Bloom Season

Spring is here. Where I live, spring is basically summer, but still. It is the season for blooms. In the several pots on my deck and patio, flowers are blooming. Some have just begun to show their colors after the cold (all right, cool) weather, and others are fading now that the heat is kicking in. One planter in particular is preparing to showcase a blaze of color within the next few days: in it are a gerbera daisy and a geranium side-by-side, their blooms to be deep orange and hot pink. These plants came through the winter, to my surprise, and I am excited to see their little buds and the small beginnings of petals.

Enter my daughters, nearly-four and one. They have a wading pool on the deck. They have a hose with gushing water. They have buckets. Do they want to play with these things? No. They want to pick flowers. 

At first, I ask them not to. What a reasonable request, right? The few blooms on the geranium are gone within about three trips of my one-year-old from the plant to the pool, where she is dropping the flowers one at a time into the water. They look pretty when they float. My last hope is the buds on the geranium that haven't started to open yet (they aren't showing any pink, so maybe my daughters won't see them). The single bloom on the gerbera daisy, I know, is doomed.

The gerbera daisy has a blooming pattern that I have found requires patience. It produces about one to three flowers at a time, and each bud takes what seems a painstakingly long amount of time to open completely. Once the blooms open, they remain for a while, making them worth the wait, but when they fall, there is a long period of waiting again before the next round of blooms appears.

On my daisy plant now is a single bloom that has barely begun its work: tiny petals extend from the center, pale orange and narrow, like squat embroidery needles. I know that in a few days' time, the petals will stretch, unfold, and deepen to their full orange color. I am looking forward to seeing the flower. But my children do not understand this expectation.

I try to explain it to my older girl. Maybe she can understand, but she doesn't seem very interested. She's more interested in the here-and-now (I can't blame her; she's only almost four). She is learning to be patient, but she would rather pluck the flower now, early, to play with it, than wait for it to bloom fully. 

In my frustration at the loss of most of my blooms and potential blooms, I have a choice: I can get upset, yell, and sweep the girls up and take them inside, ending play time with the fury of my dragon-mom fiery wrath (dragon-mom is a real thing), or I can patiently let the children be children. They are exploring. They want to enjoy examining the flowers, picking each petal off and feeling it in their fingers. They want to see how the petals look in the water. They want to play with pretty things. Their actions are not malicious. 

As I sit in the lawn chair, trying to enjoy the outside play time as much as my daughters apparently are, I remember words from Paul David Tripp's Parenting, the book I'm reading with my care group right now. He asks, "Do physical things get in the way of, or create needless tension in, your parenting?" I take a deep breath and look at the flowers. They are, indeed, physical things. They are objects, not people. My daughters are much more valuable than the orange and pink blooms. I can relax. This summer, the world will not come to an end, even if every single bloom is plucked early from my plants. And I doubt even my industrious children could manage that feat.

My children are learning patience, and so am I. Tripp writes that "[i]n every moment as you are parenting your children, the heavenly Father is parenting you." I need to hear this truth: I need God as my parent every bit as much as my children need me as a parent (I suppose even more so). God is teaching me to be patient and gracious with my children, and I am a slow learner. He reminds me here on the deck, as my girls pluck flowers, that the true blooms to wait for are not growing in planters. They are running around naked in the backyard; they are little now, but will be grown-up some day (sooner than I imagine), their deepest, brightest colors yet to be seen.

Petals plucked and dropped on the dirt in the pot.

Limitation as Relief from Anxiety

Many of God's attributes pertain only to Him and not to us humans, according to theologians. For example, only God is eternal, self-sufficient, omnipotent, and sovereign. In a book titled None Like Him: 10 Ways God Is Different from Us (and Why That's a Good Thing), Jen Wilkin describes ten of these attributes and why we as limited creatures can draw comfort, hope, and reassurance from the fact that they are true only of God.

Reading this book is showing me something my husband has been trying to tell me for almost as long as he's known me (sorry, honey!): my anxiety stems from my trying to control what I cannot control, know what I cannot know, and be what I cannot be. Essentially, I feel anxious when I reach the boundaries of my humanity and feel responsible for things outside those boundaries.

One night, my toddler was throwing fits at bedtime. At the same time, my infant was screeching loudly in my arms as my husband and I tried to wrangle the toddler into her bedroom for a peaceful routine that would lead to all-night sleep. Meanwhile, my anxiety level was climbing higher. I felt concerned that my baby was learning to scream from my toddler. I recognized as I reflected on the list of attributes pertaining only to God that I felt anxious because I was trying to be omniscient (Is my baby learning screaming from my toddler?) and sovereign (How can I stop this from happening?), when in reality I cannot be either of those things. When I stopped and noticed that I wasn't responsible to know the answer that I could not know or control the situation that I could not control, my shoulders relaxed a bit and some of the tension melted. Of course, some tension remained, as there were still a screeching infant and fit-throwing toddler to be dealt with.

Knowing the limits of my humanity and accepting instead of fighting them allowed me to be calmer and feel more peaceful, even in the midst of a trying moment. Wilkin writes that "[w]e are capable of bearing [God's] image as we were intended only when we embrace our limits." If I can stop trying to be God, I can reflect Him better. For me, as a person who struggles with anxiety, releasing that burden of incorrect responsibility - the burden of controlling and directing things that aren't mine to control and direct - is a huge relief.

As Wilkin succinctly puts it: "Because God owns everything, he is responsible for its care and has the right to do with it what he wishes." This is not to say that we do not have responsibility to care for the people and possessions God places into our little spheres of influence, but the ultimate responsibility rests with Him. The care that we take has boundaries and limitations based on our humanness, and these limitations should free us to love well, without worry.

Arrows

Heidi St. John's book Becoming Mom Strong discusses the biblical idea that children are "like arrows in the hands of a warrior" (Psalm 127:4). St. John describes her purpose as a parent this way: "Surely we were born for this - to launch our arrows into the world for the Kingdom of God!" In other words, our children do not stay with us forever; they depart at some point or other, and our job is to prepare them to depart well and at the right time, with true aim.

The other day, my toddler (R) woke up early (even for her), at about 5:30. My husband had just that same week started a new job with a new schedule, which allows him to be home in the mornings instead of gone before the rest of us wake up. Our theory on R's wake-up time was that partly she was just excited to see her daddy and was ready to start the day. Of course, along with the early rising came the early beginning of a long day full of "why" questions and stubborn two-year-old willfulness. My perspective was already keyed to be positive (thanks to the Ann Voskamp Joy Dare, which had a prompt for that day to look for gifts found in difficult people); otherwise, I would have absolutely lost it. Instead I only partially lost it.

