The Things That Matter.

We were on our second flight home after a long two days of cancelled flights and hanging out in empty terminals. Our group of ten (six adults and four children) was tired, exhausted with the happy-but-crazy feels that accompany a trip to Disneyworld with small children, and we were ready to get home. The plane hummed along as I tapped my husband on the shoulder and handed him my copy of "Love Does" by Bob Goff. "Read this chapter," I whispered, gesturing towards the open page. He read it, nodded in agreement, and handed the book back to me. I smoothed out the page that had the most markings on it, done by my own pen, and re-read the phrase I had circled. And underlined. And drew little stars around:

"And for me, I've realized that I used to be afraid of failing at the things that really mattered to me, but now I'm more afraid of succeeding at things that don't matter."

I looked down at Lydia, my great, big, three year old, fast asleep, and tucked her hair behind her ear. My heart was settled.

Surrounded by friends who homeschool, I have always had the thought of it tucked in the recesses of my mind, wedged somewhere between "Things I Should Try" and "Things That Terrify Me Greatly".  I assumed I would at least attempt to homeschool Cub through his preschool years, but the opportunity arose for us to send him to a Christian school for preschool, two days a week, and we chose that.

Then Kindergarten came. At his school, Cub goes all day, five days a week. The first few months were a little awkward for me, adjusting to a school schedule while I still had littles at home, and I assumed the unsettledness was attributed to this adjustment. I also assumed that it would pass with time.

It didn't.

It was difficult to process. I loved his school. Naomi was in the preschool and we loved that, too. We loved their teachers. We loved what they experienced there. So, why, why was there this restless feeling in my heart? We enrolled the kids for the next year and of course, after doing so, that's when it happened. That thought, tucked back in my mind, started to surface periodically, peeking to the forefront of my brain no matter how much I tried to shove it back:

Should we homeschool?

The thought of it was intimidating. My degree is in Family Studies, not Early Childhood Education. Why in the world would I ever think I could teach my kids? Where do you even buy curriculum??

And, most importantly, I DON'T OWN CULOTTES.

EVEN IF GAP SELLS THEM NOW.

(I kid.)

My mind reeled with endless fears.

What if I fail?

But the thought of it also would not go away, so after making extensive pros and cons lists and talking my husband's ear off and falling asleep at night with homeschool blogs open on my phone, I finally started to pray about it. I pushed the lists and blogs and (slightly irrational) fears aside and brought it before God in prayer, leaving it at that. Confession: I had not been the best pray-er for a while before this. My conversations with God more resembled shop talk than anything raw and honest. Praying about homeschooling opened up that conversation once again and I remember the day, distinctly, that He answered my prayer. After putting the girls down for naps, I laid down for a cat nap. Only a few moments later, my eyes popped open, I sat straight up, and I felt this overwhelming peace. In His fascinating and beautiful way, God had gently turned His desires into my desires and I knew that this was what He wanted for us. And that was that. As usual, God did not show up with lightning bolts on my front door or anvils falling on my roof--instead, He quietly nudged my heart until I released it. I had been so preoccupied with figuring out the logistics and the worst possible homeschool scenarios (if you check my Google history, you will find searches like "terrified of homeschooling" and "why in the world should I ever homeschool"), that I hadn't stopped to listen for His voice. Once I did, He spoke.

Amazing how that happens, right? Why, oh why, do I ever push pause on my prayer life?

He listens, and He speaks.

From there, things started moving forward. I had discussions with the kids' teachers about our plans for the following year and they were kind and supportive and everything I knew they would be. With tears in my eyes, I finally clicked "Send" on the e-mail to formally withdraw my kids from school next year. I truly believe God went before us by opening up slots for my kids at a local Classical Conversations campus in our town. Explaining our decision has been, for the most part, well-received. Some are completely confused--why give up an education at a great Christian school to homeschool? That's a good question. I'm not entirely sure why. I have my reasons why I am looking forward to homeschooling, but, as far as the reasoning behind it, I really feel like we're just taking a step of obedience and we'll maybe find out the "why" later. Or maybe we won't. Maybe God knows I need to experience this for a year before I can finally put it to rest. Or, maybe not. I don't know.

What I do know is that He has given us peace to homeschool next year. Beyond that, it's up to Him and where (or how) He leads us next. If God has shown me anything thus far in my life, it is this: My plans rarely turn out as I expect them to. From working to getting pregnant to staying home to now homeschooling for this next year, He continually shakes up the way I think things should look, and through the struggle of relinquishing control, my eyes are opened to the greatness of His plan every time. He is faithful. Oh, He is faithful.

So. Here comes a list of disclaimers to get out of the way:

-I do not hate public school.

-I do not hate traditional education.

-I do not think I could ever be a teacher commanding a class, so if you are a certified teacher and are utterly confused as to why anyone without a teaching degree would think that they could take your place, know that I COULD NOT TAKE YOUR PLACE. I can (hopefully) teach my own three kids to read and write and maybe learn some history or how to maybe grow tomatoes. I could not command a classroom or deal with someone else's children on a regular basis. Bless it, you are awesome.

-I still do not own culottes. But we do still have the chickens.

My kids will finish up this school year and then we will begin homeschooling sometime this summer. My hope is that I will utilize this (poor, neglected) blog to record my experience. This is an adventure, folks. I know, to some, homeschooling sounds as exciting as dry toast, but, for me, following God's leading almost always results in some kind of adventure. I will be honest here, logging the good, the bad, the ugly. And the beautiful.

