put me out. Obviously, I don’t remember much of anything from that point on.
I do know I got to hold him and nurse him later, in my room. I decided to play superhero and refuse pain meds because I truly didn’t feel much pain. I just felt numb. My postpartum nurse was amazing, and almost made up for the horrible bedside manner of the Labor and Delivery department. But I lay there in my hospital bed, and I felt like a gutted fish. Like no one cared that I had been violated. It didn’t matter how I felt, because of course I got a beautiful baby out of it. That’s what they kept telling me. “All that matters is that you’re both healthy.”
Now, I found out later that the O.B. on call that day was new to the practice I was a patient with, and her specialty was Juvenile Gynocology. That explained why she treated my husband and me as if we were children. That’s who she was used to treating. I got a letter several months later saying she was no longer with the practice. I’ve always wondered if I wasn’t the only one she treated that way. I sure hope no one else had to go through what I did.
It took me over a year to really deal with my feelings about Toby’s birth. I was in a dark place for a very long time, and I didn’t even really know it. That's not to say I didn't (or don't) love Toby with everything inside of me. It took me a few weeks to really know that I did, but I love him to pieces. But for a while, I couldn't look at him without reliving that experience. It was really only after I started going to ICAN meetings, talked through it with one of my dear friends, and was able to VBAC my second child that I was able to deal with those feelings and felt like I was back to normal.
The lessons here? Read all of the books, even the scary parts. When you make your birth plan, make a contingency plan for everything. Research the doctor or midwife practice and hospital before you choose them. And if you find yourself in a dark place after giving birth, get help. It is out there, and you don’t have to suffer alone.
When it comes to birth, we really do have to plan for every "what if," and expect every unexpected.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
When you know better...
The interwebs are abuzz. What about? That AT&T bought out T-Mobile? Sure. That Michelle Obama is writing a gardening book? Yep. But that's not what I'm interested in.
The American Academy of Pediatrics released new recommendations this week about carseats. And they are causing quite a stir.
The American Academy of Pediatrics released new recommendations this week about carseats. And they are causing quite a stir.
Here are the new recommendations:
http://www.aap.org/advocacy/releases/carseat2011.htm
In a nutshell, the AAP is clarifying what they advised in 2002, which was that all children should remain rearfacing up to the limit of the carseat, forward facing at a minimum of 1 year and 20 pounds. Now, they are adding that their recommendation is that children remain rearfacing until age two unless they max out the carseats RF limits before then.
This argument is nothing new. I've been reading it online since I was pregnant with my first in 2007. "ERF, or you're a bad mom!" "Don't you care about your kids' safety?" "Your child is five times safer in an accident if they are RF."
So I have this problem: When something is hyped up and oversold, I tend to ignore it. And in general, if you tell me I'm a bad mom unless I agree with you, I'm ten or twenty times less likely to even hear you out. I think I have a defective filter when it comes to some of these things.
But when an organization like the AAP backs you up, I suddenly decide to check into it. Sometimes, that just means that I find more information to solidify my own opinion on things. But sometimes, like today, I pull my head out of the sand and start doing things differently.
The thing is, I already had all of the information. I have watched the videos, read the statistics, even talked with my aunt, who is a car seat tech. But I couldn't quite make the leap from "believer" to "ERFer." I'm really not sure why. I already do things out of the norm. We cloth diaper, we don't vaccinate, I breastfed both of them for a year, I had a VBAC, all of which people think we are weird for doing. I think it's because I didn't want to make the leap to "all the way nuts." It's one thing to be halfway weird. But crossing the line to "flat out crazy" is too much for me.
The thing is, we as Americans are the weird ones on this. Most developed countries have been keeping kids RFing past two for years. So what am I so afraid of?
This morning, as my boys were playing in the front yard, I switched my one year old's carseat to the RFing position. It turns out, part of the reason it had been so hard for me to RF in the past is because I was doing it wrong. That little carseat manual is so much more helpful when you're reading it after a good night's sleep. Now, my little one will be securely facing the backseat, whether he likes it or not. And I will have the peace of mind that he is 75% more likely to survive a crash with minor injuries. My preschooler will soon be getting a new seat as well, since he is right on the edge of outgrowing his.
I'm wondering when the new recommendations will become law. The AAP had more than just infant and toddler seats to talk about. They are now recommending that all children be in at least a booster until eight (which is already the law in my state) and that they should remain in one until they are at least 4'9'' and a hundred pounds, or twelve years old. The reason for this is belt positioning. I've been wondering why they don't just recommend a product like this one: http://www.amazon.com/Sunshine-Kids-Child-Seatbelt-Adjuster/dp/B000BUTCOY, which would easily keep the seatbelt at a correct position without putting a twelve year old in a booster seat. They also say that kids should be kept in the backseat until they are teenagers, which we all knew anyway. My car has that information on the visor in the front passenger seat.