In any case, I reflected on R's personality that day and how the challenges she presents now may be shaped with her future usefulness as an "arrow" in mind. She loves her daddy, which indicates to me that she has the capacity to develop close and healthy relationships as she matures. She is full of curiosity and the desire to learn, and I'm hoping this desire will stay with her so that she dives into whatever work God has for her with just as much enthusiasm when she's 30 as she does now. Her willfulness now may serve her well in the future by helping her stand firm in her convictions when she faces trials at work, in relationships, and from the general culture (which I suppose will be even more difficult to walk through as a Christian when she is an adult than it is now).

So let me pray that these (sometimes challenging) qualities will develop into beneficial traits as R grows, and that her dad and I will have the wisdom to help her hone her gifts and her personality now, in preparation for the aiming and launching season to come.

Walking with her until she's ready to launch.

Who's in Charge Here?

I would like to have the authority in my own life to say to my child, "Do not be sick with hand, foot, and mouth disease," or, "get rid of that jaundice right now, young lady." However, the power to control whether or not my children are ill does not fall to me.

The first week home with baby number two (S), my first daughter (R) contracted hand, foot, and mouth disease. We were afraid it was strep throat at first, but when my husband took her to the doctor we found out (to our relief) that it was this scary-sounding but relatively non-threatening disease that caused her to have bothersome red spots all over her hands, feet, face, and hip areas. She was not contagious to adults, and there was little risk that infant S would be in contact with R, which was why we were so relieved. However, there was still a lot of work and trouble associated with the situation. R had fever for a couple of days, she didn't feel well, and we had to prevent her from cuddling her new baby sister. Meanwhile, baby S also had some issues related to jaundice concern. Her pediatrician asked us to get her tested and re-tested for bilirubin levels every day for the first week of her life, which meant trips back to the hospital every day for a week after having finally been discharged after spending two nights there following her birth (two instead of one because I was group B strep positive).

All in all, the first week home with our new baby was not the experience I had desired. I'd imagined lots of rest and cuddles, not lots of car trips with an infant, insanely messy breastfeeding in public, a whining, tired toddler, and little opportunity for much-needed naps for myself.

That week, my Bible study teacher shared her memory verse with me: Matthew 21:23b says, "By what authority are You doing these things, and who gave You this authority?" The Pharisees were challenging Jesus with these words. Of course, the questions are provocative; since I believe Jesus has ultimate authority, given that He is God, I have no right to question Him in such a way. Meditating on this verse was the very thing I needed that week. As I prayed for help to deal with the tiredness and the two needy children, sobbing, I submitted the time to God. He is the authority of my life, not me.

Remembering Who is in charge gave me comfort that week, but remembering that my life was not all bad helped, too. Around that same time, I was reading the section of the Martin Luther biography by Eric Metaxas that describes Luther traveling many miles on foot to a meeting that could easily have resulted in his own execution by burning. Luther was (understandably) so anxious he had severe stomach pains and was unable to continue walking at one point. By comparison to this extreme hardship, my life was peachy! A little perspective can work wonders. Also, there were some enjoyable things about the week: I got to have lunch out with my husband after a couple of the trips to the hospital, toddler-free (since my mom was watching R for us), and all of those car-rides and dealings with the "outside world" probably helped me get back to a feeling of reality and normalcy after the strangeness of the two-night hospital stay.

In the end, God is good and He knows what He is doing. "Trust in Him at all times, O people; Pour out your heart before Him; God is a refuge for us," says David in Psalm 62:8. Truly God wants to hear from us no matter what emotions we are feeling (including anger or panic), but He also wants us to submit ourselves to His authority and rest in the fact that our peace is ultimately in Him, not in circumstances going exactly how we want.

Birth Story Two

I woke up at 4 a.m. to use the bathroom as usual, and noticed some very watery discharge in my liner and dripping from me. Not entirely sure what it was, but seeing that more kept coming, I changed into a pad just in case and went back to bed. "I think my water broke," I told my husband. He reassured me the best thing to do was try to get sleep either way. About an hour later, I woke him up again: "I'm having contractions." "Should we call your parents?"

So my second labor began with my water breaking (later confirmed at triage in the hospital), which I never expected. I called the midwife at about 8 a.m. and she suggested we should come on in to check if my water had indeed broken, because if so she wanted to admit me and start the antibiotic (I was GBS positive). We had wanted to labor much longer at home, but this circumstance made the decision for us, and we went earlier than we otherwise would have. As it turned out, I'm glad we got there when we did. Triage takes longer than you think, and by the time I got to the labor room, the contractions were quite uncomfortable - a car ride at that point would have been challenging!

Overall, the labor took about eight hours (shorter than my first by four hours), if you only count how long I was really feeling contractions. I want to highlight my major takeaways for the sake of remembrance:

When I called the midwife I found out my favorite out of five was the one on call that day (an answered prayer that seems like a small thing, but which gave me great joy that day).

Anti-nausea medication during early labor gave me huge relief and I never had to throw up.

I never had my cervix checked until my husband and I wanted to; because my water had broken, the midwife admitted me without checking, and she didn't feel a need to check unless we wanted to know. When we finally did ask her to check, I was dilated to a six, which meant that most likely the majority of the time of labor had passed already. Good news!

Laboring in the shower was a huge pain reliever! Almost unbelievably so!

I still hate having a contraction on an exercise ball (something I tried in both labors).

Having just a saline lock and only intermittent fetal monitoring made me feel very free.

The squat bar for pushing turned out to feel awkward, and even though I knew the position to get in to use it, I could not seem to get myself into that position. I ended up turning around and lying on my chest on the bed with my knees bent under me (basically on all fours, but with the bed raised where my hands were so that my chest was more supported. I didn't know the bed could do that!). The nurse handed me a pillow, and I wrapped my arms around it and did my breathing (slash loud groaning and/or yelling) into it. That pillow added such a sense of security. After three pushes, baby girl number two was out!

The midwife said I'd been pushing for a while before that, when I was still standing and leaning on my husband through contractions. She kept telling me I could push if I wanted to, but that I didn't have to. What an awesome experience, having an advocate there who encouraged me to listen to my body's cues and not force anything.