As I sort through the kids' curriculum and begin to create a framework for the summer, I still, at times, feel the familiar fear creep into my mind: What if I fail? 

You know what? I might. I just might fail at this. We might get to the end of this and have a good laugh, recalling that one time that Katie decided to homeschool and everyone ended up ripping out their hair and Katie had to be committed and the chickens ran away. But ... I don't think we will fail. There will be challenging days and great days and all kinds of days in between. I know that God has gone before us in this and regardless of what happens by the end of next year, it will be a success simply for the fact that we trusted, and we obeyed. And what joy there is in acquiescing to His plan. 

Praise be to God, Who continually draws us back to Him.

Have a lovely day.

Aiming For a Happy Monday.

It's safe to say that this morning I've been a little off my game.

I mean, I'm just a little snippy this morning. Annoyed, maybe? Do you ever have days where you're just ... annoyed? Maybe not. Maybe it's just me. But there are days where I wake up and everything just kind of bothers me, for whatever reason, and today was one of those days.

Dishes. Laundry. Again. And again. 

Lydia spilling Dad's cologne. Again.

Groceries being put away, food prep for the week getting finished, again. And again.

Me attempting a Pinterest dessert that ended up looking like a mutant giant slug.

Again.

And again and again and again.

These mundane tasks are usually something that I don't mind. I enjoy them, to some extent. Or, rather, I enjoy the sense of satisfaction when they are complete. Ahhh, DONE!

But, they aren't really done, because they will be there again tomorrow. And around and around we go.

As I was loading the darks into the washing machine, I could hear myself sighing. Do you know the sigh? The SIGGGHHHHH. The heavy one that is an obvious indication of discontent. And mid-sigh, I stopped myself. Why was I sighing? I stood up and looked around. Why was I so grumpy this morning?

Everything in my house is the same. The laundry room is the same, the kitchen is the same, my tasks and chores are all the same. 

The problem, then, became blaringly obvious: ME. 

I AM THE PROBLEM.

On my phone's lock screen, I have this verse:

Let the morning bring me word

of Your unfailing love,

for I have put my trust in You.

Show me the way I should go,

for to You I lift up my soul.

Psalm 143:18

It became clear to me that my morning was, in most ways, the same as it always is. But amidst the getting dressed and the grocery shopping and the food prepping and the scrubbing yogurt out of the kitchen chairs, I hadn't once paused to thank God for the day. To seek His guidance, to experience the joy of placing the day in His hands.

Of course this pause is not a guarantee that anything in my day will go well, at all. But in that still moment, my attitude is prepared for both the expected and the unexpected. And I find myself immersed in the reality of a Greater Purpose, the realization that the mundane is necessary and good. And that this day, like all of the days, will slip away soon and I won't get it back. 

And dang it, I can at least try to suck it up and have a good attitude.       

So, even now as my baby, lightly scented in Acqua di Gio, is climbing in my lap and impairing my ability to type, I say to all of you, this is the day that the Lord has made. 

And I will rejoice, and be glad in it.

Happy Monday.

What Do You Do With a Drunken Pork Roast..?

One of our favorite meals at my house is Pioneer Woman's Shredded Pulled Pork. There's nothing simpler than dumping some Dr. Pepper and Adobo Peppers (or BBQ sauce, which is what we use) on a pork butt and letting it cook all day. Easy and delicious. It's especially handy when company is coming because it produces quite a few servings and everyone likes it. Win-win!

On Thursday evenings, we've started a tradition of eating with some friends of ours. The kids play while we chat and it's great. I had decided to make the Pulled Pork of Awesomeness for the meal, but when I checked our pantry, I couldn't find any Dr. Pepper.

Sneaky husband.

I scoured the cupboards for any sort of soda-pop-ish beverage that could serve as a sweet meat tenderizer, but, alas, the only drinks I keep stocked in our house are milk and water. Oh, and pink lemonade. I stood in the kitchen, fretting, until I remembered that we had a bottle of whiskey in our top cabinet.

Now, before you start thinking that my husband and I survive our wonderfully chaotic little life by being closet alcoholics, let me clarify that the whiskey was only in my possession because of another PW recipe that called for it. I cocked my head and pondered whether or not whiskey could serve the same purpose as DP. Surely. Right?

So, I unscrewed the lid, shuddered at the stench, and poured a little on top of the roast. I peeked into the pot and thought that the liquid content seemed a little low, so I poured a little more. It still didn't seem like enough, so I drenched the roast, screwed the lid back on the (significantly lighter) bottle and stashed it back in the top cabinet. I then dumped BBQ sauce on top of it, turned on the heat, and walked away to let the roast cook. Or brew. Whichever.

After a few hours, the house began to smell a little sour, but I ignored it because you really can't judge the idiocy of a decision until that decision has come to complete fruition, which, in this case, required a fully cooked roast. So I waited until the allotted cooking time had passed and only a few minutes before our friends were to arrive, I tested the roast.

I lifted the lid and despite the intolerably rancid and bitter smell, I held my breath, grabbed a fork, and proceeded to attempt to shred my shredded pulled pork.

Only it didn't shred. In fact, it didn't move. That dang roast was as solid as though it were still in the fridge.

Not one to give up so easily, I grabbed my butcher knife, shoved it down into the roast, and scraped a piece of meat onto my fork. I steeled my nerves, opened my mouth, and placed the Roast Fail on my tongue.

As quickly as the roast entered my mouth it also exited it, as I gagged and threw up in the kitchen sink.

