Enigma. Paradox. Me.

Ambigram from AdWeek Suicide Prevention Ads

I am enigmatic. I am a paradox. I take pride in not being easily understood or explained, yet I want desperately to be understood and to explain myself.  I am open, but I am defensive. In my quest to prevent others from feeling pain and make everyone happy, I cause pain and grief. I am self-less to a fault, but still make everything about me. I suffer from depression, but chase happiness like it's actually attainable. I see things in black and white dichotomies, but want others to see the gray spectrum in me. I judge others but I don't want them to judge me. I want to share everything I love with the people I love but I still hold back the things I love most for fear of hurt and rejection. I expect perfection and yet yearn to be allowed to fail.

Love others as you love yourself. Love your life and you will lose it. How can I love myself and hate my own life?

I get it wrong, all the time.

I need forgiveness. I need acceptance. I need unconditional love. I need patience. I need all the things that I sometimes find it hard to give.

I want to have my cake and eat it, too.

I need kindness. I need mercy. I need abundant grace. I need all the things that I sometimes find hard to accept.

I want too much and love too much and cry too much and laugh too loud and feel too deep and open my mind too wide.

I am broken, I am beautiful.

I am enigmatic. I am a paradox.

Aren't we all?

What killed Jesus?

As we approach Holy Week, I've been thinking a lot about Jesus' death and what it means for us as followers of Christ. It is a time where I solemnly reflect on the past year and what his death means in my life, both in the past and in the present. This year, I've been thinking about what killed Jesus. Not necessarily physically, as I know the method, but who, what, why, and how that all fits together.

As a child, I was taught (and rightly so) that sin is the reason Jesus died, plain and simple. As an adult, I have started to explore this idea more deeply, especially after Kevin's sermon a week ago dealing with half truths about sin. (Click here to listen!) All sin is not equal in severity and consequence, but all sin is equal in that the wages of it are death, and forgiveness is made available through the blood of Jesus.  Coincidentally, I've also recently been noticing a lot of stories about people being the victims of hate and prejudice and that's what I want to focus on today, as I believe it was a major cause of Christ's death sentence. It comes in many forms, from name calling on the playground, to beatings in a parking lot, to people being killed or driven to suicide by the careless words and actions of others. A kid told my daughter at school this week that he didn't like her, for no apparent reason whatsoever. Now that is a relatively mild example, but it still illustrates my point: dislike, fear of others, and even hate is everywhere, it is a part of the human condition.

When you really think about it, hate is easy, isn't it? Way easier than love. It takes little thought on the part of the hater, but it affects the hatee very deeply. As someone who has suffered from deep depression as an adult and peer-dealt oppression as a child, I identify deeply with the victims in these stories. I know what it's like to feel like a walking mistake, simply because of the way I was born and the way my brain works. I am judged as a mother because I suffered from PPD, although there's not much I could do about it because that's how my biological body responds to hormone fluctuations. According to some, apparently, I don't really suffer from anything, because depression doesn't exist. To others, I am simply succumbing to "sinful lifestyle" to admit that I deal with long term depression and anxiety (and they have proof texts to hit me with as well!), but I know when God looks at my heart, he sees someone who just wants to follow him with all they've got, no matter what, and who strives to see themselves as he sees them - as someone who is worthy of being called his child, even when they're not perfect. And I would hope that other Christians would see that as well, but we all know that is not always the case. When I read or see the stories of others who struggle like me, I want to reach through the screen and grab these fellow humans and hug them and tell them there is hope, there is healing, and that they are not alone. Each generation has a preferred target, but we all have that group of people that we feel threatened by - even as Christians! We often feel threatened by other believers that are different from us. We fool ourselves into thinking that we have it all exactly right, so they have to believe as we do, when the reality is not another person on the earth believes exactly like you do or like I do.  I hear a lot of talk about, "Well, we know them by their fruit," and I understand where that comes from - but I also think maybe our fruit seeing eyes aren't "all that," you know?  What if what looks like weak, shriveled, or even non-existent fruit to me looks like the biggest, juiciest orange in the garden to God, because he knows their story and what they've gone through to get there and I do not? It's a point worth considering, simply because it puts the focus back on the log in our own eye and not the speck in theirs. Think about the people Jesus praised and how they looked to the Pharisees, essentially the God appointed "fruit-judgers" of Israel. What they saw as rotten, Jesus saw as good, as vice versa. It's something to think about. And even as I write out my thoughts, I am aware of the fact that I in no way think I am absolutely right about these things. I know what I believe and why I believe it and I am more than happy to share it with anyone who wants to hear it, but I also desire to be humble enough to actually listen to someone who is different from me and be validating of them, even if I do not agree. I still fail (often miserably when it comes to my own "pet peeves"), but I am trying.

As I read the story of Jesus' life, I am drawn to the fact that he was also a controversial figure; hated by those who decided what the "status quo" was and who fit in - and also who didn't measure up. Who were these power mongers? They were the people Jesus had in his sights, the ones whom he called "whitewashed tombs" and "brood of vipers." They were the religious and government leaders of his day. The successful ones that everyone looked up to; the ones who claimed they knew all about Jesus' secret agenda to take over their power and they would stop at nothing to stop him. They accused him of blasphemy against God when they themselves were guilty of just that. But still, they followed and defined the status quo, so they got the "last word." What they said, went: Jews in, Samaritans out. Rich in, poor out. Righteous in, sinners out. Barabas in, Jesus out. And just when they thought they had everything under control, here comes Jesus representing everything they hated, is it any wonder they wanted him gone?  I mean he shared a cup with a Samaritan woman, he dined with and even protected well known, seemingly unrepentant sinners; he touched lepers and forgave adulterers, he challenged flowery public prayers and praised the woman who gave only 2 pennies as an offering. Jesus was different, he took "tradition" and "law" and replaced them with "grace" and "relationship."  He was different and they feared different. Different threatened their power. So rather than listening with open hearts, they clung to their fear and let it turn to hatred.