I kept telling my husband "I love you" after getting through each contraction for the latter part of labor. I felt so close and connected to him throughout the whole experience (something that I remember from the first labor as well). He kept telling me I was doing a great job, that I could do this, that I was almost done, and other encouraging things. He let me hold and lean on him as much as I needed. He was an amazing coach and source of comfort, security, and calm. I also cried a tiny bit a few times, which always seemed to help relieve any fear or anxiety I had at the moment.

This labor was full of gifts from a gracious God: my favorite midwife, daytime labor, low traffic on Sunday morning on the way to the hospital, only one cervix check, a redeeming experience with the pushing stage (after having an emotionally terrible one in my first labor).

Obedience: True Freedom

January seems an appropriate month to write about change; the expectation of welcoming a new baby to the family within the next few weeks makes it even more so. In The Young Unicorns, Madeleine L'Engle has some challenging thoughts about change and acceptance of our roles in life. She argues that "only obedience . . . is perfect freedom." At times it seems counter-intuitive, but perhaps accepting our roles and what is demanded of us does provide a sense of freedom in our lives.

One of L'Engle's main teenage characters, Vicky, struggling with change, complains to her father that she wished they had never moved from the country to a big city. Her father responds that "we aren't free to remain static, to refuse to change. That isn't freedom. That's death." L'Engle is not arguing for change merely for the sake of change; rather, she suggests that when requirements are placed on us, we must respond appropriately, which sometimes requires great change. A wise and trusted Rabbi in the novel states that "to be demanded of gives us dignity." Refusing to respond is not freedom, but "apathy," a loss of one's humanity.

Sometimes the demands made on us seem trivial or less prestigious than what we could be doing otherwise. I can relate somewhat to Mrs. Austin, a mother in the novel, who gave up a singing career on stage when she married and had children, choosing instead to work in her home and be present with her family. She herself does not view the change as a lessening of her potential or a waste of her talents, though others think so. Instead, she sees it as one of those necessary changes placed upon her by the demands of life. From L'Engle's perspective, these demands come from a sovereign God who ordains the plans for our lives and requires us to respond humbly with obedience.

Staying home with small children, changing diapers, sitting still and nursing a newborn for the better part of the day, interacting with a two-year-old and her baby doll as though that baby doll were alive, cooking, grocery shopping, folding laundry, and taking naps may all seem like small and insignificant tasks when compared to the types of work that are generally lauded in our society. We value intelligence, creativity, ambition, hard work, and making a "mark" on history or leaving a great legacy. These are fine things. A quiet and simple life is also a fine thing (1 Thessalonians 4:11). I struggle with change, like Vicky, when new chapters begin in my life. Having a new baby gives me trepidation (to put it mildly). I need others to remind me, and I need to remind myself, that the demands of life can bring dignity and freedom when I accept them obediently, setting aside my own agenda and routines.

Since a loving and good God sees fit to place on me the demands of new motherhood, I should accept the changes brought by the newborn with as much flexibility and energy as I can muster, rather than stubbornly kicking at the goads, as it were. Whatever the yoke He places on me, He's taking part in pulling with it as well (Matthew 11:28-30); what a wonderful promise! What restful and dignified freedom, to do my work actively with Him rather than struggling in vain against it.

Weaning and Dreams

It's been a special dream of mine since my daughter was a few months old to one day tandem breastfeed my toddler and a new baby. At first when my daughter was born, nursing was extremely difficult because of some anatomical issues, and we had to use a hospital grade pump and supplement with formula for about a week or two. After that, she was able to nurse, but it was still quite painful for a while. When my husband, in his online research to try to help our situation, stumbled across a style of breastfeeding called "laid back," my world changed. Nursing became more of a pleasant experience that both my daughter and I enjoyed.

At some point after that, I learned that when breastfeeding a toddler (for those who want to let their children nurse until they are ready to stop or for those who just want to wean at some point later than the one-year mark), some women who then get pregnant and have an infant choose to nurse the baby and continue nursing the toddler. This style is called "tandem" breastfeeding (moms of twins do it, too) because the mother is nursing more than one child at the same time (not necessarily simultaneously, although that's possible, too). I read about how lots of moms experienced tandem nursing as a wonderful bonding experience for the older child and new baby, and that some even held hands while nursing together. This amazed me and touched my touch-loving heart (physical touch is one of my strongest love languages). I've been hoping to achieve this tandem nursing since learning of it.

Baby number two is on the way now, due in late January, and my daughter and I plugged away at nursing all through about the first half of the pregnancy. She had expressed no desire to stop just because she turned two (why would she?) and I was happy to continue. But then, as morning sickness and physical tiredness set in, I decided it was time to night-wean. The pregnancy turned out to be exactly the catalyst I needed to stick with this decision and make it through the rough nights with my toddler for a while, and in the end I believe this helped her start sleeping a bit more soundly, something our whole family needed. (As a side note, my daughter, just a few weeks ago, at about two years and four months old, started sleeping through the whole night by herself for the first time in her life.)

I began restricting nursing to three to four sessions a day, which was really fairly in line with what my daughter was doing on her own anyway. It seemed to me that this plan would be a good balance between nourishing a growing baby and maintaining the breastfeeding relationship. My midwife had mentioned that some nursing women experienced a dramatic drop in milk supply later in pregnancy, but I wasn't expecting my milk to completely go away. I also never expected nursing during pregnancy to be so extremely painful. I knew about "aversion" to nursing that many women experience during pregnancy, but the discomfort and irritation I felt while nursing my toddler, especially in more recent weeks, took my by surprise.

Yet these are the things that have happened. My sense is that my supply has gone away due to pregnancy, and that simultaneously my daughter has lost interest. Who knows whether her interest dropped because the supply dropped or if it was the other way around, or whether my restricting her nursing times caused her to gradually lose her desire to nurse? The nursing was so uncomfortable anyway that it became a relief to have her say "no" to it.

Whatever the cause (I'm sure it is actually a complex mixture of many factors), my daughter is effectively weaned now, at about two years and five months old. She still asks for "nurse nurse" occasionally, but then doesn't really latch on and leaves me after a few seconds. This is not what I ever expected, and I still don't know exactly how she will respond when baby arrives and the milk supply returns; she may see baby nursing and want to participate alongside (I'd love that!). Or she may have no interest at all by that point. In any case, my dream has to be held in open hands. The pain of nursing has helped me respond to the weaning process with much less sadness than I had anticipated feeling (and that lots of women feel) during weaning. My daughter seems perfectly content with cuddles and other types of connection time with me. All in all, breastfeeding my firstborn has been a satisfying experience, whether or not there is more to come.