Things sure have changed since I was a kid. I can remember sleeping on the floorboard in the backseat of our Carolla when I was a little kid and we were on road trips, or going to pick my dad up from work. Most of my friends had already learned to drive when I was twelve, living in rural Louisiana. I used to ride home from school in the back of my dad's pickup with about six other kids. I can even remember when seatbelts in the backseat of a vehichle were not required by law. But the news stories sure have changed, too. I haven't heard of a young child being killed in a car accident in a long time. I guess the saying is true, "When you know better, you do better."
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Flood
Last night, my three year old wanted to read "Noah's Ark." Nothing new. In our house, both boys get to pick a story, and then we read a Bible story together. Toby has asked for "Noah's Ark" for the past several nights.
Last night, while reading it, I got an idea. This is a great opportunity for a teaching moment, I said to myself. So here's what I did.
I read the story, like always. Then after we were done I had a little talk with my preschooler. "Toby, do you know what? Last week, something happened in a faraway country called Japan. You know how we just read about the flood that happened in the Bible and how Noah and his family stayed safe and warm in a big boat? Well, there was a great big flood in Japan. But the people there didn't have a big boat. So they got caught up in all the water. And some of them lost their homes and everything. Isn't that sad?"
At this point, he began to get really interested in what I was saying. He made a sad face, and moaned a little, "Yeah. That's sad."
So I went on, "But you know what? Even though we're really far away, we can help the people in Japan. What do you think we can do?"
"I don't know. What, Mommy?"
"Well, tomorrow we're going to go to the store and do some shopping. We're going to buy some things for the people in trouble in Japan. Things like soap, so they can take a bath, and toothpaste and toothbrushes, so they can brush their teeth. And we're going to put it all in bags. Your job is to pick out a little stuffed animal, like your bear, to put in each of the bags. So when the people in Japan get these special bags, they'll know that someone cares about them enough to make sure they have the things they need. Isn't that cool?"
"Yeah, Mommy! We make some bags!"
"And do you know what else we can do? We can do something else that's very important to the people in Japan. We can pray for them. We're going to pray that God will help them to find their families, and find new places to live, and we're going to pray that God will comfort them and keep them safe."
It so happens that our family is going through "Ashes to Fire," a fourteen week study from Ash Wednesday to Pentecost, with our church family. This is the first time Toby has been in a big kid group on Sunday nights. His teacher sent home a folder with a page of prayers we were to pray every night this week with him. Last night, this was what we prayed:
"Dear God, thank you for being with me. Please be with the people who are in need. Amen."
As his Daddy prayed that prayer with him, tears filled my eyes. Toby is only three years old, but he is already learning about compassion, prayer, and that God comforts those who are in need. How awesome, that God can be so present in such a small life! I'm so proud of him now, but I know that as he grows older, it will be our job to cultivate those things in him. What a blessing to be a parent!
The tsunami victims and survivors in Japan really do need our help. If you would like to donate via Red Cross, you can visit www.redcross.org, or text REDCROSS to 90999 to donate $10.
You can also assemble a Crisis Care Kit like the ones our family is making.
Gather new items in quantities listed below. Assemble Crisis Care Kits (CCKs) and seal the Zip-loc bags. Include only those items listed on the inventory. Deviating from this list can cause an entire shipment to be rejected in customs. INSTRUCTIONS: Into a 2-GALLON ZIPLOC BAG put the following items:
1 medium size bottle of shampoo (12 to 18oz.), please tape flip-tops closed
2 bars of soap (no travel size)
1 medium toothpaste (4.0 to 6.4 oz.)
3 toothbrushes
1 box of Band-Aids (30 or more)
1 fingernail clipper
1 sturdy hair comb
2 hand towels
4 pocket-size packages of facial tissue
1 Beanie Baby-size stuffed toy
Drop these off at your nearest Church of the Nazarene, and we will ship them to our headquarters to be distributed to disaster victims in Japan.
To find a church near you, go to http://app.nazarene.org/FindAChurch/
For more information, go to
Last night, while reading it, I got an idea. This is a great opportunity for a teaching moment, I said to myself. So here's what I did.
I read the story, like always. Then after we were done I had a little talk with my preschooler. "Toby, do you know what? Last week, something happened in a faraway country called Japan. You know how we just read about the flood that happened in the Bible and how Noah and his family stayed safe and warm in a big boat? Well, there was a great big flood in Japan. But the people there didn't have a big boat. So they got caught up in all the water. And some of them lost their homes and everything. Isn't that sad?"
At this point, he began to get really interested in what I was saying. He made a sad face, and moaned a little, "Yeah. That's sad."
So I went on, "But you know what? Even though we're really far away, we can help the people in Japan. What do you think we can do?"
"I don't know. What, Mommy?"
