As I struggled through another day of training my daughter to use the potty, I strained my eyes to see the light at the end of the tunnel.  After all, success couldn’t be that far away.  Hannah Grace did try to make her baby doll use the potty….

Even in the midst of the sea of urine and mounds of feces that have accumulated on my carpet, there are many humorous events that go along with potty training.  Hannah Grace caused me to chuckle as her doll went pee-pee, and I was reminded of another event from six months earlier that kept me laughing for days.  Prior to starting my blog, this post was published on my facebook profile:

From February 24, 2009

I should’ve known from my morning that today was going to be off. My car wouldn’t start, and of course, today was my day to work in the playroom at the gym. Thanks to my husband’s help, I arrived with the kids in tow only 25 minutes late, but apparently the excitement for the day had just started….

The playroom was crazy, and at one point in the day I was holding a cranky baby, ushering four kids out the door to their respective mommies with another worker, while the third staff member was tending to the other 30 kids in the playroom. All of a sudden, my co-worker Stephanie exclaimed, “Jennifer, Caleb’s peeing in a cup!” Of all of the words to follow “Jennifer,” I was not expecting those five.

I had no idea what she was talking about or why Caleb would pull this stunt, but I quicky handed her the baby and ran to the bathroom while a few horrified mothers looked on the scene. Sure enough, Caleb’s pants were down around his ankles, and he had his penis stuffed in a sparkly Cinderella cup from one of the toy dish sets.

Now, let me back up. In Caleb’s defense, the door to the bathroom was locked. We had a lock installed on the outside to keep little kids like Caleb from going in the bathroom and playing in the toilet. Now why Caleb didn’t get one of us to unlock the door…well, if he did that, he wouldn’t have the opportunity to pee in a sparkly cup, would he?

I quickly ushered Caleb in the bathroom, not quite sure if pee was actually in the cup, yet, or if Caleb was just working up the nerve. “You can’t pee in a cup, Caleb! Use the potty,” I frantically tried to reason with him. He was holding that cup with a death grip as he made his way to the stool in front of the potty. I looked down, and the damage had been done. Caleb took the cup, and threw his pee into the potty. I have to give it to the kid–he didn’t spill one drop.

Caleb looked up at me with pride in his eyes. “I poured my pee in the potty. That was funny,” he smiled.

Once again, I stressed that we don’t pee in cups and threw the sparkly Cinderella cup in the trashcan as we headed back to the crowd of kids. As Caleb walked away, I couldn’t help but think he was pretty smart. I mean, he could’ve peed on the floor.

True to form my almost three year-old taught me a lesson: “Where there’s a will, there’s a way!” Or if that moral doesn’t work for you, how about “There’s never a reason to pee in your pants if a cup’s nearby.”

“Trust in the LORD with all your heart/and lean not on your own understanding;/in all your ways acknowledge him,/and he will make your paths straight” Proverbs 3:5-6

I like to worry.  Clearly, I must because I always seem to do it.  I’ve often tried to convince myself that I’m attempting to discover God’s will so that I can plan and take the necessary steps to make sure I follow it.  However, if I’m really honest with myself, all the ‘planning’ I do is really a not-so-good disguise for my worry. I embrace anxiety when God’s will is not clear and fear making the wrong decision, and until very recently, I did not realize how backwards those tendencies are.

Worrying about not knowing God’s will–worrying–is not any part of His plan, and for the first time, I am starting to understand this point.  God has shown me that He does not operate the way that I think He should but in the way that He knows is best.  I am learning that while sometimes God’s will is clear from the get-go, other times He reveals His plan along the way.  And most frustrating of all, sometimes God seems silent, and in those times, I must rely on my faith and knowledge of His wonderful, perfect character to allow me to trust in Him.  While I’d love to say that I’ve learned these truths simply by having incredible insight, I cannot.  I have had to learn through a very trying situation for my husband and me, but without this trial, I would not have had the opportunity to experience Jesus’ amazing grace.