Baby Girl

Growing Up

Peppermint Lemons

Once when I was a kid my cousins from about eight hours away came to visit during the summer. My aunt, who happens to be one of the neatest ladies I know, gave us a special snack one afternoon while we took a break from swimming in the pool in the backyard. She cut holes into unpeeled lemons and stuck soft, fat peppermint sticks (the kind that dissolve easily) into the holes. The candy sticks acted like straws after we started to suck on them, because the acidic lemon juice worked its way inside and made holes through the candy. Those simple lemons became especially refreshing sweet and sour treats through the creative addition of sugary mediators.

My two-year-old daughter came down with a nasty stomach bug this week and was vomiting for a night and a day. She could hardly keep down even simple liquids. Ice chips saved the day that first day of sickness, keeping her hydrated, at least. The second day, she stopped throwing up and was able to keep down some liquids and food, though she was still zombie-like (definitely not her usual, energetic self). The third day, she finally showed signs of returning to normal levels of talking and activity, a huge relief.

Though the first couple of days of her sickness were trying and we lost a lot of sleep on the first night, I rather enjoyed the lazy and cuddly quality the days took on. My daughter and I spent a lot of time situated comfortably on the couch (which I now need to clean), either listening to music or watching a baby animals show, and dozing on and off throughout the day. We both benefited from the catch-up on sleep and rest, and I greatly enjoyed the way my daughter relaxed with her head in my lap or stretched out flat while I rubbed her back. Touch is one of my strongest love languages, and usually she doesn't sit still long enough for me to even brush out her hair.

Uncomfortable, sour-tasting events make us wince, like sucking on a plain lemon. But if we can find something sweet in the midst of the situation, our perspective can change. The hard thing may not go away, and we will still have to deal with it, and dealing with it may not at all be easy. But the flavor of the day can be transformed, even though we still have to eat the sour part of it.

Sweetness in the middle of sickness.

Rest when we needed it.

Cuddles make everything better.

Hold Her Hand

The Texas mountain laurels are blooming right now. Full-grown, they are gorgeous trees covered with purple blossoms that make all the air smell like grape sweet tarts. Wouldn't you want to be so beautiful if you were a tree?

photo courtesy of Matt Kolodzie

A few weeks ago, I held my daughter's hand as she took tenuous steps along the rock border of our small raised garden bed. Seeing her watch her feet and carefully step so slowly reminded me of something that happened to me about seven years ago, when I was in grad school and feeling extremely unsure of myself as a person. During the Christmas break I visited my mom and dad and went to their church for the Christmas Eve service. There in the peaceful sanctuary, when it was time for Communion, we had a silent, individual prayer time. My prayer went something like:

God, I know I need to be more like the woman who twirls around in big, flowing skirts at the top of bright green hills with blue skies all around her, her face shining as she looks up and laughs at the clouds. She's so exuberant and full of life. I need to be like that, and I'm not. I don't trust You enough. I'm so anxious all the time. 

Suddenly, in the midst of my insecure ramblings, a vivid picture came into my mind. It was a picture of a small girl wearing dark-colored clothes that fit her well but were not flowing skirts. The girl was walking along a pathway that wasn't lit very well, and the whole background was fairly dark, too. The girl was holding a hand, though. She was taking steps slowly while holding a hand whose owner was not visible. God reassured me with this vivid picture by telling me that, though I was going slowly and might not have an outgoing, exuberant personality, I was trusting Him and walking faithfully as the woman He made me to be. That careful woman was just as beautiful as the spinning woman on the hill.

When my daughter walked along the garden border taking slow, careful steps, she was trusting me to catch her and to guide her in this new adventure she'd just discovered. She was being completely herself and completely lovely in doing so. If she'd been running along recklessly, I'd have been a bit frustrated, and she probably would have hurt herself.

Some people are quick to settle in, establish "roots," find their niches, make friends, and adjust to new roles. Some are slower. The Texas mountain laurel is notorious for being a slow-growing tree that may not bloom for several years after being planted. We have one in our yard that we planted almost right away when we first moved to our new house in our new city. It's been a year now, and there has barely been any new visible growth at all, and certainly no blooming. My husband told me just the other day, when I was feeling a bit down regarding my ability to feel settled in my life as a new mom in a new place, that I was like the mountain laurel, slow to become established, but with potential for beautiful blossoms after a time.

Looking closely at our little slow-growing tree, I can see some brighter green new leaves at the ends of some of the darker green branches that have been there for a while. When I look closely at my life, I can see improvements and growth - perhaps small, but there nonetheless. Praise God, who always holds my hand, for causing all kinds of growth, whether fast or slow, big or small, joyous in purple blooms or deliberate in tender stems and leaves!

our small mountain laurel

The Hinge

She works - silent, invisible -
      between
husband and children, the chores.

The children move her
back
      and
forth;
she pivots, affixed to
their flexing muscles and electric minds.

Her husband - standing still -
      stills her.
She has so tightly pressed into him
that an indentation in her own shape
now marks him.
Except he splinters, or
she erodes, they are an inseparable
      one.

When she wearies - sore -
she groans, complains, yet still turns.
What she needs:
      free
      cashmere touches,
      free
      orchestral words.

With or without,
she remains - moving and working -
      between
husband and children, the chores.

Learning from Jane

I finished listening to Jane Eyre the other day. Jane (as I like to affectionately call it) is my favorite book, and every reading it seems I catch something new in it, usually based on where I am in life at the time. This listen proved no exception; in fact, two elements stood out to me this go around - one an exhortation, the other an encouragement. We all need both of those from time to time!

Lately I've been a complainer. Realistically, I've always been a complainer. My personality tends towards pessimism and at the same time perfectionism. The combination of straining for gold while seeing only dirt can lead me to voice a constant stream of negativity. My complaining doesn't help anyone in my family, and it might hurt me most of all, since I am not content when I'm complaining. Constant lack of contentment eats away at me so that I feel downcast when, objectively, there's nothing wrong. Indeed, I have much to be thankful for.

The exhortation from Jane came over the course of the whole book as I paid attention to the bones of her life. Partly determined by time in history, partly by her station, Jane's life is simple. She doesn't have the expectation that entertainment should always be available at her fingertips. She doesn't begrudge hard work, diligent study, or the consequences of her own actions. In each stage of her life, she is satisfied with sometimes menial, day-to-day tasks and fellowship with a few people whom she calls friends.