And in their fear and hatred, they killed him. 

No, they didn't drive the actual nails in his hands, but they banded together, forming an ugly, bitter unity; and they even convinced a beloved friend to betray him (although Judas himself was also to blame). Just like the people that belittle and bully vulnerable teens into killing themselves, telling them that no one cares, not even the people they thought loved them and they'd be better off dead because they are in and of themselves just a big, fat mistake. Even the governor washed his hands of Jesus' case, for fear of retribution from the people. Sure, Jesus knew all this was coming, but do you think that saved him from any hurt? I don't think it did. I hate that he suffered because of me, but I am thankful to have a Savior that knows what it feels like to be betrayed and hated and yet still loved by God. Jesus never said that the rules or laws didn't matter, but he did say he was sent to restore what was broken and that love mattered much much more than following the rules and holding others to ridiculous standards. Righteousness starts in our hearts with the love of God, true repentance, and humility in the face of our own shortcomings.

Fear and hatred kill. They kill our bodies, they kill our spirits, they kill our hope. They killed our Savior.  Of course there is further hope in the resurrection - but we're not there yet. We're not to that place in the story. Please, don't rush ahead, even when it's uncomfortable to dwell; even when it causes you to take a good look at your own shortcomings. I encourage you to take the time during Holy Week to explore what you fear and what you hate. How will you treat the dark skinned woman in a hijab who sits by you on the bus? How about that gay couple across from you in the restaurant? What about the single mom with the screaming kids in the grocery store? Or maybe the older person in front of you in the pharmacy line who doesn't understand how to organize all their medications? Better yet, how would Jesus treat them? Would he think to himself "What a sinner/annoyance/idiot!" and then just move on? Think on those things you harbor in your heart that no one else knows about. We all have them. Allow God to shine a light on them. Confront them. Listen to Him with an open heart. Don't be like the fig tree Jesus took issue with after he cleansed the temple, you know the one that looked really good and followed all the "rules" of being a good looking, church going tree, but was bare bones when it came to the thing that mattered: love, I mean figs. You're better than that. God's church is better than that. So let's start showing it, shall we?

Which is better?

I really do mean to post more often than I do. Isn't that the way these blog things always go, good intentions at the beginning but no time to actually follow through? I know, I know, I have three good excuses (otherwise known as my kids), but the thing is I love to write and I always have like 10 blog posts floating around in my head; sometimes I wish I had more time to sit and hammer them out.  Oh well. Anyway, I have a question for you, inspired by another article I read today as well as many of the questions I and others have been toying with lately:

Which is better?

Coffee or tea?

Chocolate or vanilla?

Country living or city life?

Mega/large church or small church?

Contemporary or traditional worship?

Liberal or conservative?

Texas or Florida?

Now, most of us have definite opinions when asked the above questions.  You can probably look at my choices in life and tell which ones I prefer...or maybe you could at least pick the ones that fit into the picture you have of who I am.  Even then, I could make a list now that would look totally different than what it would have even a year ago. My point is that we all have opinions, we all have a perspective, and through time, that perspective will change; but, we feel so threatened by that change that the conversation just gets shut down because someone (myself included) can't deal with another disagreeing with them. That's where we get stuck - inflexible - when we become so convinced that our opinion or perspective is the right one and we start getting arrogant or holier-than-thou or self righteous - you know, like a rebellious teenager who thinks they know better than everyone else.  So, being the faithful psychology nerd that I am, I have to take the issue deeper and ask another question.

Where does this attitude come from?

There are certain emotions that we display that are called "secondary" emotions. This means that they are typically the result of another, more primal emotion.  Anger is often a secondary emotion. Wait, what? Yes, you heard me correctly, anger is (often, not always) a secondary emotion, meaning it usually results from another emotion, even if it's just a flash of an emotion. For me, anger typically results from first feeling hurt or feeling afraid. I think for most of us, anger is a reflex that we feel when we are threatened. Humans fight for equilibrium (also referred to as our "balance" or our "center") at all times, even if their "center" is an unhealthy one. That why people who struggle with depression, anxiety, addiction, or any other number of maladies often refuse to get help. Getting help would mean change and change means disturbing their balance, which is the one thing we all try not to do.  Now, don't get me wrong, maintaining balance is a good thing, as is fighting for what you believe in, but focusing too much on maintaining balance can often interfere with our ability to grow and change as human beings. Life requires growth and change, it's inevitable. We will age. We will experience loss. We will experience change.  And guess what - when we do, the world will keep spinning and life as earth knows it does not stop. Eventually, we will have to face most of our fears. We can run and hide or we can methodically plan out every step but it doesn't matter - life will still come along and throw us a curve ball. We long for these "guarantees" - just follow this rule and that rule and you can prevent "life" (heartbreak, loss, tragedy) from happening.  Use this cream and you won't get wrinkles.  Use this foundation and you can cover up all your flaws.  Buy this car and everyone will think you're swag young money (just learned that one the other day, thanks QB!).  Does it matter what others think? Yes and no.  Does it matter what God thinks? Oh, yes.  A lot of us are motivated by what others think and we all know there can be issues with that, but many are also motivated by what God thinks.

Or what they think God thinks. What God thinks according to their personal ideology. (Am I stepping on toes yet?) Who do you have in your mind, right now, that you're thinking, "Oh yeah, that person totally does that!"?  Okay, take that person and now replace them with yourself.  Did you do it? Okay, good, let's move on. (Okay, now I'm stomping on both feet. Bear with me.)