"Well, tomorrow we're going to go to the store and do some shopping. We're going to buy some things for the people in trouble in Japan. Things like soap, so they can take a bath, and toothpaste and toothbrushes, so they can brush their teeth. And we're going to put it all in bags. Your job is to pick out a little stuffed animal, like your bear, to put in each of the bags. So when the people in Japan get these special bags, they'll know that someone cares about them enough to make sure they have the things they need. Isn't that cool?"
"Yeah, Mommy! We make some bags!"
"And do you know what else we can do? We can do something else that's very important to the people in Japan. We can pray for them. We're going to pray that God will help them to find their families, and find new places to live, and we're going to pray that God will comfort them and keep them safe."
It so happens that our family is going through "Ashes to Fire," a fourteen week study from Ash Wednesday to Pentecost, with our church family. This is the first time Toby has been in a big kid group on Sunday nights. His teacher sent home a folder with a page of prayers we were to pray every night this week with him. Last night, this was what we prayed:
"Dear God, thank you for being with me. Please be with the people who are in need. Amen."
As his Daddy prayed that prayer with him, tears filled my eyes. Toby is only three years old, but he is already learning about compassion, prayer, and that God comforts those who are in need. How awesome, that God can be so present in such a small life! I'm so proud of him now, but I know that as he grows older, it will be our job to cultivate those things in him. What a blessing to be a parent!
The tsunami victims and survivors in Japan really do need our help. If you would like to donate via Red Cross, you can visit www.redcross.org, or text REDCROSS to 90999 to donate $10.
You can also assemble a Crisis Care Kit like the ones our family is making.
Gather new items in quantities listed below. Assemble Crisis Care Kits (CCKs) and seal the Zip-loc bags. Include only those items listed on the inventory. Deviating from this list can cause an entire shipment to be rejected in customs. INSTRUCTIONS: Into a 2-GALLON ZIPLOC BAG put the following items:
1 medium size bottle of shampoo (12 to 18oz.), please tape flip-tops closed
2 bars of soap (no travel size)
1 medium toothpaste (4.0 to 6.4 oz.)
3 toothbrushes
1 box of Band-Aids (30 or more)
1 fingernail clipper
1 sturdy hair comb
2 hand towels
4 pocket-size packages of facial tissue
1 Beanie Baby-size stuffed toy
Drop these off at your nearest Church of the Nazarene, and we will ship them to our headquarters to be distributed to disaster victims in Japan.
To find a church near you, go to http://app.nazarene.org/FindAChurch/
For more information, go to
Friday, January 14, 2011
So I'm a Blogger Now
I created this blog a while ago, but I've never written in it. I guess I just don't know what to say. Or maybe I am out of practice. Whatever the reason, I'm going to try and use it now. I realize that I have a story to tell. I suppose we all do. And this seems to be the medium in which we tell our stories now. So here goes, my first blog post:
Laundry Rooms are kind of peaceful to me. In college, I always tried to pick the day that no one else was doing their laundry. I would listen to the steady hum of the machines while I did homework or read, or even prayed. That's right, I prayed to the beat of the washing machine.
These days, I have a lot more laundry to do. Two little boys and a husband, plus my own wardrobe of "mom clothes," and not to mention diapers, which are washed and reused in our house. I still like to do laundry. I close the door and put in my earbuds, and enter another world, where I fold clothes to the beat of my playlist of the day.
There's something calming about the order of laundry. It is a chore that requires very little thought other than determining which Cars pajamas belong to which child, and why my three year old has no socks, despite the fact that I've bought him four packs in the past year. While I am doing laundry, I can think about other things, things that matter.
I guess that's what this blog is really about, the things I think about while I do laundry. Sure, it's really just another blog about another mom. But my blog is different, because I am different. You may find me dull for finding peace in laundry, but that's okay. On the other hand, if you want to know what a young mom thinks about while she is in the laundry room, keep reading. The answers might surprise you.
Laundry Rooms are kind of peaceful to me. In college, I always tried to pick the day that no one else was doing their laundry. I would listen to the steady hum of the machines while I did homework or read, or even prayed. That's right, I prayed to the beat of the washing machine.
These days, I have a lot more laundry to do. Two little boys and a husband, plus my own wardrobe of "mom clothes," and not to mention diapers, which are washed and reused in our house. I still like to do laundry. I close the door and put in my earbuds, and enter another world, where I fold clothes to the beat of my playlist of the day.
There's something calming about the order of laundry. It is a chore that requires very little thought other than determining which Cars pajamas belong to which child, and why my three year old has no socks, despite the fact that I've bought him four packs in the past year. While I am doing laundry, I can think about other things, things that matter.
I guess that's what this blog is really about, the things I think about while I do laundry. Sure, it's really just another blog about another mom. But my blog is different, because I am different. You may find me dull for finding peace in laundry, but that's okay. On the other hand, if you want to know what a young mom thinks about while she is in the laundry room, keep reading. The answers might surprise you.
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