In 2004, I joined the United States Air Force and bought a home with my husband in Oklahoma where I was stationed.  In 2006, I got out of the Air Force after the birth of my son, and my husband got a job transfer back to Georgia.  We put our house up for sale and made our journey back to our home state.  It is now 2009, and we still own that same house.  We are now entering our fourth time of putting our house on the market after two not-so-successful rental experiences.  We have repeatedly paid off debt and built up our emergency savings fund to only empty it again and go back into debt because of this home.  At one point, I went back to work full time (I left the Air Force to be a stay-at-home mom and for no other reason) because our tenants decided to move out at the same time my husband’s former place of employment decided to re-structure and force him out of his job.  And now, we are faced with at least two months of additional mortgage payments as our most recent tenants skipped out on their July rent payment and left our home a pig sty.  We hope to have the house back on the market before the first of August, but who knows as the cleaning crew could not clean the other day because the water was turned off–apparently, our tenants skipped out on that bill, too.

When I went back to work previously, I was heart-broken.  I couldn’t bear to leave my kids, at that time almost two and six months old.  I questioned God–why wouldn’t He allow our house to sell?  What was He trying to teach us?  Why were we struggling when others we knew sold their homes on their first attempts?

After months of struggling at work and at home with our finances, I remember singing at church one Sunday.  As I was singing that God holds the universe in His hand, I felt Him touch me: “I could sell your house if I wanted.”  That was all God said to me, and it was enough.  I had spent months and months wondering the next step for us–do I sign up to teach another year or part-time? Look for renters? Keep trying to sell?–and wondering what God’s will was and if He were even involved in this detail of our lives.  After all, women were getting raped in the Sudan, children dying; what did my house matter to Him?  And then He made clear to me what He was probably trying to say all along.  Yes, we all have free-will and make decisions that affect our lives, but ultimately, if God wanted to intervene and make our house sell, He would.  Clearly, He had other plans.

He did not reveal those plans to me, and as my husband and I are ready to suffer a huge financial loss if we are lucky enough to sell the home or face foreclosure if we don’t, I can actually say I have peace.  Over the last two years I watched as the Lord provided both of us with jobs–no, I didn’t want mine, but I needed it at the time, and I was eventually able to stay home again when we got our previous renters.  Matt’s new job has been a complete blessing as he comes home happy, not burdened with fear of meeting his ever changing quotas, not stressed and unable to focus on his family.  There were many months during this journey when unexpected checks in the mail appeared that got us through lean times, and as we face lean times again, I know the Lord will once again provide for us.

Having peace doesn’t mean that I’m not completely frustrated.  Of course I am.  Matt and I have always tried to do the right thing, and as a result we’ve had to struggle.  While some couples enjoy weekly date nights, I’d happily accept a monthly date night!  I’d love to have college accounts beginning to grow for my children and to be able to take them to the Georgia Aquarium or to the zoo when the fancy strikes, but our budget hasn’t allowed for that.  And now, when we were just starting to do better financially, someone else walks away from his responsibility hurting us.  But within my frustration, I can honestly say I’m not worried.

When Jesus said, “Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life” (Matthew 6:27), he was talking to me.  And he was talking to my friend who feels like the surmounting bills are going to swallow her.  And he was talking to my husband’s family as they grieve over the death of their loved one.  And he was talking to the mother and father who cling to their heavenly Father as their baby fights for his life.

I can always find someone who is in a worse situation than I, and that person’s problem brings perspective to mine, yet even that person is commanded not to worry.  What an insane instruction!  Or is it?  Is God really asking that much of us? He really isn’t asking that much of us at all:  “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6-7).  It sounds like He just wants us to talk to Him, to be honest, and to let go.

I’m finally understanding.  I’ve asked for God’s peace, but I’ve clung on to my worry, trying to understand the future while wrecking my present.  I now know that for the peace of God to wash over me, I have to trust Him to hold my anxiety.  It sounds easy enough, but it’s not for me. However, I know that if today I trust God with my home in Oklahoma and stop trying to understand His purpose, tomorrow I can give Him whatever greater obstacle crosses my path.