The taste of the whiskey was so undeniably prominent that I might as well have left the pork and BBQ sauce out of the pot and written "Hot Liquor" under the Thursday slot on our menu board. It was so sour, SO sour, and I hung my head in shame as I mentally added this to the long list of domesticity fails that have occurred in my married life. Poor husband. Poor friends that were on their way over. Poor pork roast. Poor trash can that would have to endure the wretchedness of the poor pork roast.

Thankfully, Pizza Hut delivers to my house.

Have a lovely day.

School, yo.

A reader recently asked how we came to the decision to put Cub in a pre-3 program this year. The question comes in light of past posts that discuss education options, like homeschooling. I used homeschooling curriculum with Cub when he turned two and I loved it, so now the question comes as to why I chose to not continue in that route.

This is our approach: We take each year one year at a time. If something works one year, it doesn't necessarily mean it will work the next, and our ultimate goal is to continually reassess our options and make sure that our kids' needs are being met in what we feel is the best way possible. Rather than swearing to one type of educational method or another, we're going more with the belief that our kids grow and change and therefore their needs grow and change. Maybe they'll stick with one way and it will work great. What's most important to us is that we are plugged into their education and proactive in their learning.

I never thought that I would put my kids in preschool, especially a pre-3 program. My intention was to keep them home with me until they absolutely had to be in school (if we were not homeschooling), which would be kindergarten. I love having them with me. Then as spring rolled around last year, I began to get a feeling about Cub being in school.

Yes, a feeling. Super scientific, right?

I can't really explain it. I love having Cub home with me. And yet I felt this growing desire for him to have this experience. It was hard for me to recognize that my desire for him to be home and my desire for him to get the opportunity to go to an early preschool program didn't have to conflict with each other. Sending him to school didn't mean I didn't want him home. It meant that I wanted him to have this experience and that I felt that he was ready. Simple as that. There is a private Christian school in our town that offers pre-3 two days a week. For us, the school had to be a Christian school. In these early years especially, we are not comfortable having Cub in a school that does not adhere to Biblical teaching and, thankfully, we have been blessed with the option of sending him to a really great school. After reading the curriculum and having discussions with parents who have sent their kids there, my husband and I felt that this would be the best option for Cub.

We love that he will get to make new friends his age (most of his friends are younger or older). We love that he will be exposed to new kinds of learning. We love the order and constant movement of his day. We love that he will go to chapel. His teacher is kind, assertive, and communicative. Best of all, Cub loves it, too (so far).

Does this mean we'll never homeschool? No. The co-op I would want to join begins taking students after they turn four, so if by next year we feel that this is what we are being called to, we'll start taking steps in that direction. If not, we'll keep him where he is, if he loves it. One year at a time. For now, we're excited about this school year for Cub.

And there you have it!

Have a lovely day.

Ash Wednesday.

My forehead is getting a break from the ashes this year since I won't be able to make it to an Ash Wednesday service, but I have to say that I'm really ready for Lent this year. Do you ever feel like you're ready for a pause? I know I am--a chance to refocus and recharge before Easter morning. I'm giving up Facebook again this year and I'm ready for it. It will be hard during the middle-of-the-night feedings when I'm mindlessly thumbing through apps on my phone, but I know the break will be a good one--to focus on my life here!

This Lent is going to be a little different for me. I fully intended on memorizing a passage of Scripture, since that is the Lenten discipline I always choose to practice. I've mentioned before how much the Bible Study in which I am participating, Walking With God In the Desert, has meant to me and how this time in my life feels, at times, very much like a desert. I figured the passage I should memorize would somehow come out of the study. Monday had been a particularly hard day and I was really looking forward to the study on Tuesday.

I settled in my seat to watch the video for our study. I had Lydia asleep in one arm and a cup of coffee in my other hand, a very obvious example of my life right now. This particular video discussed paths in the desert--how the word "path" is used several times in Scripture and what the actual desert paths looked like--tiny trails amongst jagged rocks of all sizes. At times the trails were not even discernible because of the rocks. The guide gestured to the rocks, explaining what a tangible example they were of the trials we face. The smaller softball sized stones are like our day-to-day trials--the kids, a fight with our spouse, etc. The bigger stones might represent unemployment or a severed relationship. And the boulders, the huge, towering stones, might represent something life-altering, like the death of a loved one. I saw those small stones and could totally relate--I imagine myself tripping over those small stones all day sometimes, trying to juggle everything that requires my attention.

The guide paused from discussing the rocks to mention the importance of honey to the Israelites, how sweet it tasted and what a tangible example of God's goodness it was.

He then referenced Psalm 81, which discusses the Israelites' struggle as God led them through the desert, a time when, even though they felt lost, God knew their every step. He then quoted verse 16: "But I would feed you with the finest wheat, and with honey from the rock I would satisfy you."

Honey from the rock.

God's goodness within the trial.

We hear all the time about the lessons God teaches us in our troubles. But the tangible, stark example of a rock and honey hit me in a totally new way. Probably because the idea of it seems so absurd--honey from a rock?

Sounds a little impossible.

And I realized that the discipline I need to practice this Lent was not memorization, but meditation. To claim this verse and believe it when I stumble over the small stones. Because even though I know that God has ordained these days for me and that I can trust Him, I do not always practice what I know. All it takes is one bad day for my attitude to plummet. Even after several good days, I so easily feel like giving up when I suddenly trip over a stone, whether that stone is an inconsolable baby, a burnt meal, or a less-than-compliant toddler. And on the days when it's stone after stone after stone, it's even worse. I have no desire to see God's goodness. I'm just ticked off.