 I come at this from a different perspective than a lot of others. I'm different, I just am. I was born that way. No really, it is actually in my biology - science says so. I question, I wrestle, I struggle, I doubt. In my short life, I've had the ideology of other people forced on me more times than I can count and I know from personal experience the toll that that can take on a human being. It's not pretty. And you know the crazy thing? Most of these people were not trying to be mean or beat me into submission, they were simply driven by what they thought was right, at the expense of my idea of who I was as a person, otherwise known as self-esteem. How can one love others as they love themselves if they hate themselves? Self-esteem and self-righteousness, despite popular teachings, are not one and the same. I've seen that ideologies are all well and good in theory, but when put into practice, they fall apart. Why? Because people.  What's the number one cause of divorce? People.  What's the number one cause of war? People.  What's often missing from ideologies is the openness and the flexibility that is required to get through life with any hope of experiencing happiness. This can also be referred to as loving our neighbor. So now having said all of the above, I will answer the questions I asked.  Are you ready?

Why not both?  (Stay with me here. I'll explain.)

Sometimes I need coffee because I can't keep my eyes open and I have things to do. Sometimes I need tea because I need something soothing.
How would we know the goodness of chocolate if we didn't have vanilla to compare it to (or vice versa)?
 Rural living is wonderful, there's nothing like the taste of freshness that comes from a hand-picked garden. There's nothing like being part of such a tight-knit community that when you close your blinds and sneeze, everyone asks the next morning how your cold is. (Thank you, Anne of Green Gables for that anecdote!) But there are also times that it's nice to know your neighbor is literally seconds away if you need something, or that the ER is close enough that you don't have to make a choice between calling an ambulance and having to wait for who knows how long or driving there yourself, but at a slower pace. There is a richness in the cultural diversity that comes with city life, it's harder to be racist/homophobic/misogynistic when you are surrounded by, know, and love the people that don't fit "the mold", AKA whatever ideology that particular culture has adopted as the "only way".
We've seen the bad that mega churches can spawn but there is also a lot of good in there as well, they can move the masses in ways that smaller churches can only dream of - they can make real change happen. Small churches may not have a separate service for children and for youth, but there's something about the pastor knowing your name and recognizing every face that brings warmth to a heart that longs for closeness and relationship.
As for worship style, I told someone the other day that I don't really care what style worship it is, as long as it's genuine and God is there (whether I feel him or not), I have no problems with it. Contemporary, gospel, high church, low church, liturgical, traditional, in a bar; I don't care, as long as my heart is in the right place, I know that I will encounter God.
Conservative mindsets are often necessary to maintain boundaries that have been set and remind of us of what we stand for. Liberal mindsets are often necessary to push us past the boundaries that didn't need to be set and to show us where we can go.
Texas is where my roots are, where my home is, where my family is, and where my friends are; it's unique and wonderful and obnoxious. Florida is where my roots are growing, where my home is, where my friends are and where my family is; it's where the sand gets between my toes and I can lose myself in the beauty of the seashore. I love the fanciness of Texas and the casualness of Florida.

But I would never want to get so steeped in one or the other mindset that I lose the ability to relate to other people who may have a different opinion because they are just as much as child of God as I am.

There are so many ways in which I cannot choose one over the other because they both matter and to lose one would be to lose the ability to truly appreciate each for what they are.

I encourage you to quit being so scared of life, so scared of loss, so scared of something different, so scared of something new, so scared of questioning your personal idea of God, so scared of disturbing the balance of your life that something wonderful passes you by. Stand for what you believe in, but not to the point of stomping the life out of someone else.  Live to see the good, not the bad. Look for how you can love, not how you can be offended.

So, I ask you again.  Which is better? Maybe it's one or the other. Or maybe it's both. Maybe it's neither.  The question begs us to go deeper.

A Mindful Christmas.

I don't know if you know this or not, but I've always been a little different.  I tend to notice things that others don't. Some would say I notice too many things, because they often distract me from what I'm told are the "important" things in life, like homework and housework and image and such. Regardless, I like to take the time to stop and think about the things I notice. I firmly believe that one must stop and "smell the roses"; if one takes the time to smell the roses, one might also find themselves admiring the beauty of their petals, the sleek curves of their thorns, and the sturdiness of their stems. The more we open ourselves to the beauty in one area of our lives, the more we notice the beauty in all the areas of our lives; and this, my friends, is what being mindful is all about.  Mindfulness allows you to actually enjoy the moment you're in, rather than longing for the past or worrying about the future. It's rather freeing.

A few weeks ago, I found myself out shopping for Christmas and I could just feel the stress starting to take over. You know the feeling - your heart rate goes up, you feel your skin getting flushed, the adrenaline starts pumping, and your brain begins shouting commands and consequences at you. You see, no matter how hard I tried to control it, it seemed like the gift list kept getting more and more out of hand - especially where it concerned my 5 year old. I don't make a habit of letting my kids give Santa a list a mile long. We go to a specific website, fill in the 3 blanks on a prefabricated letter, and then we wait for Christmas to come. In years past, we've been lucky that friends shared the big ticket items with us because they no longer needed them; a bike, a Power Wheels Jeep, stuff like that. But this year was different. This year we had 3 kids to buy for and the oldest had seriously upped her game.  As I stood in the middle of the store, cart overflowing, comparing prices and trying to control my outrage at certain items being sold out, something inside me (the Holy Spirit, perhaps?) said in a still, small voice: "Are you really going to blow the budget just because you can't tell a 5 year old 'no'? Just because you can't tell yourself 'no'?" Suddenly, I saw the ridiculousness that was my shopping cart. Then and there, I decided that this year, and every year following, was going to be different.