In a couple of weeks, I turn 30.  I know, I know, no one can believe it because I only look 25.  Ha!  The funny thing is, up until recently, people never believed my age.  I had always looked younger, but I made the observation this year that no one doubts my age, anymore.  College-aged girls respond to me with “ma’am,” and I have to admit, they look to me as if they were 15.  What happened?  When I asked my sister if I look my age, she slowly replied, “Well…you have had three kids….”

I hadn’t anticipated the 30th birthday bothering me in any way because I’ve always viewed birthdays as, well, just another day.  Who cares?  As I look around the corner and see the new number staring me in the face, I want to jump back and hide, and I know the reason:  I feel completely unattractive.  The last time I felt this unattractive I was 14, and there was a good reason I felt this way–I WAS unattractive.  Check out my high school library card; you’ll agree.  If I felt better about how I looked now, I could face 30 with grace–I would dare it to try to scare me–and could have fun on that day.  As it is, I’m focusing on what to do for my daughter’s birthday that follows mine instead.

In my defense, I am the victim of circumstances right now.  I did just have a baby, and I have done really well taking off most of the baby weight in less than three months.  However, when I look down, I see this confused sack of flab hanging off my belly that doesn’t know where to go.  It knows my body wants to be thin, but it’s hanging on for dear life.  I really want to wear a bikini to the pool and feel youthful, but I don’t want the children to scream and hide underwater as I approach.  And then there is my glorious bosom, the product of breastfeeding for most of the last three years.  I had to laugh as I was reading from Song of Solomon in the Bible; the lover describes his new wife’s breasts as two fawns from a gazelle.  Ha!  A bouncing gazelle is not the animal that comes to mind when I think about my pair…hmm…I think a gorilla might be a more appropriate image.

Then there’s my hair.  I decided I wanted to grow out my  hair so that it would cascade down my back and around my shoulders in thick waves of beauty.  Yeah, right.  The only thing that is cascading is my baby as she uses my hair as a rope swing.  I have  since sported the pony tail look almost every day.  I could say that I was trying to look athletic, but the previous paragraph explains why that look isn’t happening, either.

Finally, instead of eye shadow, I now wear the permanent under-eye shadow that comes from my children conspiring to keep me up all night.  I’m up every three hours to feed Chloe, and just for fun, Caleb and Hannah Grace like to say ‘hi’ during Chloe’s off hours.  I love all of my children, but I really wouldn’t mind if we didn’t meet at three a.m.

So, I might not look stunning for my 30th birthday.  In fact, I might look a little unattractive, but I have a good reason–three of them for that matter.  Maybe next August I’ll have a little more time and energy to devote to myself, (unless anyone wants to give me a gift certificate to a spa, now!) but for now, I’ll deal with looking my age.

“Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;/but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised”

Proverbs 31:30

A few days ago, the kids and I were home enjoying a lazy day of playing with toys inside, safe from the July Georgia heat.  Chloe was ready to eat, so, armed with my burp cloth,  I found a comfortable spot on the couch.  A couple of seconds later, I was joined by another mommy.  This little mommy also had a baby and was far more equipped for the job than I, carrying a diaper bag, stash of diapers, bottle, and her own burp cloth–which was actually a diaper changing pad.  I couldn’t help but smile as this mommy struggled to climb up on the couch, dragging her baby  with her.

As she assumed her seat on the couch next to me, this mommy let me know her plans.

“I feed baby.”

“Okay,” I said.  “You are such a good mommy.”

Apparently this little mommy’s baby began to cry because she began to speak ever so sweetly to her love.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” she cooed to the baby.  As she cradled the baby, she grabbed one of her essentials. “I need burp cloth,” she exclaimed knowingly tending to her child.  She began patting this little baby’s back, continuing to murmur in her child’s ear.

This loving display of affection brought a wide smile to my face.  I was so impressed with this little peanut’s motherly instinct at the ripe age of 23 months.  I was also struck by the details my daughter Hannah Grace absorbed.  She touched her baby softly as I had done many times with Chloe, and she let her baby know she was safe in her arms. She repeated the phrases I had uttered when trying to calm Chloe, and she knew all the mommy tools needed to make it through the day with a baby.  I felt a warm sense of satisfaction watching my little mommy imitate her own mommy when I had a sudden thought that made me feel temporarily sick.