I need this Lenten time. I want to look back on these days and see what God was teaching me--these days when I feel like I'm wandering, but I know the path is laid out.

I want to taste the honey from the rocks.

Have a lovely day.

Some Thoughts.

I've had a few people ask me if I regretted taking medication the day of Lydia's birth, after planning and preparing to go medication-free.

It's a fair question. I wrote the birth story post the night of her birth and I've had a week to reflect on the experience.

I think it's always hard when things don't go the way you plan. It's okay to have an idea in your mind of how you want things to happen, and even though you realize it might not go that way, I think it can still be hard to accept that things didn't turn out the way you had hoped. Obviously, a healthy baby was the end goal of Lydia's day and that goal was achieved. Honestly, in my case, I have no regrets. I wouldn't change anything.

I gave birth in a hospital because I trust my doctor's care. When the presence of meconium was discovered, I felt that it was as big of a deal as the doctor was saying, though some might disagree. One specific friend comes to mind who came too dangerously close to losing her baby because of meconium and since then I've never taken the issue of it lightly. When that came into play, I was open to whatever my doctor instructed, even, ugh, pitocin.

Out of my eight hours of labor, seven were without an epidural, and five of those hours included pitocin. I wouldn't change anything about it. I wouldn't have gotten the epidural sooner. Despite the pain, I actually, in some indescribable way, enjoyed labor. I was able to take a deep breath as soon as the contraction began, to inhale and close my eyes and completely relax myself bit by bit, to make sure my hands were unclenched, my toes were uncurled, my face was limp, as the contraction built and built. All of my focus was on complete relaxation and breathing (a high-five to yoga), to the point that when the contraction was over, I was almost asleep. It was amazing. I literally fell asleep between contractions because I was so relaxed. It was the most blissful comatose state. For as painful as each contraction was, the rest time in between was just as restful. I was in awe of the experience and loved it.

As the pitocin increased, my rest times decreased, to the point where relaxing between contractions and tolerating excruciating back labor was becoming pretty futile. From what I understand, transition, the period of dilation between 8-10, is the most difficult part of labor, and my doula explained that what I was feeling at a 6 is what I would have been feeling at an 8 if I wasn't on pitocin. When I received my epidural at a 7, I was at peace with the decision. The epidural was short lived, as I quickly progressed and began pushing within the hour. I still felt the pressure to push and felt that I was still in control. Because I only had the epidural for a short amount of time, I recovered well and was able to get up and move around soon after Lydia was born.

Her birth was wonderful. When it came time for me to push, my mom and my mom-in-law happened to be in the room with my doula and my husband and I. As the nurses set everything up, I asked my doctor if they could stay (totally a last-minute decision on my part and much to their surprise!) and she said they could. So, they were able to be there for the birth of what we think will be our last baby. This is something that I would not have necessarily been open to with my other babies, but this time the timing was just right and I wanted them to stay. I think it's easy to forget in the midst of the hustle and bustle of birth that the experience itself is truly a miracle, and hearing my two moms gasp and cry as Lydia was born helped to give the moment the poignancy it warranted. It was amazing.

So here I am, the mother of three. THREE. Wow. The song I chose to listen to while I was in labor was "Jesus, Draw Me Ever Nearer" as performed by Keith and Kristyn Getty. This song is special to me because it is the same song that saw my Dad through chemotherapy when he had cancer three years ago. The lyrics are simple and powerful. I find myself, now that Lydia is here, singing them to her as her lullaby, in the quiet hours of the night.

Jesus draw me ever nearer

As I labour through the storm.

You have called me to this passage,

And I'll follow, though I'm worn.

May this journey bring a blessing,

May I rise on wings of faith;

And at the end of my heart's testing,

With Your likeness let me wake.

Jesus guide me through the tempest,

Keep my spirit staid and sure.

When the midnight meets the morning,

Let me love You even more.

Let the treasures of the trial

Form within me as I go-

And at the end of this long passage,

Let me leave them at your throne.

May this journey bring a blessing,

May I rise on wings of faith;

And at the end of my heart's testing,

With Your likeness let me wake.

I can't tell you how much peace these words bring to an exhausted Mom who is slightly terrified at how in the world she is going to effectively parent and love the three precious kids God has blessed her with. The road ahead feels positively daunting and these words bring enormous peace, a constant reminder that life is for His glory, not for the glory of my own, and that I want only to be more like Him when the journey is through.

Have a lovely day, friends.

Resolving.

Because I'm a goal person. And a blog is a nice way to stay accountable.

: Birth a baby

: Preferably, birth said baby unmedicated, if experience is void of complication

: Decorate empty formal dining room

: Lose most of the baby weight by summer through healthy eating and exercise (will I have time to eat? or exercise?) ... and keep it off (the real challenge for this foodie)

: Go on a trip with my hubby

: Invest time in someone outside of my family and friends

: Run a 5k

: Pray intentional prayers about parenting my children according to their specific needs--three different personalities are intimidating, but they are three lovingly crafted personalities and I need to remember it's okay to ask their Creator for help when my head is spinning (and when it's not)

: Pay it forward once a week

: Learn a new skill (any new skill ... sewing, something to bake, anything)

Ten goals. I will hang them on my bathroom wall.

If you have a resolution you'd like to share, I'd love to read it.

Have a lovely New Year.

Flippin' Sweet!

It's safe to say my perspective at the end of this week is a little more upbeat than what I experienced last week.