Where is my satisfaction with the little things? If I have a roof over my head, food to eat, clothes to wear, and a few people to love and care for, should I not be content? If I have daily chores to accomplish and can even find time in my schedule, however brief, for doing something merely for my own refreshment, should I not call myself blessed?

Jane's encouragement, like her exhortation, deals with contentment. Since having a baby and leaving my full-time job, I've struggled with feeling like some part of me is being wasted and - what's more frightening - might be wasting away. Daily care of a one-year-old is, simply put, boring. There's nothing particularly intellectually engaging about singing silly songs, reading simple books, and mopping up messes from the floor under the kitchen table. Sometimes I hear a nagging voice telling me that I'm missing something in life now that I have stepped away from the adult, productive world into a world of little things.

When Jane accepts a humble teaching position from Mr. Rivers, she steps into a world of little things compared with what she has known previously:

". . . I accept it with all my heart."

 "But you comprehend me?" he said. "It is a village-school: your scholars will be only poor girls . . . What will you do with your accomplishments? What, with the largest portion of your mind - sentiments - tastes?"

"Save them till they are wanted. They will keep."

They will keep. Those words reassure me as I wonder if my "former life" is all pointless now. When will I again need to use what I learned back then? Maybe never in the ways I was accustomed to before, but probably in some unexpected ways my previous learning and experience will come into play again. If nothing else, I know God made me for Himself and put those learning opportunities, talents, interests, and work experiences in my path and in my heart for many reasons, even if I don't know now what the reasons will be in the future.

As a stay-at-home mom, may I learn to be content with the simple things, be thankful for the beautiful blessings God sends my way every day (bubble baths, tickles and giggles, tiny adorable outfits on my little one), and trust that the place I am now is important. Whatever is most valuable that God has woven into the fabric of my life is still being developed right now, and if any part is "on hold," it will keep.

Paddling with My Head Out of the Water

I've been wanting to write about the "rest of the story" of my postpartum depression for a few months now, but this past week my husband spoke a catalyst for my ideas (not an uncommon occurrence!). He was encouraging me about my mothering abilities and he reminded me of something he'd predicted before our daughter was born: He'd said I would take to being a mom like a duck takes to water. However, he reflected, now I was finally paddling with my head out of the water, able to see around me, whereas for the first eight months or so, I had been swimming in the pond with my head under the water the whole time (still paddling away, being a good mom, just not really enjoying it much).

What a funny image, a duck paddling through a murky pond with its head continuously underwater. That is rather what life felt like in the months after little girl was born. Though I was functioning (albeit at minimal levels sometimes), everything seemed muddy, thick, and dark. Some of what I was feeling I put into an earlier post, and now it's time to tell what happened that brought my head out of the water.

Midway through February of this year I got a terrible stomach bug. This thing was more like a stomach giant squid. I was knocked out flat (literally flat on the floor or the bed most of the time) for a few days, and my mom had to come take care of little one so I could rest and recover and suck on ice chips. After almost a week of dehydration and exhaustion, I went to the doctor, thinking I was also having panic attacks (turns out I was probably dizzy from dehydration). This sickness is what finally drove me to go see a doctor about not only the physical illness, but the mental/psychological/emotional one I had been suffering as well. The week that I was temporarily unable to physically care for my daughter showed me I needed help in other areas, too!

On the way to the doctor and throughout those few days I had conversations with my husband, sister, parents, grandma, cousin, and life-long best friend, who all encouraged me that medication for anxiety or depression could be the solution I needed. I was finally ready to be willing to go down that path if necessary, whereas I had always fought against medication as an option before. One thing that scared me about it now was that I was breastfeeding my daughter and our nursing relationship was very important to me. I knew that if we had to stop it suddenly, there would be a whole new mess of emotions tangled up in the weaning.

After seeing the doctor, whom I'd never met before (with my sister there for moral support), and waiting for a referral to a psychologist, something happened. My mom and sister and I had been planning on driving about five hours up to our old home town to attend a friend's baby shower at the end of February. I'd been a wreck about it (since traveling with my daughter that far seemed like an impending catastrophe to me at the time). I ended up deciding not to go. Then, the day before the dreaded road trip, something in me clicked and I got our stuff together and headed to my mom's house to get ready to do the road trip. The four of us made it through the weekend. Lots of brick walls in my mind crumbled during that trip. Forced to be flexible, I saw that flexibility could actually work.

For a couple of weeks after the trip, what I can only describe as a mini miracle took place in my mind and emotions. It was like a switch had gone off in my brain (my husband agrees). I'm not sure if it was biological (diet change?), hormonal (always in flux!), or just plain supernatural (God is at work, after all!), but God allowed me to have positive thoughts and feelings about my daughter, our life, and myself. I cannot remember the last time I'd had such thoughts before that week. I cannot completely explain the kinds of thoughts I had, but they were like visions of the future that were memories at the same time. I envisioned slumber parties with my daughter where we would wear matching pajamas and watch movies. I saw Thanksgiving family gatherings for which we'd be baking and setting the table together. I felt warm feelings like the ones I feel during Christmastime (the highest praise coming from me - if anything is comparable to Christmas, in my mind, it's essentially the best it could possibly be). In short, I caught glimpses of the potential "warm fuzzies" in my family's future, and these insights changed my feelings for my daughter and for myself as a mom.

After a couple of weeks, the "feeling memories" stopped happening (they had been almost continuous for that time - an amazing gift from my Father!), but my changed emotional attitude remained. I was finally feeling more like myself again. A tired and sometimes bored out of my mind version of myself, but myself nonetheless, I was able to look about and see the beauty of the pond where I'm now swimming. And God allowed me to feel better without the aid of medication, so I was and am still able to breastfeed my daughter successfully and without concern. This little duck is still paddling, by God's grace!

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Note: From doing a bit of research I've learned there are some medications to alleviate depression that doctors prescribe to nursing mothers so they are able to continue nursing! When postpartum depression requires medication to help you get back to yourself, it's OK to get help in that way. God provides through medicines, too.

Beauty Not Chosen

Recently I listened to All the Light We Cannot See, a novel by Anthony Doerr. One of its predominating themes is that life is fuller when we take in as much of the beauty that surrounds us as we can. Beauty can be found in even surprising packages, like snails, which fascinate one of the main characters in the novel. Listening to the story inspired me to be more aware of my own surroundings and to find them beautiful. Additionally, an old friend wrote to me in a message about the beauty of spring that is starting to emerge in nature and how we might see that beauty reflected in our lives. Consequently, I started to notice and to appreciate the pretty sights in our own backyard.