What if she really imitates me?!  Were these mommy’s eyes about to narrow and laser beam the baby into time-out?  Was the voice from The Exorcist going to bounce off the walls growling , “I’m sick and tired of you not listening to me!”  Our last few weeks had been rough, and they were weighing on me. I could handle watching my child act out my tender qualities, but I really didn’t need to see a reenactment of the not-so-proud parts of my day!

Before I could panic too much, this mommy notified me, “I going bye-bye. I need key.”  And she was off with her child.  She quickly strapped the baby in her pink stroller, and off she and her baby went to do laps around the downstairs of our home.

I let out a sigh of relief as this sweet display of affection between a mother and child remained as such and felt overwhelmed by the special privilege God gave me when He made me a mother.  Watching Hannah Grace, I was reminded of how much my children view me as their teacher, and whether I want them to or not, they look to me as an example of how to live.  I was also comforted.  In that moment I felt reassured that, for all my faults, my love for my children will be what they remember most.  An aptly spoken word, a comforting touch, providing for their basic needs–these moments outweigh the moments with psycho-Mommy, who does appear, but not nearly as often as the mommy Hannah Grace enjoys (or so I hope!).

As I’ve reflected on that moment, I’ve come to think that many women need to learn what I learned.  Whether we are wives, mothers, co-workers, daughters, friends–we all need to be reminded of our good qualities.  Our memories have a nasty way of holding onto the negative much longer and easier than the positive. We forget what we do well and tend to focus on our struggles, our weaknesses.  We all have faults upon which we can improve, as there will always be someone watching our example, but we also have much to offer.

And if Hannah Grace learned how to ‘mommy’ from watching me, I’m not doing half bad.

After the death of Michael Jackson, I had no intention of writing a blog about him, and I still don’t. While I feel bad for the families of the deceased any time a person dies, my emotions did not go any further than this type after Jackson’s death.  I hate to sound cruel, but I really didn’t care.  I didn’t watch any of the media specials or funeral coverage because I was busy with my own life, and frankly, I was more interested in what was happening to the protesters in Iran and the economic condition of the United States.

Now don’t get me wrong; I didn’t hate Michael Jackson, but I no longer had the crush on him that I had had when I was five.  I still enjoyed his music, but let’s face it–he became weird, and I lost interest in him.  Matt is a better fit for me. So why am I writing this blog?  Because Michael Jackson gave me something I never expected.

Last Saturday, the whole family piled into the mini-van ready to set out for our Saturday morning grocery shopping/family bonding time.  Before driving off, Matt went back into the garage and began rummaging through his gigantic stack of CDs that he can’t seem to give away.  He came in the car and loaded his music craving for the day.  I rolled my eyes as the distinct voice of MJ sang out through the speakers.  I turned around to look at the kids who were instantly intrigued by the beat.  As we bopped along, I double-checked my grocery list against a recipe I had pulled up on my iphone.  Matt and I laughed as we questioned whatever happened to Wierd Al Yankovic and noticed how much “Bad” really sounded like a show tune.   Hey, we loved it, but at the same time we could both picture these ‘bad’ men walking around shaking their jazz hands. Before I knew it, we were turning into the parking lot.  We had to have made record time.

As Matt pulled into a parking place at Whole Foods, I looked at the clock and noticed it was very close to the next time Chloe would need to eat.  If I didn’t feed her now, she would inevitably wake up half way through our shopping excursion and let all the customers know that her parents were starving her.  I told Matt to go ahead in the store and I would find him when I was finished feeding Chloe, but he wasn’t too fond of that idea.  So, as I covered up and began nursing Chloe, we all relaxed in our seats and listened to the music.