The stomach bug laid me flat for four days and finally, on Tuesday, I was able to hold food down and function somewhat normally. It was miserable, but y'all, let me tell you, there's nothing like illness to make you appreciate health. At the end of it, I found myself tolerating the normal pains and groans and strains of third trimester pregnancy with much more grace. A few contractions, sore hips, and pressure are easy to manage when compared to experiencing those things AND the symptoms of a stomach bug. God knows that it's hard to have a bad attitude when one has a grateful heart. And I am so grateful for health ... SO grateful for health, that the negative thoughts and feelings I was having have paled in comparison. Don't get me wrong--the thought of three little ones is still a bit overwhelming, but I am enormously grateful that He has given me a healthy and, all things considered, an uneventful pregnancy. I needed that reminder.

That being said, I think all of the throwing up may have paid off. While I was heaving (sorry for all the throwing up talk), I felt like I was on the brink of breaking a rib. I almost screamed in pain. Throwing up has never been that painful for me, but now I think I know why it was. At my appointment yesterday, we found out that Lydia, who has been breech since 30 weeks, has FLIPPED! And I'll bet you anything that baby flipped while I was throwing up. I've heard of that happening, and it's the only way I can explain the pain I was feeling (it was horrible). Isn't that crazy?

So now here I am, a day away from 36 weeks. I'm dilated to a 2, but I'm guessing that is just the result of Lydia flipping--surely that shook things up a bit! I am not effaced at all and I feel great, so I think baby girl still has a while before she makes her appearance. She already weighs six pounds and the doctor thinks I won't make it to my due date, but we'll see. We all know we girls are tricky. :)

There you have it!

Have a lovely day, a lovely weekend, and a VERY Merry Christmas!

Week 34: A Recap.

It's safe to say Week 34 was my hardest week yet.

See? I don't even have a picture to show for it.

But, if I did, I think it would look something like this:

Well, okay, chub up his cheeks a little and it might be a tad more accurate.

Last week was my Week of Panic. I woke up every morning feeling overwhelmed before my feet ever hit the floor. My agenda for the week was an easy one--lots of time home with the kids, two family Christmases, a playgroup ... nothing that screams "stress". And yet that familiar anxiety-ridden panic-y feeling I first recognized in my pregnancy with Caleb decided to rear its ugly head this past week.

And it was HARD.

Monday and Tuesday were bearable, but Wednesday was the beginning of the worst. I was hosting playgroup for some good friends of mine, which I usually love to do, but it seemed like nothing could go quite right that morning. A preggo belly and two toddlers made the task trickier than usual and as I hobbled around picking up, I couldn't help but reminisce back to the days when I had only one child and hosted playgroup. I'd usually have a spread of two or three brunch-y delights, a spotless house, a fresh pot of coffee, and oh, probably party favors or Mom SWAG. A totally different scene than what I was experiencing this particular morning, attempting to vacuum only a few rooms while scraping stuck-on cereal bar from the tile floor and grabbing the burning sausage roll from the oven before it went from "well done" to "house fire". It seemed that no matter how quickly I moved, I couldn't move quickly enough. I waddled to the left, waddled to the right, grunted as I bent over to pick up superfluous stuff from the floor, and right in the middle of it all, I heard a loud CRASH come from the butler pantry.

I cringed as I peeked around the corner, only to see Naomi with a terrified look on her face, holding my camera strap in one hand while my camera (still intact) laid on the floor ... with its lens shattered in at least a bazillion pieces. I felt a lump catch in my throat. Then my mind imagined a screaming newborn in the background of this overwhelming chaos, and I promptly burst into tears.

I CAN'T DO IT.

The panic continued throughout the day and a long conversation with my husband helped to ease the tension (I just love him). The next day was a bit more bearable until Friday hit and I woke up with not only a bit of panic, but a runny nose as well. Our family Christmas on my husband's side was that evening and I muscled through the evening's activities, only to barely sleep that night and wake up groggy, congested, and frustrated the next morning. As my feet hit the floor, I doubled over from pain in my lower abdomen (welcome to a constant in my life right now: UTI). I finally called the doctor and she said for me to go into the hospital for monitoring.

Oh boy.

I didn't want to go. I knew what it would entail. I didn't want to be monitored. I knew the baby was fine and I wasn't in labor. I just wanted MEDS. Preferably through an IV. Make this UTI GO AWAY. Sure enough, they hooked me up, concluded I wasn't in labor (yes, I know, thank you) and sent me home with a prescription. Oh, here's a fun extra--I threw up in the hospital. And then I threw up later that evening, in the car (thank goodness for a to-go baggy that saved the day). All Saturday night I moaned from a deep pain in my lower back, throwing up every now and then (which was unusually excruciating) until I finally filled the tub with scalding water at 2:00 in the morning and then sat in it until the water turned cold. I threw up the next morning and was finally able to hold something down by the time Sunday afternoon rolled around. And now, here I sit, a towel on my head (yay, a shower), thankful that most of the illness has passed.

I am now in Week 35. I'm praying that the anxiety stays at bay. I can only live each day at a time and imagining the future is nothing short of futile, since I have no idea what it will be like. But y'all, I feel like I hit my lowest low this past week. I just couldn't imagine being a Mama of three. Most days I'm excited, but last week, I was terrified. I don't want to go back to that feeling again.

And thus concludes a very honest post from yours truly.

Have a lovely day.

Not One Of Them Is Missing.

Whenever this time of year rolls around, my thoughts go to the miscarriage my husband and I experienced four years ago. It happened a week and a half before Christmas. We all have our own story when it comes to pregnancy or fertility. Today I felt prompted to share mine.