The yard is not one we created ourselves; we moved to this house in the middle of January and inherited the landscaping that was already present, including a few nice trees, and, most notably, rose bushes. The roses were everywhere. They edged the perimeter of the backyard and side yard and they resided in several front yard beds as well. Everywhere we turned we saw roses. They weren't exactly nice to look at, either. They were scrubby, gray, branchy, thorny things. There was no way to tell if they were even alive.

My immediate response to so many roses was less than positive. Roses would certainly not be my first, second, third, fourth, or even fifth choice in terms of landscaping. (Read: I would never choose them.) Roses are notorious for being difficult plants riddled with pests and plagued with diseases, as far as I know. Plus, they are overrated. And thorny.

Then some blooms appeared. They appeased me a bit. I looked up some information on how to take care of roses, started pruning, and decided that maybe they would be worth the work.

Now as May approaches, the roses are getting ready to kick it into high gear. More and more blooms have adorned their thorny stems. I'm appreciating their presence. After all, if they weren't there, we'd have a bare yard.

Although the roses are not what I would have chosen, I'm beginning to see and value their beauty. In much the same way, I recognize there are aspects of my life I wouldn't have chosen right now, but if I take the time to learn about them and make an effort to cultivate them, I can also value their beauty. Having a baby has been a challenge, and I would not choose to be waking up to settle a little ten month-old multiple times a night in my ideal world, but I can take from this situation many beautiful blooms: extra cuddles, the chance to provide for my daughter, the opportunity to lean heavily on my Father's arms.

Sometimes at night I hum to myself the hymn about "leaning on Jesus, leaning on Jesus, leaning on the everlasting arms." His love is sustaining me and His burden is light. This truth is sweet and beautiful to me as a rose.

A Blazingly Honest Post-Partum Post

I've written a few posts since the birth of my daughter, and they've all been true in the sense that I have reflected on my circumstances and have tried to relate them to larger truths (specifically biblical truth). However, I don't usually gush forth with unfiltered emotions in my posts, and today I want to. Maybe a reader will relate to what I'm saying. Maybe not. In any case, I'm sure I'm not alone in having these feelings, whether most moms (most I know, anyway) have them, or talk about them, or do neither of these things. So, here it is: the honest truth about my feelings since my daughter's birth. It's about to get personal here!

Most of the time in the first few weeks after she was born, I was so tired and terrified I wanted everything to stop. Just stop. I wanted to go back to "normal" life from before the birth or even before pregnancy. I resented my baby sometimes. Sometimes I had fleeting thoughts of getting rid of her, through adoption or death. Those thoughts were scary! They'd always be followed by my rational mind reacting: What on earth are you thinking?! Stop that! But they occurred, nonetheless, though thankfully just a few times. Of course all of this made me feel terribly guilty as well.

I thought that I would adjust. After all, lots of moms have some form of "Baby Blues" in the first few weeks after giving birth. And I did adjust, somewhat. I got a little more rest, and I felt a bit more rational. But here we are, nearly five months later, and I still have many of those same feelings.

My thoughts on good days (which are the majority now) turn to how much I enjoy seeing her learning and growing and laughing. I imagine what she'll be like when she's 5, or 12, or 20. But I have bad days where I still want everything to stop, where I wish I could go back to "normal," and where I feel resentful of my baby. If my husband or family ask me to do something fun, I feel stressed. If they ask what I'd like to do to relax, I can only think of things that don't include my baby in the picture. It's like my emotions haven't caught up to the reality of my situation.

Time will help me catch up eventually, I'm sure. But then, there are things that I hate to bring myself to think of. I don't want to catch up to the reality in some cases. I just ignore these things because they bother me too much. For example, I don't feel the same way down there, and I wonder if I ever will again. Too much to think of. Too painful. Thoughts about that area bring back memories of giving birth, and I can't stand it.

So, there it is. I'm often wishing my life were different. I'm often waiting for "eventually." I realize that neither of those thought patterns is a very biblical perspective (except in the sense that I can and should set my hope on eternal things, things unseen). I'm not saying I have answers, or that I'm in a great place with this. I haven't figured it out, but I'm visiting my family for a six-week restorative time while my husband works around 15 hours a day at his job (aside: appreciation for military spouses and others who have to be separated from their loved ones for extended periods - it's hard!), and I'm seeing a counselor. I started reading Psalms, in no particular order. These things are helping, and I'm hopeful. Getting more sleep helps a lot.

Maybe you've had similar experiences or feelings, and I hope you might be encouraged just to hear my raw thoughts.

An Answer to Prayer in a Surprising Package

Can a super fussy baby be an answer to prayer? Why, yes!

I would never have thought so before about two weeks ago. But around that time I was voicing some stresses to God and family regarding how I spend time with my daughter, and, relatively quickly, she started behaving more demandingly than she ever had up until that point (granted, she's only about three months old, and I'm sure I'm still experiencing just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to dealing with demanding children).

My stresses had been these: What do I do with this baby? What if what I'm doing at this moment isn't the best thing for her? Should she play with her dangling toys or do some tummy time? Should I carry her around or set her down? Is the baby-wearing wrap the answer to everything or does she hate it? What if she's not developing as well as she could be? Should I play some classical music for her? What if I want to listen to some of my favorite alternative rock? Will it ruin her brain cells? Should I read her a book? Which one?

As you can imagine, my thoughts were exhausting. You're probably also thinking I'm neurotic. Well, you might be right. But let's not delve into that! Let's just say I'm highly perfectionist and sensitive to what I perceive to be potential threats (including guilt over making mistakes). I'm working on this.

Then God sent me a wonderful gift, misleadingly wrapped in just the checkout line's plastic bag, not pretty paper and ribbons. I didn't have high expectations when I first saw this package, but after opening and experiencing it, I came to appreciate its beauty.

My little girl started crying more often during the day. I hadn't changed anything for her (except all of her wet diapers), and I didn't think she was in pain or anything, but surely enough, she wasn't content. I quickly learned through desperation's trial and error the few things I could do to get her calm. Suddenly my options were limited.

Then it hit me: whatever I'm doing that's helping her not cry is the right thing to do. If she's not unhappy, then she's fine, and I should stop freaking out. I'm sure other parents have known this all along and may be laughing at me a little bit; that's okay. I'm just thankful for God's surprising answer to my prayer. He sends good gifts, and sometimes He has a sense of humor while He's at it.

What's the Best?