It was then that I was transported.  I was five sitting on the floor of our tiny den in New Jersey looking into the screen of the equally tiny TV on the floor.  Jennifer the Babysitter (yes, we actually referred to her by that title) was turning on MTV so that I could see this enthralling man in a red jacket dancing in front of my eyes while proclaiming, “Beat it! Beat it! Beat it! Beat it! No one wants to be defeated!”  Meanwhile in the present, Matt had grabbed my iphone and was looking up the lyrics and realized for the first time that MJ was singing to run away from the fight, not into it.  Hannah Grace began learning the words to the song, and since the van was stopped, Caleb decided he should unbuckle himself and crawl into the front seat.

As I noticed this little boy tumbling over Matt’s seat and into his lap, I was brought back into the present.  “Caleb, what are you doing?!” I asked as this ball of energy was bouncing on top of Matt.  Caleb’s shaggy hair was swatting himself in the face as he shook his head from side to side during his chaotic dance.

I then turned my attention behind me.  As Caleb was rolling his head around in weird patterns, Hannah Grace was bee-bopping, singing, “Beat it! beat it! beat it!”.  I started to chuckle and tried to take Matt’s attention to Hannah Grace when Caleb, who was now out of control, focused his head movements toward the steering wheel.  While MJ was giving it all he had through song, Caleb used his head to express his artistic emotion.  Literally.  As the intensity of the music rose, Caleb’s head came down with two perfect honks on the steering wheel.  I could not stop laughing as my son just beeped the horn twice to the music in the Whole Foods parking lot as part of his excited “Beat it” dance.

Normally, grocery shopping is not a chore that I particularly look forward to doing, but I would shop every day of the week if they could all feel like last Saturday.  Having conversation with my husband, laughing at my children, watching the time fly by as we had fun together–how would I ever have known that one CD would create a perfect memory for me?  No, Michael Jackson, I’m not going to vote for a federal holiday for you; I don’t think you deserve it.  I simply want to tell you ‘thank you.’  Thank you for a great Saturday.

“Reckless words pierce like a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing” Proverbs 12:2

As the weeks go on with my newborn, I have noticed that my patience level has decreased exponentially with the increased number of hours added to my sleep deficit.  While Chloe is a wonderful baby demanding very little besides the necessary feeding and diaper changing, her brother and sister are not so easy.  They are the typical two and three year old, constantly getting into things they shouldn’t and fighting as brothers and sisters tend to do.

I have reached the point now that the sound of crying other than that from a newborn makes me want to bang my head against the wall.  Someone is always crying in my home, but most of the time, the crying is not from Chloe.   Hannah Grace is always crying because Caleb made a mean face, tripped her, punched her, slapped her, sat on her foot, took her doll, ran into her, tackled her, walked passed her and sneezed at the same time, or any other possible assault on her person, while Caleb is typically crying while sitting in time-out for one of the offenses listed above.  I actually found myself telling Hannah Grace today that she is no longer allowed to cry unless something very sad happens or she is hurt badly.  She furrowed her brow and studied my face while listening intently, evidently not sure what the difference was between my two reasons and the various reasons she had cried during the day.

This constant barrage of noise and conflict on any given day has kept my nerves on edge, so much so, that I have lost the ability to relax.  I hadn’t noticed this inability until the other day, though.  On this particular day I had planned to take the kids outside to play with the moonsand that their Grammy gave them about six months ago but Mommy just discovered hidden in the playroom.  I was trying to gather the kit together, the kids, and whatever else was essential for the ten-foot trip from the kitchen to patio, and Caleb and Hannah Grace were gathered around my ankles.  They were in my way and talking incessantly.

I honestly cannot remember what Caleb said or what I said, but I know whatever I uttered was in a sharp and frustrated tone.  My sweet little boy looked up at me with a smile on his face and in his voice and gently laughed to me, “Mommy, you don’t have to be mean to me.  I’m your good boy.”

My heart sank, and I instantly felt a pang of remorse inside.  What was wrong with me?  Caleb clearly was excited that we were going outside to play with something new, and I was yelling at him without even realizing it.  I was not aware of the tone I was using to speak to two of the most precious gifts God had ever given me, my children created in His image, yet I was not treating them as such.