Yes, we were still going to do Santa, but he is only bringing one gift instead of three. Not only that, but he gets to pick which one of the three he is going to bring.  Instead of opening all our gifts on Christmas Day, we were going to actually observe the 12 days of Christmas and open a new gift every day. Maybe that gift will be a fun new toy from Grandma and Grandpa or maybe it will be boring new underwear from Mom because seriously, you need new underwear.  Feeling relieved, I started to smile as I put things back on the shelf, feeling the adrenaline rush secede with each step . So maybe she wouldn't get the FurReal GoGo Walking Dog thing and the LeapPad and the Frozen comforter set; but guess what, she would survive. You know why? Because she already has access to an iPad with a ton of games, a comforter set that she doesn't use, and tons of stuffed animals - both of the animated and the stationary variety. And you know what else? She would survive because Christmas isn't all about getting gifts; it's about the promise of receiving priceless things like hope, peace, joy, and love. It's about the Love that came down on the first Christmas, revealed first to those who were just a bit different, who noticed things like new stars appearing in the sky and sang songs of joy over being chosen by God; who were willing to give God a chance to do something new and life changing. It's why we give to missions and send shoe boxes with toothpaste and socks and toys halfway around the world; not because we'll get brownie points but because we actually think and care about the people who don't have clean water to drink or enough food to eat, much less iPads and comforters. It's why we give year round and not just in December.

Now, I know I sound a little nutty - and I assure you - I seriously don't have anything against presents. I really don't expect my kids not to get excited about presents, that's just not realistic, they're kids! And if we're being honest here, I still get excited about presents, because it's fun to see what other people get when they think of me. But maybe, just maybe, somewhere in the excitement of getting, I can introduce them to the excitement of giving. And you know what? It's working. Yesterday, all my 5 year old could talk about was the gifts she wanted to make for her siblings and her parents. Today, she wanted us all to open the gifts she so carefully wrapped because she was so excited about them. But I told her we had to wait. Why? Because that's what the season of Advent is about; waiting out the anticipation that seems overbearing at times, because when we wait, it makes the surprise of Christmas that much more delightful. It's a hard lesson to learn, but I'm hoping the season of Christmas (not what we consider the Christmas season, starting in August and then steamrolling straight towards Dec. 25th where it then crashes and burns in a blaze of glory and wrapping paper, but the season celebrated by the church that actually starts on Christmas and lasts for 12 days) will help in the learning process.

Kevin and I work to keep Advent and it's special meaning separate from the more secular part of actual Christmas that involves Santa and the like, but we don't shut Santa out completely. It bothers me when people rail against Santa, claiming he's just Satan with the letters rearranged. Give me a break, people, Santa is modeled after an actual saint. Last time I checked, Satan failed miserably in the "saint"' category. He doesn't care about or give gifts to anybody. However, I do not discount the reason many of them get upset; oftentimes they feel that the holiness of Christmas gets overshadowed by the sheer consumerism and political correctness that drives the season nowadays. I get it, it bothers me too. Only I don't see it as my job to force "holiness" onto others who will not own it for themselves, and that's where I differ from many; but I will call out my fellow believers when they're losing sight of the end goal - sharing the love of God with the world he created. If we remember the story correctly, God did not force himself on the world, storming in on a white stallion, sword held high, ready to march into battle. God came quietly into the world, by way of an unmarried virgin and her brave betrothed, heralded by shepherds and astronomers and a multitude of angels giving a private concert. Heaven itself spilled out, a little at a time, splashing out onto those who surrounded him. That's what Christmas has always been about and is still about; heaven spilling out, a little at a time onto those who surround the followers of this Jesus. To me, that means a smile and a sincere wish of "Happy Holidays" because I don't know what holiday you celebrate and I really don't want to endanger your job, but I do want you to know that love still exists in this world and that the Kingdom of God is at hand and that there is joy to be had. The joy that made John leap in Elizabeth's womb is still available for whosoever will. I don't want you to know I'm a Christian just because I say "Merry Christmas", I want you to know I'm a Christian because of the way I act, both at Christmas and the rest of the year. They will know we are Christians by our love. So to me, having a mindful Christmas means letting my kids take the time to enjoy the gifts that they do get, reflecting on the person who gave it to them, and knowing that they are so very loved by so many people - truly a season full of hope, peace, joy, and love.  I'm not worried about attending every party and decorating every part of the house and spending all of my time doing the "stuff" that I've been told is "important." Why? Because it's just not that important. Your kids will not remember the extra decorations you put up or the meticulously decorated sugar cookies but they will remember the time that you didn't spend with them because of the things that didn't really matter. I don't want a busy Christmas, I don't even care about having a "Merry Christmas" as that often implies that there is no room for heartbreak, grief, and dare I say anger during the holiday season. I simply want a mindful Christmas, to feel and experience what each moment brings my way. Why? Because without mindfulness, I might just miss the point.

Three is a Crowd.

For those of you who know me, you know that I'm the mildly neurotic, roll with the punches type of parent. (Say what? Let me explain.) Essentially, I'm as cool as a cucumber until things get so chaotic and out of control that I can't stand it anymore and I start yelling things like "WHY am I the ONLY person who EVER puts ANYTHING back where it GOES?!!??!" while stomping around like a deranged elephant on crack. You know the type.  Most of my insanity is due to the fact that I have three children, two of which are under two. Yeah.  So, for those of you who wonder if having three kids is really that different from having two, may I present the Top 10 7 Reasons That Three is a Crowd.

#1) You're officially outnumbered.