Once upon a time I was a young student worried about my performance on an upcoming test or project. My mom told me, "you know we don't expect you to be perfect; just do your best." "But, Mom!" I responded, "What if my best is a 100?"

Yes, I am a perfectionist. Recalling this story made me reflect on how I've been feeling lately as I relate to my new daughter. I'm trying to take care of her in the best ways, which often makes me anxious that I may not be measuring up. I worry about making mistakes. But yesterday as I thought about my own mom and how much little girls learn from their mothers, I realized what a disaster it would be if I got everything right, and what a mess we'd be in if I never messed up.

My daughter will gain tremendously from my imperfections. She will see someone make mistakes but not give up trying. She will see a woman who is loved by her husband despite not being the ideal wife. She will experience living with someone who isn't afraid to welcome friends over even though she doesn't have the house in order. She will learn that grace is not earned. She will learn that God works in our lives when we are weak, and that we don't have to work harder to make Him pleased with us.

I hope my mistakes will help my daughter learn that she is valuable not because of how well she performs, but just because she is preciously made in God's image. I hope she sees relationships as being more important than trivial tasks. I hope she knows for herself the beautiful truth that God chooses to love unconditionally. He accomplishes His purposes through us despite our imperfections, and this brings Him glory!

Scarcity

It was around two in the morning and I was awake, feeding my little daughter. My husband had recently discovered information about "natural breastfeeding" (which had led to a huge improvement in the feeding endeavor!), so I was practically lying down, my length spread out on the couch in the living room so I wouldn't disturb my husband. I was reading My Antonia by Willa Cather, a book I'd wanted to read for a long time. (It seems having a baby suddenly gives one more time to do certain things, while drastically reducing time to do others!) I came across a passage that almost startled me with its implications for my own thinking, especially in this season of quick changes:

Trees were so rare in that country, and they had to make such a hard fight to grow, that we used to feel anxious about them, and visit them as if they were persons. It must have been the scarcity of detail in that tawny landscape that made detail so precious.

That week my husband had returned to work after having taken time off for paternity leave, and I had been feeling down about the loss of those special weeks with him at home. There were many enjoyable activities that had characterized that time: reading good books aloud during feedings, taking the baby with us to go grocery shopping, eating meals together. I had been frustrated that many of those activities had come to an end upon my husband's return to work, but then reading this passage about trees helped me gain a better perspective.

I realized that some of those activities had been unique to that time when the three of us were at home, and had been, therefore, made even more special. It was not only my husband's return to work that had caused certain tasks or events to be unique to a time, either. Just the fact that our child is growing rapidly means that many enjoyable things, such as cuddling a sleepy newborn baby, will be unique or will last only a short amount of time, whether that time be a minute or recurring throughout a couple of weeks. My waking at two a.m. to feed our daughter will not be a permanent fixture of my life, nor will catching her cooing and smiling in only the way that a young baby does before learning to laugh and smile on purpose. The very scarcity of these things is, partly, what makes them precious.

The new type of schedule imposed on me by my little girl is one that involves frequent changes. Rather than having long periods of waking and sleeping, we have shorter times of waking, sleeping, eating, and, yes, pooping. Even writing this post is taking me several days with spaced-apart bouts of thinking and typing. This baby-induced schedule of small increments is another reminder that there can be value in scarcity or brevity. The idea is blossoming for me that I can enjoy being present in and appreciating the current moment, rather than trying to maintain a steady mind-hold on the entire day, week, or even (crazy as it may seem) lifetime. Alas, this is a lesson God has been teaching me throughout my life: I am not in control, and all I really have is the current moment in which to enjoy His gifts and trust Him completely.

Birth Story

The Shorter Version
To help prepare for labor and delivery, I read through Natural Hospital Birth: The Best of Both Worlds, written by doula Cynthia Gabriel. I knew I wanted to try for a birth without medical interventions (barring emergency interventions), and this book was the perfect fit (I'm definitely not an expert, but I highly recommend it to anyone interested in natural birth who also wants to deliver in a hospital).

What I Had Expected:

• Contractions were painful, yes. The techniques my husband and I had learned through both a Lamaze class and the Natural Hospital Birth book actually did help, though! Various combinations of back pressure and hip squeezing, along with controlled breathing, rocking, and leaning, made it possible to get through each contraction.
• My husband was incredibly supportive throughout the entire process, and I think this one individual element was the most indispensable in terms of making it through without being absolutely terrified. (I never felt truly afraid except for a short time during pushing.)

What I Hadn't Expected:

• I threw up! No one had told me that would be normal.
• Pushing was exhausting and it was the hardest part for me. Most people/books had said that women often find this phase a relief after contractions. Not so for me!
• We are fairly certain my contractions were never super regular. The definitely weren't regular in the earlier stages of labor. Perhaps at the very end they were.

Why I'm Thankful:

• My husband is amazing.
• My doctor is amazing.
• Labor and delivery nurses are amazing.
• A baby girl came out of my body and was placed on my chest. This is incredible to me.
• God is good. 

The Longer Version
To help prepare for labor and delivery, I read through Natural Hospital Birth: The Best of Both Worlds, written by doula Cynthia Gabriel. I knew I wanted to try for a birth without medical interventions (barring emergency interventions), and this book was the perfect fit (I'm definitely not an expert, but I highly recommend it to anyone interested in natural birth who also wants to deliver in a hospital). Gabriel mentions that every labor and delivery is unique and that women like to share their stories. Beforehand, I didn't know if sharing would matter much to me, but now that I've gone through this crazy experience, I feel the urge to write down my memories before they get too muddled!

I think I must have been having Braxton Hicks contractions for a couple of weeks leading up to labor. There was one day that I thought they felt a bit different than normal. I told my parents (who planned to travel to be at the hospital for the birth) that things might be happening, but that they shouldn't try the drive yet; however, they and my sister went ahead and came to see us anyway! Turns out they spent a couple of nights in town and I got to spend time with them before the baby's arrival, which is a sweet part of my memory of this event. They ended up going back home before the little one came.

It was only two days later, a Monday, that labor really began! The morning before I had noticed that my mucus plug came out, and throughout Sunday I had "bloody show" - a sign of approaching labor. Also, I was past due (41 weeks and 2 days on Monday), so I was expectant. Monday morning I woke up feeling like the contractions were definitely stronger than they had ever been. My husband was able to stay home from work in anticipation of labor truly starting, and I had fairly consistent bouts of contractions all day, but none were at regular intervals. 