Caleb was right.  He is my good boy.  Lately, I had forgotten how good he is.  Instead, I worry about what people think when we are out in public and he doesn’t obey or wonder how those around me judge my disciplinary methods.  I only notice the bouncing off the walls in my house and the meanness to his sister.  I had forgotten about the smile that melts my heart every time and the creativity that Caleb  possesses.  I had forgotten about the spirit full of life and energy.  I had forgotten that Caleb is three.

I had forgotten that while it may seem like a small thing to me, having Hannah Grace’s baby doll stolen by her big brother that she loves and adores is a very sad event to her.  I had forgotten that being tackled when she is not playing football and not wearing pads probably does hurt badly.  I had forgotten that Hannah Grace is not yet two, and toddlers cry.

I have noticed that people tend to speak to their family members differently than friends, acquaintances, or even people that they just met.  Many of us tend to be more impatient, less aware of our tone with the people we love most in the world.  Perhaps subconsciously we know our family will always be there, that they love us with all of our faults included. I noticed before how other people treated their families, but I hadn’t noticed myself until Caleb showed me.

Proverbs 15:1 says “A gentle answer turns away wrath,/but a harsh word stirs up anger.”  Caleb modeled this verse for me with his gentle rebuke, and I want to change as a result.  I don’t want to stir up anger in my children but instead speak blessings over them.  Now I’m not going to lie–I’m still going to do my best to get Hannah Grace to toughen up, and Caleb will continue to wear down the carpet in the corner until he treats his sister right, but I will also do my best to relax and have patience, to speak to my children the way I would speak to the children in the nursery at church.  I know this change won’t come easy for me, especially as I’m adding to my sleep deprivation right now by typing instead of sleeping.  Luckily for me, the mouths of babes will remind me when I get off course.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11

A couple of weeks ago, I heard a sermon at church where I was challenged to examine how I fit God into my life.  Overall, I try to include God in all aspects of my life, not just acknowledging Him on Sunday mornings but every day, and initially I allowed my mind to wander during this part of the teaching. However, I later realized that I have not trusted my LORD with everything important to me.

For almost five weeks after Chloe was born, I made weekly visits back to the doctor and the hospital trying to get rid of the “products of conception” that didn’t seem to want to leave my uterus.  While I am not a morbid person, I did have days when my thoughts would get away from me, and I would wonder if I were going to get better at all.  What if I had a bigger problem than what the doctor originally diagnosed and something really bad happened to me? Could I die if the D&C didn’t fix the problem (since it didn’t the first two times)?

I didn’t really think I was going to die, but my doctor didn’t help the situation, either.  I mean, he did point out on more than one occasion that childbirth is the leading cause of death in women around the world and the second leading cause of death in women in my age group in America (or something to that effect).  Why did he tell me those facts?  I don’t know; I think he may have explained his reasons to me, but I didn’t hear him.  My mind kept mulling over the word ‘death’ and the fact that my doctor had not yet healed me as he was spouting out these stats.  I really like my doctor, but his inability to hold back information not vital to my situation is one of my least favorite things about him.

And naturally, when thinking about my death, my mind instantly went to my children and husband.  Matt’s a great husband and father, but how would he raise three babies alone?  Would he remarry?  The thought of my children not remembering me (my oldest is three) practically killed me right there, and my not knowing Chloe at all or what my kids would look like when they were grown or if they would need therapy brought tears to my eyes…then I would snap out of it and scold myself for letting my thoughts get that carried away.

So naturally I let myself worry about a more practical issue–should Matt and I have a fourth child someday?  Since the doctor didn’t know why I had problems after the last two pregnancies, he wasn’t sure whether or not I would have problems again. Matt and my conversation with him really wasn’t much help in coming to a conclusion about this issue, either.  The doctor explained that there isn’t any reason for me not to have another child.  According to him, I didn’t have a near-death experience (even though the statistics were there to show that I could have!), and having a couple of D&Cs is more of a nuisance than anything–they shouldn’t keep me from having another child.  At this point in the conversation, I had to will my right hand to stay put as it wanted to swing up from my side and smack my doctor upside the head.  The flies that come in my house after my kids leave the door open are a nuisance, not the five weeks of pain and hospital visits I experienced.  My doctor’s opinion on this matter is my least favorite thing about him, but I digress.