People often joke with us "Man, are your hands full!" or "Wow, three? Now you're outnumbered!", but seriously, this is no joke. There is ALWAYS someone who needs something; usually while the two other small someones also need something. And they don't just need it like I need a spa weekend in Jamaica, they NEED it NOW or they will DIE. So, due to the fact that there are only 2 of us and 3 of them, someone is always crying about something somewhere in our house - and sometimes the kids cry too. To top it off, we parents are usually sporting the always fashionable "death warmed over because I had 3 measly hours of sleep" look while our 3 small bundles of boundless energy who can't do anything for themselves run circles around us, leaving trails of household debris in their wake. It's exhausting.

#2) You're always tired. So tired.

Remember back in reason number one I mentioned that it's exhausting? That's putting it mildly. It seems like one of them is always awake for some reason or another, which means one of us is always awake for some reason or another. I swear they have a built in sensor that goes off anytime our heads hit the pillow. I can't prove it, but I know it's there, just like the eyes in the back of mom's head. Add to that the fact that parents aren't immune from things like colds and stomach flues and insomnia and you have a recipe for disaster, albeit comedic disaster.

#3) Your brain can no longer function normally.

Comedic, you say? Yes, we are our own live-action sitcom. Who needs television when you have us? I remember one time in our old condo, I watched as my husband walked from the kitchen to the bedroom and then back again, returning with the plastic wrap in hand. As I watched this, I found myself wondering why he was wandering about with the plastic wrap... when I remembered it was I who had absentmindedly placed the aforementioned wrap on the bookshelf in our room. Why? (And NO, it was not some kinky bedroom goings-on) I was interrupted by a child who needed something while I was cleaning up and apparently, I didn't realize I still had the plastic wrap until I needed two hands. Sigh. We used to be young and spry, able to leap Jeopardy! categories in a single bound; now we just bumble around looking lost while our children lob us incessant questions that are WAY harder to answer than any Jeopardy! clue. Alex ain't got nothin' on my 5 year old. ("Mommy, what is the opposite of brown?" I don't know, child, because my brain dissolved somewhere around the time the 3rd pregnancy test came up positive. Ask me again in 18 years.)

#3) A new definition of "opposites" and "sibling rivalry".

Speaking of opposites, did you know that things can have more than one opposite? Like the opposite of happy can be sad, or it can also be mad. Consequently, those are also the names of my children. (I kid, I kid.) For the (very) short time that I only had two children, I found their differences cute. I didn't grow up with a brother or close male cousins, so a little boy was a new experience for me. Fast forward a year and we found ourselves back in the ultrasound room, being told that we were having another girl. "Easy peasy," I thought, "I've already got one of those." Wrong. While I did already have one girl, the second one was vastly different than the first. Where my oldest would drink her bottle out of the fridge, this one would only drink it warm (like her brother). The oldest slept through the night (for the most part) from her first week out of the womb - not so with the other two. Where my little boy would do a "warm up" before he actually started crying, the youngest launches straight into the Armageddon battle cry. Then we have the sibling rivalry that's already starting between the two oldest - although I must say it's different than the rivalry I had with my own sister. My 5 year old first born girl thinks her baby sister hung the moon whereas her brother commonly gets left out of the pictures she draws of our "whole family." She always wanted a sister.

#4) "Perfect" is in the eye of the beholder.

So, many (most?) of us only planned on having 2 kids, preferably one of each gender, the "perfect" little nuclear family. Then came the oops baby, the surprise baby, or my personal favorite, the bonus baby.  Now, I know a few of those "surprises" in real life (my own mother is one!) and I sure am glad they came along, but I'll bet for a while there their parents felt like I did when they first learned of the new arrival-to-be; kind of a mix between shock, horror joy, and denial. I heard Jim Gaffigan say one time that having a fourth child is like drowning and then someone hands you a baby. I can totally relate with that. I often thought my "perfect" family would consist of two girls, 5 years apart, like me and my sister. Then for a while, I thought my "perfect" family would be either one or zero children, preferably a girl IF I did have one. Well, I got my two girls, (almost exactly) 5 years apart, but I also got my sweet little boy that I wouldn't trade for the world and everything in it.  One part of me believes that God sends us the children we desperately need and who desperately need us as well, but another part (and probably the larger part) believes that free will has a lot to do with it too - I could've chosen to have no children or gotten a permanent form of birth control after the first or second one.  Regardless, I never expected to have three children, even in my wildest dreams BUT if you asked me which one I would give up, there's just no way I could answer you other than to say, "None of them!" Each of them is so wonderful, unique, and special in their own way. I have a different relationship with each of them and I wouldn't give that up for anything. Kevin and I sometimes threaten to take them to the fire station when they're misbehaving, but it's just a joke. Most of the time.  That being said, when people tell me that my youngest one is here simply because "Oh, God has a special plan for her!" it makes me wonder if God just didn't care about my already existing and still recovering, traumatized body/mind/soul that was already stretched pretty thin between two kids, a husband, a church, and school. I know they mean well, but seriously, I was drowning and then someone handed me a baby. But that's another blog post.

 #5)  Your house is constantly a mess.

I don't care if you're Martha Stewart on steroids and meth, there is just no way to have a clean house and your sanity when you have three children. With two, it was hard, but it could be done - with three, it is impossible. As soon as I clean up one mess, another one has been made. What took 2 seconds to spill on the floor takes half an hour to clean up. Then there's just the general maintenance stuff and the Never. Ending. Laundry. And I'm a stay-at-home mom! I can't imagine what I would do if I also worked full-time, so kudos to those moms who do! That's why I absolutely love this infographic:

#6) You cannot get anywhere, on time, ever.