By the evening my husband and I were doubtful (again) that anything was actually going to happen, but then, at about 8:00, contractions started to be fairly close together, although they still weren't at regular intervals. We started to pay close attention to timing, and they would come at such irregular spacing that we thought it was "false labor." We watched a show and headed to bed. At about 9:30, just as we were ready to go to sleep, we realized that sleep would actually be impossible. The contractions by that time were too painful for me to fall asleep, and they were coming fairly close together (4 or 5 minutes apart). We kept timing them, and we decided to go ahead and get the last minute items into our hospital bags. There were a couple of instances where the contractions came about 2 minutes apart, but still they were not consistently getting closer together and still they weren't so painful that I couldn't walk or talk through them. We weren't sure when to go to the hospital since our goal was to go through early labor as much as possible at home. 

Finally, even though our resources for achieving a natural birth recommended waiting until contractions took my total focus before going to the hospital, we decided to leave. I think we felt a bit nervous about waiting too long, since it was our first labor experience, we had to go down stairs to get to the car, and it was raining. By the time we got to the hospital, my contractions had slowed and gotten less intense. I was second-guessing our timing, but in the end it was probably good that we arrived when we did. I was admitted to triage, where they check everything before really admitting you, and was only dilated to a 3 (one centimeter more than at my previous checkup). They told my husband and me to walk around the halls for an hour to see if I would progress at all. If I didn't, we would have to go home (although the doctor said she was reluctant to send us home since I was past due). I was nervous they might try to induce labor if I didn't progress naturally, but after an hour (and an extra twenty minutes for good measure) of walking, I was dilated to a 4, and they admitted me! What a huge relief. By that time, my contractions were making me stop and focus on breathing to get through. My husband was so supportive in standing with me and encouraging me through each one. We even got to see my parents and sister (who had driven to be there - again! - and were out in the waiting area).

In our labor and delivery room, the nurses were amazing. We gave them a thank-you card that had our birth plan written inside, stating our desire for a natural birth, and I remember one nurse reading it to the other one and saying something like "nothing too crazy," which was another huge relief to me. One of my fears had been that the nurses/doctor would not be supportive of our desires or would find them frustrating. After all of the questions had been asked and forms had been signed, the nurse working with us pretty much left us to ourselves except to come adjust the little monitor I wore that measured the baby's heartbeat. We were able to move around the room and get through the contractions without distractions or unwanted attention (yet another relief, and an answer to prayer). We ended up finding a system that worked for us, which involved sitting between contractions and standing or leaning against a wall or with hands on knees during the contractions. My husband, always supportive, helped me through each one by either squeezing my hips or applying pressure to my lower back. These techniques really helped! I kept focusing on breathing, too, which was also helpful. 

At one point I threw up, which I had not expected to happen, and I felt a bit afraid something might be wrong. The nurse came in shortly after that and she told us it was totally normal and she had never seen a labor where the mom didn't throw up! Whew. I guess I missed that part of the book. 

The worst contractions for me were the last ones before the transition phase, I guess around 6 to 7 and 7 to 8 centimeters. The first time the nurse checked me after we got to the labor and delivery room I was at an 8, and I remember the contractions from that point on until pushing felt a lot different from the ones before. Suddenly I did not want to stand and rock, breathing quickly; instead I wanted to hold onto my husband, using something like a super tight hug, and breathe more slowly through them. His encouraging words were important to me at that point. We were both so tired that in the tiny gaps between contractions both of us were actually falling asleep. Those transition contractions seemed easier to me than the ones that had come before, which was a surprise, since our resources had taught us those were likely the most painful ones.

When the pushing phase came, everything changed. Suddenly we weren't left to ourselves anymore; nurses came in the room and one checked me and said I was fully dilated. They called my doctor (whose voice when she entered the room made me start crying with relief!) and put me on the bed, which until that point I had not used. My doctor found out soon after we began that I still needed to dilate a bit more, so there was a short time of some pretty painful contractions during which I was lying there and had to refrain from pushing.

To me, pushing was definitely the hardest part of the whole process. I think it's because I felt out of control being on my back with my legs held up like they were. Also, I was more mentally prepared for getting through contractions, and they happened to me, whereas I had not expected pushing to be so difficult, and they required my extreme effort to be effective. By that point I was so tired, having been awake for nearly 24 hours, and suddenly I was basically doing sit-ups through which I had to hold my breath. At one point early on I thought I was going to faint; they started giving me oxygen in between contractions, and that helped a lot.

At the start of pushing, for the first time during the whole labor, I really thought I might not be able to do it, which was frightening. I voiced that thought and everyone encouraged me that I could do it, that I was doing it. I started focusing on my doctor and listening to her instructions. She kept telling me to push harder and then to rest when it was time to rest. The nurses counted out each push for me, 1 to 10, which helped, too. My husband was close by and wiped my forehead with a cool cloth from time to time. Eventually the doctor told the nurse to start a pitocin drip to strengthen my contractions so that the pushing would not take as long a time. That's the only thing about the labor and delivery that I feel somewhat disappointed about, but it is a minimal disappointment. At the time I felt glad that they were helping me to get through this phase in a shorter amount of time since I was feeling so exhausted, and looking back I think it was probably a good decision. I remember sensing a mental shift away from fear and towards just getting through each sit-up and push. One of the nurses told me as we got close to the end that if I looked down a little I would see the top of the baby's head. When I saw her little hair-covered crown, I knew the pushing was almost over!

Once our little girl was finally born, I remember feeling totally wiped out. The doctor instructed my husband how to cut the cord, nurses and the doctor were talking to me and saying wonderful things about the baby, and they placed her straight onto my chest, but I was out of it and barely aware of these goings-on. I think I had conversations with them but it was like I was on auto-pilot at that point! The doctor was still sitting down there, taking care of things, helping me deliver the placenta (which felt like an octopus slipping out) and stitching up my little tear, but I was physically emptied: there was no energy left. And at the same time I was holding our new baby. She felt warm on my chest.

I remember thinking during the latter parts of labor and definitely during the pushing phase that I never wanted to go through this again. It was so overwhelming to me, especially pushing, that I thought there would be no way I'd ever want to have another baby. However, I am starting to perceive the experience differently now that it's almost three weeks in the past. What they say seems to be true; you don't really remember the pain afterwards. Somehow it fades away as you get lost in taking care of your new baby. The whole experience was surreal, and even now, having a baby still seems surreal to me! Despite the strangeness of it all, I believe that, for me, labor and delivery was a grounding experience leading into this brand new chapter of life as a mommy.