My husband and I had been trying to get pregnant for almost a year. It seemed like everyone around us had no trouble getting pregnant within one or two months and I would be lying if I said it didn't hurt a little that conception didn't seem quite as easy for us. But I was genuinely happy for those around us. When we finally found out we were pregnant, we didn't tell anyone and kept it our own little secret. I felt gloriously exhausted.

For about two weeks.

One day I woke up, and I wasn't tired. I can't explain it, but that "feeling" had vanished. I didn't think much about it and went about my normal day, grabbing some coffee and heading to work. While at work that morning, the miscarriage began. I was really shaken up and didn't know what to do. I called the doctor, crying, as my boss stood next to me and patted my back. They told me to go to the emergency room, so I did. Once I got to the emergency room, the blood test showed I was pregnant, but the urine test showed I was not. My husband held my hand as the doctor explained that I was in the process of miscarrying.

The next hour was hard. I know specificities can be uneasy, but there was a lot of pain and a lot of blood--something I wasn't expecting. It's amazing how our bodies begin to rapidly prepare to carry a child at the point of conception and what happens in our bodies when all of that is undone is hard, to say the least. I didn't know why it was happening, but God gave me the greatest sense of peace through it, even though the following weeks and months were some of my hardest.

I can only speak from my experience in saying that miscarrying our first baby was devastating. I hadn't ever been pregnant before and now my only experience with pregnancy had ended abruptly and harshly. When I found out I was pregnant with Cub just two months later (it was a complete surprise), I was completely unprepared and terrified. I wasn't overjoyed. I wasn't excited. I just knew in my heart that this pregnancy would end early, too. I was twenty weeks along before I allowed myself to believe that maybe he might be okay.

The hardest part was hearing people say that "thankfully" I was "only" six weeks along when I miscarried. Walking through any life-changing experience, be it miscarriage, pregnancy, marriage, or what have you, typically warrants a good deal of unsolicited advice and comments and I feel convicted to accept such advice and comments with grace, even if they make me cringe. But I'm going to go ahead and say that if you've never miscarried, never tell a woman that it's a good thing she wasn't very far along. A woman who is six weeks pregnant is "just as" pregnant as a woman who is thirty weeks pregnant. Pregnancy is pregnancy, regardless of how far along you are. If you believe life begins at conception, then a life is lost no matter what.

There are a lot of unknowns that surround a spontaneous miscarriage. What I do know is that the experience has given me a softened heart towards those who go through the same thing. Here we are with two children and one on the way and I know that I do not understand infertility--I don't know what it is like to try for years with no answer. But I know what it's like to wonder and I know what it's like to have a much-anticipated moment disappear, beyond your control. It doesn't take a miscarriage for someone to understand that life is truly a miracle, but I know my own life was changed because of it.

For those of you who have walked through a miscarriage, you have my truest sympathy.

Lift up your eyes on high

And see Who has created these stars,

the One who leads forth their host by number,

He calls them all by name;

Because of the greatness of His might

and the strength of His power ...

... not one of them is missing.

Isaiah 40:26

Have a lovely day, friends.

Au Naturale.

I've asked this question several times on my blog, several times on Facebook, several times to people I know, several times to people I do not know ... you get the idea. The possibility of doing childbirth with no meds (what I will refer to as "natural", even though I'm not sure if that is the appropriate term) has been lingering in my mind for a few months now and I think I've decided that I want to do it.

I would say I want to "try" it, but I'm afraid going in with a "try" attitude won't cut it. I think I need to be resolute. And I am.

I think.

I have no huge agenda. I have no bias. This decision is one that is simply based on experience. Behold: I was dilated to a 7 with Cub, feeling great, and was totally sure I could go all the way without an epidural. I initially thought for sure I would get one, but because the pain was manageable, I was okay without. Then the doctor told me that Cub (who was sunny side up) had not flipped over and that maybe I should consider that epidural. So, I did. And Cub slowly flipped while I pushed, which resulted in a four-hour pushing marathon. Whee! I'm glad I had that epidural (or whatever was left of it by the time he was actually born).

Then there is the birth of sweet Naomi. I chose to be induced because I was Strep B positive and had been dilated for two weeks (I was a three the week of my induction). It was "easy" in the sense that we simply packed up, went to the hospital at the scheduled time, enjoyed a sleepover in the hospital, and by 1:00 the next day (after only five glorious minutes of pushing), there she was! Easy!

Both of the experiences were precious and perfect because they resulted in the birth of our children. I do not regret any decision and would not change a thing.

However.

If I had to compare the two experiences physically, I can say without a shadow of a doubt that my experience with Cub was the better physical experience (the labor, not the pushing). I knew what my body was doing and I was able to respond, with lots of help from my husband, and it was incredible. Don't get me wrong--any birth decision is a highly sensitive, completely personal choice and women have the right to choose what they want to do, including induction. I'm just saying that in my own, personal experience, going into labor naturally was the better experience for me. I think, too, that women have different pain tolerances--just because I "made it" to a 7 with Cub doesn't necessarily mean I handled pain better--maybe what I felt was the equivalent of what some women feel at a 3. It isn't fair to compare experiences. I don't believe that because you want to have a baby naturally that you are trying to prove anything. I'm not. I think the parenting that follows childbirth is enormously more important, with more to prove. Being a good Mom is a challenge all its own. I would not be doing this to prove anything, except that I can do it. Does that make sense?