It literally takes a minimum of 2.5 hours to get ready for church and that's IF I get the kids' clothes ready the night before and don't bother with hair and makeup.  There's the outfits and the diaper bag and the thermos of hot water mixed with prune juice because we have a picky baby with constipation issues (All three kids have this issue. Yes, I have talked to the doctor. Yes, they drink plenty of water, eat plenty of fiber, etc etc... I am just thankful it's not something worse.) and the extra clothes and did we remember to bring the donuts for breakfast/covered dish for the luncheon/other random church thing?  Let's not even get into having to get the oldest up and ready for school THAT STARTS AT 7:40AM every single day after the baby FINALLY went to back sleep at 6:30. We should have a sign outside our door that says, "Welcome to Crazytown, USA; here's your hat, the parade is on Thursday!"

#7)  Going anywhere is (almost) not worth it.

Those of you with no children or only one, well behaved child: please know that we love you dearly and we would give our right arm to be able to go out with you to the cute little wine bar and then tapas and then dinner afterward but...well... we'd give both arms for an extra hour of sleep. Sorry. This reason is pretty much a given with children. We happen to have two pretty calm older kids, they sleep well, eat well, play well, and are generally content with what they're given. The youngest is still just a baby, so her personality still remains a mystery, but I'm willing to bet she won't stray too far the other direction.  Even so, we have to plan every minute detail in order to even get out of the house and into the car. When I go to the grocery store by myself (and yes, it does happen), I have to have a plan of action that would rival General Patton's at the Battle of the Bulge. Which store I'm going to defines which baby restraint devices I will be taking with me, most of which stay in the car all the time. In the back of my trusty white Jeep there are typically several of these devices: the Sit N Stand, an umbrella stroller, the Moby wrap, the Baby Bjorn type carrier, and the little owl backpack with a leash. Yes, I have a leash for my child, I am that mom. So sue me, he loves it.  Anywho, if I'm going to Wal-Mart (or any other place where the basket will only fit a single child up front), I know that the baby will go in the wrap, the older baby will go in the basket/buggy/cart seat, and the oldest will either walk, or she'll sit in the big part of the basket/buggy/cart ON YOUR BOTTOM FOR THE 37 THOUSANDTH TIME SO HELP ME GOD and play with my phone.

So, as you can probably tell, I was going to do the "Top 10" reasons but due to #2 and #3, 7 is the best I can do.  While writing this, I realized that I'm still such a newbie at this whole parenting thing, I mean seriously, I've only been a mom for FIVE YEARS. I should write another list when I hit 10 years. If I'm still alive and/or sane. No promises though.

Lead on Leave: A Labor of Love.

I try to steer clear of political issues, but this particular one has touched the lives of my family and my friends. The U.S. is the only industrialized nation that doesn't provide paid maternity leave. We're the only ones, folks. What does that say about the way we value our families and children? It says very little, my friends. 

Or maybe it says a lot. 

If parents (yes, Dad too) had the resources to be able to stay home while acclimating to life with a new baby, maybe having more children wouldn't be viewed so much as a hardship (or just plain crazy), but instead the blessing that it is. Whether it's the first time or the fifth time, life with a newborn (or a new child if you've adopted) is extremely hard. Kevin and I are blessed to have an employer who is willing to work with us when I need extra help at home, but so many do not have what we have. And I'm not picking on employers, I get it, who can afford that? But even then, if I would've known for sure that Kevin would be provided with a few weeks of paid leave after a new baby (I'm not even asking for 12 weeks, 2 would be awesome!), postpartum depression wouldn't have been as much of a concern because I would've been assured that I would have the help I needed in order to actually recover from childbirth. (Wait, you mean that recovering from 9 months of constant energy depleting work and then adding labor and birth and a screaming baby on top of it actually takes time? Mind blowing.) And just in case you didn't know, having a baby isn't exactly a vacation, in fact, it's pretty much the opposite of a vacation, so it kinda stinks to have to use vacation and sick leave in order to have some semblance of recovery. (By the way, did you know that men can also suffer from PPD? Yeah, it's not just a girl disease.) Women in the US (at least according to our media and celebrity culture) are expected to jump out of bed an hour after birth and run a marathon while exclusively breastfeeding with little effort and showing off their post baby body in a string bikini. It's ridiculous. Maybe if more women were encouraged to take care of themselves as well as their children, we would have healthier families overall. The UK sends midwives to new mothers' houses to check on them and the baby for 6 weeks after birth, but we're expected to make our own appointment with a busy doctor and initiate any serious conversation about postpartum issues, often being cut off at the pass by the receptionist. I kid you not, when I called to make my appointment after Jacob and mentioned that I had been struggling with PPD - diagnosed by a doctor!!! - she had the nerve to tell me that I couldn't have postpartum depression because I was too far past childbirth (6 weeks? Really? Studies show it can develop anytime within the first year and last for 2 to 3 years if not treated). When I asked what I was supposed to do, she stumbled and bumbled around until she finally said I needed to call my GP instead. Knowing the importance of getting help, I did just that, but what about the young single mom who is struggling with depression for the first time and may not have the presence of mind to know that receptionist had no idea what she was talking about and overstepped her bounds by giving out false medical information over the phone? Who will help her when she may be unable to help herself?

Businesses will clamor that they can't afford to pay for more leave, others will clamor that the government will raise our taxes in order to help cover expenses - and they will all have valid points - but could we, as a nation, at least start a conversation rather than an argument? Strong healthy families = a strong healthy nation. Check out the video below. #leadonleave 

http://www.dol.gov/featured/paidleave/

Third time's the charm, Part Two.

Okay, you've waited so patiently, so here it is!