One night after my ordeal seemed to be coming to a close finally, I was lying on my bed holding Chloe and thinking about the previous five weeks.  Chloe couldn’t seem to get comfortable, as she kept pushing off my stomach with her little feet, trying to crawl up me.  She was getting fussy, but there wasn’t anything I could do for her.  I held her in my arms, but I gave her room to wiggle around and bob up and down.  Finally, she just decided to rest.  She melted into my chest, laid her head down, and went to sleep.  I hadn’t done anything for her to make her more comfortable; she just decided to stop struggling and rest.

At that moment, I heard God whisper to me.  Rest.  I was like Chloe.  I just needed to rest.  His arms were around me, and they weren’t going to drop me, but He wasn’t going to force me to do anything, either.  The decision was mine to stop struggling and find peace in His embrace, but I had to relax first.

After this moment, the week’s previous sermon came back to me, and I realized the part of my life that I hadn’t surrendered to God–my future.  I’m a planner, and I want to know that the decisions I make are the right ones.  I want to follow God’s will, but I get so focused on taking the right steps that I miss the joy of the journey.  My God knows my future, and He wants the best for my family and me.  Just as God spoke to the Israelites in exile that He wanted them to have hope, He was also trying to speak to me in my dark moments.  While I think my concerns for my family were natural, my family is God’s family, and I need to surrender them to Him.  God knows if Matt and I are to have another child, and I need to trust in the plans He has for me.  Maybe if I stop struggling and lay my head down on His chest, I’ll hear better when He whispers in my ear.

10. Your son lassos his 15-month old cousin because he is a cowboy and his cousin is the cow.

9. When praying with your child, he tells God that he is thankful for Goliath.

8. After telling your child it doesn’t make sense for him to thank God for Goliath, he instead thanks God for the blinds in his room.

7. Your chubby (albeit adorable) toddler informs you through a mouth stuffed with bread, “I like food!”

6. Your son insists on wearing winter pajamas and a stocking cap to bed in the summer and only a stocking cap and underwear out in the snow.

5. Your daughter that is not quite two doesn’t want toys for her birthday but pretty dresses and nail polish.

4. Your child thinks her round belly is a better canvas for the purple paint than the actual canvas you set up for painting.

3. Your newborn demands you feed her at the exact moment you sit down to eat every night, no matter the time.

2. You review the Sunday School lesson with your child by asking, “The Bible is___?” for your child to answer, “Terrible!”

1. You discover that your children are telling the truth that they didn’t create the ketchup stains on the carpet–your husband did!

The last four and a half weeks have been interwoven with the amazing joy of having another child and the extreme frustration and sadness that accompanies having a problem that the doctors can’t seem to fix.  I wish I could say that next week is going to be a good week, but I’m not so sure.  What I can say is that God provides humor in our everyday experiences, and if I focus on these, perhaps I’ll have a little more strength to make it through the next day….

About a week ago, Matt and I were wrapped up in one of those days in which all we could do was laugh.  If I tried to explain the chaos, I wouldn’t be able to do the day justice, so instead I’ll just record some of the sentences that could be heard in our home that day:

“Caleb, put that down!  [Mommy’s breast pump] is not a trumpet!

“Caleb, don’t open-mouth kiss your sister.  It’s not appropriate!”

“Caleb, don’t lick your sister’s head!”

“Kids! We don’t wash our hands in the toilet…and Caleb, please flush after you pee pee.”

Remembering that day brought a smile to my face.  Maybe I need to change my prayers–instead of asking God to take away my pain, I should ask him to send more laughter to ease it.