Now. There are so many variables. Lydia is still breech and if she remains so as her due date draws nearer, it will present all kinds of different issues. I am completely open to whatever needs to be done. Only if she has flipped and everything is normal, will I do natural childbirth.

I have a friend who has graciously offered to be my doula. I'm beginning my research and my reading. My husband is having a harder time because he hates to see me in pain, but he supports the decision and has agreed to be in the trenches with me. I will give birth at my hospital, with my doctor (or whoever is on call).

So, that's it, friends. Those are the thoughts running through my head.

Now, I would love to hear the opinions of my readers. If you planned and experienced natural childbirth, what did you think? I want to clarify, too, that by "planned and experienced natural childbirth" I mean that you went into it with a plan and followed through. If you accidentally had the baby naturally because there wasn't enough time to get the epidural, I can imagine that would be completely horrible, since you had no time to prepare for the experience! You can definitely share that, too, if you'd like, but I would think that going into it with a plan would be a different experience than having it happen on accident. But, maybe I'm wrong!

I am imagining lots of pain, lots of begging for my epidural, possibly some naughty words, and, well, a healthy baby. That's the end goal.

Have a lovely day.

Motherhood: Staying Home.

I remember hearing someone say once that the more you stay home, the more you want to be there, and the less you are home, the less you want to be there. The statement was in reference to stay-at-home Moms and our sometimes uncanny ability to be everywhere but at home. There are always errands to run, activities to join, and really, let's be honest ... sometimes we go because we just have to get out! Sonic, Starbucks, or a drive through the park. Sometimes being gone is the little breather we need to finish out the rest of our day, while the kids are strapped in the back!

But besides the necessary driving-to-refocus breaks, I've noticed that the statement is true. The busier I am, the less I want to be home. What I mean by that is, when I've had a few days of go-go-go, I come home and feel like I don't quite know what to do. My home isn't any different than it was the day before, or the day before that, and yet I feel a little helpless and discombobulated. That's when the urge to jump in the car and go somewhere--anywhere--hits again, and while I find comfort behind the wheel, I come home to that same awkward feeling.

However, if I really focus on staying home and don't let my mind wander to the great beyond that lies outside our front door (that usually requires spending money, eek), I find that I really enjoy being home. I love doing fun things with the kids while we're out and about, but I've grown to realize that the best way to fill their love tanks is to just be home with them, spending one-on-one time in the environment they know the best. Oftentimes while we're gallavanting around, their behavior can be notably different. That's when I know we've just been away too long. When we're home and I actually make the effort to sit on the floor and dedicate good chunks of time to playing with them, their response is undeniable. They're more relaxed, they're more imaginative, and I can just tell that they're all-around happier. I have great memories of Disneyland and Sea World as a kid, but the memories of playing Breyer horses on the living room floor with my Mom rank just as highly in my book.

This is a challenge for me sometimes because I don't sit still very well. Ask my husband--I'm that obnoxious person who asks questions during movies and who loves to be on the go. If the kids are playing well by themselves, I use that time to do laundry, wipe the countertops, vacuum, etc. Don't get me wrong--the ability to play alone is hugely important, but sometimes I think I take advantage of it. I love being attentive to my kids, but I've noticed a difference between being conveniently attentive and intentionally attentive. When that urge to "get out" comes, I find that I'm dissatisfied and snappy if I can't, and a lot of the time if I do answer the urge and leave, I'm not really any more satisfied than when I left. But if I push those thoughts out of my head and join the kids in their play, I am quickly reminded of how much I really love spending time with them. I'm reminded that their obedience and behavior are not my primary responsibilities as a parent, but that they are to feel loved and secure and valued--that they were created lovingly down to every last detail. That inner sense of worth is priceless. Obedience, without it, just makes a robot.

So, here's to staying home, and the challenge it can be to sometimes actually do it. :)

Have a lovely day.

Crazy Number Two.

When I was pregnant with Naomi, I remember hearing several comments from Moms noting the personality difference between their firstborn and their second-born. The firstborn, they would say, was compliant and obedient and easy. Their second-born ... not so much. Wild thing.

I, of course, as a new Mom, nodded in agreement but secretly scoffed at that idea, figuring that my firstborn's personality (which was compliant and obedient and easy) had more to do with, well, upbringing, then anything else. I mean, I worked hard to be a good Mom, so some of that was paying off, right? So then, surely my second-born would be similar, with *obviously* a different personality.

Sure enough, Miss Mouse came into our lives with a grand cry. She was a noisy newborn, but also an excellent eater and fairly easygoing. She was easy. I was proud.

After a few months, the easiness disappeared. She woke up.

She was fussy. She was high-maintenance. She had what we think was colic. She woke up several times a night for a few months for no apparent reason. I saw myself as a champion of breastfeeding and happily doled out advice to Moms regarding it after Cub was born, and now I found myself faced with the choice to wean my daughter before I felt either of us were ready, because of a milk allergy (I held out for four months, weaned her, and cried for three days). Everything I "knew" about being a Mom to an infant flew straight out the window and I found myself in an absolute tizzy.

I soon realized that the biggest challenge was simply learning a new personality--the methods that had worked with Cub did not necessarily work for Mouse, but some of them did. Trying to figure out this new little person was half the battle. Boundaries had to be set and they lay in different places than they did with big brother.

In my mind, I heard the words of those Moms who had said their firstborn had made them confident ... and their second-born had made them humble. And oh my word, I laughed because, in my case, they were totally right. Obviously, there are exceptions to the rule, but they were dead-on in my situation! I found myself humbled more and more, looking through grace-colored lenses at my fellow Moms. Simply becoming a Mom had made me understanding to other Moms, but becoming a Mom again opened my heart even more. It was so good for me.