So, we finished up lunch at one of our favorite local spots, Arden's, an all you can eat comfort food buffet. It's run by two local women as part of a ministry to recovering addicts and alcoholics who have been recently released back into normal life.  They give them a job and a support team as they get back on their feet - and the food is incredible.  I had a few "niggles" in church and at lunch, but no contractions to really pay attention to, and I enjoyed our time together with our good friends Janis and Stanley. We said our byes when we were done and headed back towards our house. On the way, I started having more noticeable contractions, getting a little painful, and getting pretty regular. At one point, Kevin was explaining the intricacies of the oil pressure sensor switch and how to test it and change it out when he noticed that I was grabbing the door handle and closing my eyes, not talking, but trying to nod politely as he spoke.  He stopped in the middle of a sentence and said, "Okay, I think I'll stop talking now."  Yes, yes, that might be a good idea. As we got closer to the house, I told him my plan was to go straight to the bathtub and if the warm water didn't help to slow down the contractions, that we should probably head to the hospital.  After about 10 minutes, I decided it was better to be safe than sorry and gave him the go ahead.  He called our dear friend and one of our resident Florida grandmas, "Grammy" Karon, so she could wrangle the older two and we would head up to the hospital.  At this point, I still wasn't actually in pain, but the contractions were enough to make me pay attention to them and they were definitely real labor.  We got to the hospital and were taken straight up to Land D.  When we arrived, all was quiet - apparently we were the only people there!  We conversed with the nurses and explained our situation, how I wasn't in full active labor yet, but since it was our third child and the second had come so quickly, we figured it would be better to go early.  They must have reviewed my notes from Jacob's birth because they told us to skip triage and to go straight into one of the labor and delivery rooms to be monitored instead.  This instantly relieved much of my anxiety since one of the worst parts of Jacob's labor was being stuck in triage with about 10 other women, almost no privacy, progressing rapidly, and not having anyone's undivided attention. They assessed me and I was between a 3 and 4, about 40% effaced, but having regular, good contractions.  Abigail was head down and low, but still not low enough to kick in active labor, so they called the CNM on call (Breana) from my OB office and asked what she thought.  She recommended having me "walk walk walk" to see if we could get Abigail to drop any more. She didn't want to send me home just yet, but since I was not yet 39 weeks, she didn't want to augment my labor right away either.  I was totally okay with this and so we started walking. I hadn't done a whole lot of walking on my own because I didn't want to tire myself out before labor actually started, knowing it could've still been days or weeks before Abbie was ready, but since I was on my way to established labor, I was glad to be walking and out of bed.  One woman arrived to be monitored and another arrived to be admitted, but other than that, all was still quiet on the floor.

Walking laps! Don't you love my hair-do, outfit, and accessories??

One of my favorite parts of the whole experience (Yes, I have a favorite part of labor...I know, I know, go ahead and roll your eyes. I'll wait...) was getting to fellowship with the staff.  I say "fellowship" because we truly were surrounded by fellow brothers and sisters in Christ, each with an obvious passion for helping others. I've seen my sister and other nurses I know go above and beyond for their patients, truly becoming the hands and feet of Christ, caring deeply about many of them when no one else does, not even their families. My sister remembered each one of her residents and grieved when they died. Nurses and doctors are who I think of when I read Matthew 25:40, "The King will reply, 'Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'" The L and D staff was sitting at the nurses station, talking and laughing, and we stopped every few laps to visit and get to know the people in charge of caring for us and Abigail. They saw on our registration form that Kevin was a pastor (that's always a big topic of conversation and questions) and this was the catalyst for many of them opening up and sharing their own beliefs with us. There was a younger guy sitting with the nurses who was talking about how it bothered him to see so much wasted food there at the hospital and at restaurants as well and how he wished there was some way to save that food but the laws seemed so strict. Kevin chimed in and shared how they encountered similar issues at the local food pantry (he's on the board) and that it was usually one person with a bad attitude, looking for a reason to sue, that ruined it for everyone else and that's why the laws are as strict as they are concerning leftover food, but agreed that it was unfair for everyone else. It was nice to see that these people not only cared about their patients, but that they cared about others as well.  We finished our conversation and continued to walk laps. As we rounded the corner to head back to the nurses station, the young man was waiting for us beside the desk. He introduced himself to us as the nurse anesthetist and he would be the one handling pain management for me - turns out these wonderful nurses had made sure that he was around just in case I needed him. He was on call for the night and so far, I was the only patient there, so he got everything ready for us in the likely case that I was admitted and told me once I was in the system, to just let him know when I was ready, and he would put in my epidural.  This relieved (almost all of) the rest of my anxiety as I now knew that pain relief would come quickly once I felt I needed it.  We told him about my previous labor and he told me not to worry, he had done epidurals at 9 and 10 centimeters and said as long as I could be still for long enough to get the needle and catheter in, he could do it with no issues.  I wanted to hug him, but since I had just met him, I decided a big smile, handshake, and thank you would suffice.  We made a few more laps and stopped so I could be checked again. Abigail was a full station lower and I was now a solid 4 cm.  They told me I could stay in the room and wait for them to call Breana again or I could walk some more; I chose to walk because being mobile really helped the contractions stay in the bearable range.  So we continued on our path, chuckling to ourselves over the "Quiet Zone, silence is healing" sign - our last experience had been anything but quiet! Right before the shift change, Karen, my nurse, wanted to check me one more time so she could update the incoming nurse on my progress.  Abigail was no longer "ballotable", which meant she was fully engaged and active labor would be starting any time.  She called Breana, who gave the go ahead for me to be admitted, and they started my IV to pump me full of fluids in preparation for the epidural.  Damien (AKA the angel in blue scrubs with magic drugs) came in and asked me if I was ready for my epidural.  I said sure, since he was there and I was already at a 4. I knew I could progress quickly and since I wasn't in much pain, I might as well start out ahead of the curve.  He asked me if I wanted an epidural and a spinal, or just an epidural, explaining that the difference was a spinal was fast acting and would provide relief in 1 minute, while the epidural would provide relief in 10 to 15 minutes.  He also let me know that the spinal being done first would help him be able to control my blood pressure level a little more and to bolus the epidural more slowly so that I wouldn't get nauseous.  Again, knowing how fast I could progress and the problems I had had with my blood pressure dropping with Karis, I chose the spinal and epidural. He also asked me how many church members knew I had a tattoo on my back, I laughed and replied that I honestly didn't know, I never attempted to hide it, but it's not in the most visible spot either.  As for the actual epidural, the only pain I felt was the needle with the numbing agent, which was little more than a pinch, and soon I felt my lower body growing warm and the contractions melting away. This was such a relief, especially since I had back labor with Karis - the epidural had helped, but it didn't take away the pain. This time, there was no back labor, just blessed pain-free pressure.