Any mother who has brought home a new baby to brothers and sisters knows that there will be a transition period for all involved.  The mom learns how to juggle the responsibilities involved with caring for one more child while the older children learn how to share Mommy.  In my case, I also have had to learn how to deal with my plummeting popularity. During the first week after we brought home our daughter Chloe, I dealt with more than my fair share of insults and beatings, and by beatings, I am not being figurative.  I had tiny shoes thrown at me by both children and slaps from both of their little hands, which still hurt despite their sizes.  My self-esteem was bruised pretty badly, too, as my sweet 21-month old daughter Hannah Grace informed me that she didn’t love me, but she loved Chloe.  My all-time favorite attack of the week occurred after we all watched E.T. together when Caleb exclaimed, “If a spaceship comes, I’m gonna go!”

By the end of the week, I felt worn down and probably had a slight case of the baby blues, but I knew the kids I had that once loved me would return, and we would begin to fall into a routine again.  While their little rebellions hurt, I knew the pain was temporary and that I was dealing with a 3-year old and not quite 2-year old.  What I haven’t been as easily able to deal with is the physical problems I am having again.

After Hannah Grace was born, I had two postpartum hemorrhages, a D&C, and weeks of ultrasounds to confirm whether or not I was healed.  The period after my second child was born was marked by fear and depression.  I had hoped that this postpartum period would be different, and I left the hospital with high hopes after an uneventful (not including the actual birth of Chloe) stay.  One week later, however, the all too familiar pain appeared, and by the time Chloe was two weeks old, I was having a D&C.  My doctor felt positive that all was resolved–he successfully removed remains of placenta that had stayed in my body, but once again, I began cramping.  Another ultrasound confirmed my fears–I was not better.  I needed another D&C.

After talking to a new doctor (my doctor was on vacation), I learned that having this D&C so close to my previous D&C could produce scar tissue prohibiting me from getting pregnant or successfully carrying a baby in the future.  However, if I did not have this procedure and tried to let my body get rid of this foreign material on its own, I risked a possible hemorrhage, my worst fear.  I had already experienced bleeding at home with a new baby in my arms and a 17-month old running around while my husband was at work, and I did not want to risk that same scenario plus one more child this go-round.  Matt and I decided that I should have my second D&C in two weeks.  The risks, while there, are small, and we wanted no doubt that the problem was fixed.  The doctor felt confident that he could use a scope this time to see inside of me and ensure that he successfully removed anything that shouldn’t be there.

While I sat in the doctor’s office today, many questions ran around in my mind:  Did the first doctor miss something, or is there something wrong with my body?  Why have I had these problems with two pregnancies?  If I were to get pregnant again, would I have these same problems?  Do I want to get pregnant again if I could end up in the same place as I am today, even though Matt and I have discussed having four children?  Am I making the right decision? Not knowing these answers is the hardest part of this experience for me.

I guess it’s human nature to want to blame, and that is where I stand today.  I want to be able to say, “The doctor messed up,” or “I have a problem with my uterus,” but the fact of the matter is that I really don’t know for sure, and I hate it.  I hate living every day wondering if this medicine or this procedure fixed me once and for all.  I hate getting in a routine with my kids only to have to get someone to watch them as I head off to the doctor’s office for the fourth time. I hate seeing Caleb express his concern by making an angry face at me and refusing to talk.  I hate being afraid.

But I’m learning.  I’m learning that part of motherhood and part of life in general is learning how to take a deep breath and toughen up.  I am trying to not fall into the devil’s snare that captured me after Hannah Grace’s birth.  I was weighed down with fear, but this time I am trying to cling to 1 Corinthians 10:13: “God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear.”  The temptation to wallow in depression is definitely there, and I feel like I have a right to be upset.  I have a greater responsibility, though.  I have to put on my tough skin for my children.  If I’m hurting, I have to cover up my wince.  When I want to cry, I need to swallow the lump in my throat.  They are already dealing with the transition of having a new sister, and their little minds can’t understand everything that is happening to Mommy.

Yes, being told “When you go to the hospital, you can stay there!” hurts, and being told “You need another D&C” hurts, but I’ll get through this time.  God made women strong, and that strength is in me, too.  Some days it’s a little harder to find, but it’s in my skin, nonetheless.