Regular, strong, and painless! Woot!

 He clearly knew what he was doing because I could feel the pressure I needed to feel and I could feel it getting stronger, but the pain was totally gone. Time went by and I tried to rest while Kevin read.  I knew I was progressing because the pressure slowly began to increase and get lower (although it still didn't hurt at all). I suddenly felt really nauseous and had Kevin grab the bathroom trashcan for me since I couldn't get out of bed. As I graced the trash can with leftover Arden's, I wished I hadn't eaten such a big lunch, but was relieved that I felt better once I was done instead of staying nauseous. My new nurse, Nadine, came in and brought me washcloths and a syringe full of Zofran to help the nausea. She checked me and I had progressed some more and was getting close to transition.  After a while, we heard Abigail's heart rate dip during a couple of contractions and soon Breana and Nadine hurried in to check my progression again. I was about to tell them about the dips when I heard Breana telling Nadine that the "decels" meant that her head was being compressed and that she had probably moved lower.  Sure enough, they checked and she had moved into a positive station, so Breana broke my water for me and they started a low dose of Pitocin - with our permission - to keep things moving in the right direction. We were all tired and there wasn't an on-call room available for Breana, so I thought moving things along was in everyone's best interest! Had I not had an epidural, I'm not sure I would've agreed to Pitocin, but in this case, it actually helped.  After another hour or so, I told Nadine that I was feeling "pushy" with the pressure and that I thought I was probably complete. She checked and sure enough, I was. Breana came back in, along with another nurse and the tray of instruments, just in case. The whole situation was a little surreal to me, it was so calm and pleasant, no yelling or grunting or panicking, just a peaceful "run of the mill" birth. Kevin wasn't turning green or swaying, I wasn't in pain, but could feel enough to be able to push, honestly, it was just perfect. Breana was relieved that she was coming so quickly because when we were done, she would be able to go home and sleep instead of trying in vain to find an on call room to sleep in. I laughed (apparently I laughed a lot) told her that I was not a great pusher and that I would need some direction, to which she laughed and said "Don't tell me that!"  She refreshed me on the "method" and we got ready. She told me to push with the next contraction and I did, but almost immediately she said, "Wait! Not that much!", so I backed off a little. I was waiting to push again when I heard Breana say, "Awww! She's just a little peanut!"  I looked at Kevin, who looked back at me, both of us a little confused as to how she could possibly know that - until we realized Abigail was already out!  Breana held her up and placed her on my chest and the first thing that popped out of my mouth was, "Oh Abigail! You're so tiny!"  She truly was a tiny little thing, 6 lbs even and 19 inches long. Her head was only 13 cm so it's no wonder she didn't need much of a push!

Happy mommy, tiny baby!

The whole labor and delivery experience with Abigail was similar to my experience with Karis, but more laid back and serene because we had done this twice already and knew what to expect (for the most part).  I'd been told many times that the third child is the "wild card" in many ways and that was true for me too, she was my smallest baby, earliest baby, but longest labor - clocking in at just under 12 hours.

There's a song by Phillips, Craig, and Dean that I love called "Your Grace Still Amazes Me". That's how I felt about this particular birth - I could honestly feel the hand of God guiding us through the entire labor experience and paving the way for us and Abbie.  My dear friend Julie had reminded me earlier in the week (when I was freaking out) that God had been faithful to honor my wishes with Jacob when I wanted to have an unmedicated birth experience, and he would be faithful to help us out this time as well, I just had to trust him.  I thought about it and realized she was right, he was faithful to my hopes last time and honestly, perhaps it was his grace that allowed Jacob's birth to be fast and furious and Abigail's to be slow and steady as he knows me more intimately than anyone else and knew what my body and mind could handle.  Now, I'm not saying that God isn't involved in other births (for example Karis' birth, he was present with us, but we controlled many aspects of her birth, like being electively induced because I/we just couldn't wait any longer, etc.), he definitely is - what I mean is I think there's something to be said for his followers who consciously invite God into every corner of their lives and then watch for him to show up instead of trying to control it themselves. Any of us who have experienced this know that we are not disappointed - and often blown away by his provision as it turns out better than we could have imagined. It may not be exactly what we expect, but that's the beautiful thing about trying to pray the way Jesus prayed and not how we often want to pray - thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven; not my will, but thy will be done.  There's a scary and refreshing lack of specifics in those prayers, giving God the type of wild freedom that often scares us.  Think about what it means to give someone freedom - it means that you are relinquishing control of that person, that they can make their own choices and do their own thing.  I believe that when we give God that freedom (and he does not take it from us, it is something we choose to give), we ourselves are freed from anxiety and expectations and our eyes are opened to what God is really doing - and really, where else would you rather be than right in the middle of God's work?  Even when it includes things that were not in my plans (like 3 children), I know that I would not want to be anywhere else. My heart overflows with love for these sweet babies that have taken my life by storm; they are my miracles, my blessings. Thanks be to God.