Despite the trickiness, there was spunk. Naomi was a difficult infant, but she was also gloriously delightful. Watching her grow has been nothing short of one amusing ride. When she's happy, she absolutely lights up the room. She cracks us up with her antics, putting on our shoes, eating wood chips, chasing the chickens, and dancing every time she hears music. Her laugh is infectious and her cuteness just kills us. She's rough and tumble but is always gesturing for me to put bows in her hair. She loves dirt and (pretend) lip gloss. Even though she's stubborn, she's sensitively sweet, and when she gets in trouble it melts her world and she hates disappointing us. Once we began to learn her personality and her quirks, we fell into a groove the same way we did with Cub. I realized I had basically given birth to myself, which honestly helped us figure her out! Naomi is by far our spunky pumpkin, but she's a great kid. Our kids, who have totally different personalities, delight us just the same. We can't imagine loving them more.

I sat down to write this as Naomi shuffled by me wearing my TOMS, pushing her brother's new bike. She stopped, looked up at me and smiled, and went on her merry way, her head bobbing back and forth, the bow perched atop it starting to fall. There will no doubt be a mess wherever she stopped and chances are my TOMS will be missing for at least two days. But the joy, the absolute joy of her, is overwhelming.

These are the things I want to remember as we introduce yet a third personality to the bunch. May grace abound.

Just some thoughts today. :)

Have a lovely day.

Even Bathroom Breaks Are Accompanied By Little Hands Knocking.

I sneak in a quick shower before the kiddos are up.

The breakfast show gets up and running and both are fed. I call the doctor because Naomi is congested and hoarse.

Help with shoes and boots and dressing and diapers and pottying and etc.

Loading in the van. Buckling, adjusting, toy-distributing. Sippy cups, check.

Trip to the grocery store.

Trip to the doctor. Just a cold.

Drive-thru lunch.

Naomi falls asleep in the car and gets put down at home.

Cub and I eat lunch and play a game.

Cub goes down for a nap.

I organize our pantries and chop the peppers and chicken for fajitas for dinner.

I sit down on the couch and Naomi promptly wakes up.

I feed Naomi lunch.

I attempt to make pumpkin spice muffins while Mouse plays at my feet.

The muffins are an epic fail and all I have to show for them is a pile of dishes.

Cub wakes up.

I put both kids in shoes, grab some paperwork, head out the door.

More loading, buckling, adjusting, toy-distributing. Sippy cups, check.

I drop paperwork off, run to Target.

Zoom through Target with a brief pause to check out the Christmas trees with a wide-eyed Cub.

Come home, unload Target purchases, walk to the end of our loooong driveway to retrieve our huge trash can and roll it back. In the rain.

I let the chickens out, collect eggs, and head inside to clean dishes from the muffins.

Dishes get done, time to start dinner.

I start dinner while two hungry kiddos observe and occasionally beg.

We sit down to dinner and my legs ache from not sitting for a long time.

Prayer, chatting, nudging to take more bites. Crumbs on the floor, on the table, on the Mouse.

Dadda comes home as we finish up.

I run and give him the biggest hug and tell him I'm so glad he's home.

While he eats dinner, Naomi bonks her head and comes running to me for comfort.

She cries so hard she throws up on me.

I change her and myself.

I load the dishwasher and wash the remaining dinner dishes by hand.

My husband puts her to bed as I pick up a few wayward toys.

All with a 30-Week pregnant-for-the-third-time-in-three-years belly. My body is beside itself.

My husband is now playing with Cub while I sit down for ten minutes by myself to type this post.

One word to describe motherhood?

Constant.

The good, the bad, the busy.

Have a lovely day.

Fretful.

Yesterday was one of those days where every problem or fear seemed like a larger version of itself than necessary. I found myself feeling heavy with worry about the upcoming holidays (money to spend on Christmas presents for a lot of people), the upcoming baby addition (THREE CHILDREN ... sometimes it just feels impossible!), and just the day-to-day responsibilities of being an adult.

I could feel my face becoming fretful. Pouty and frustrated, brow furrowed, mouth set. My Mom tells me I have an excellent fretful face and I believe her now after seeing myself in my children--Cub's fretful face is dead on! It ain't pretty. After putting the kids down for naps, I milled around our kitchen, dark from open windows on a cloudy day, and my mind raced with worry while my heart continued to sink and my brow continued to furrow. I turned on my Pandora radio (set to Norah Jones) while I dumped the chicken stock from the stove into the crock-pot. As I mindlessly pieced through the chicken, I could feel my eyes welling up with tears. My worry had decided to manifest itself through weepiness, something I do not particularly appreciate, and I took a deep breath. A heavy sigh, really.

The kitchen filled with an ominous silence as the previous song ended, and I stood there, staring at my chicken stock through blurry eyes, frustrated with myself for being frustrated.

And then, softly, chords from an acoustic piano began. I recognized them immediately, and realized that Pandora had randomly started playing a piano version of "Be Still My Soul". I blinked through my wet eyes and turned up the song, letting its peaceful melody fill through the room.

Be still my soul: The Lord is on thy side.

Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.

Leave to thy God to order and provide;

In every change, He faithful will remain.

Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly Friend

Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

"Leave to thy God to order and provide; in every change, He faithful will remain."

I just want to say that I am thankful that God wasn't subtle with His desire for me to calm down and set my worry aside. Sometimes I just need a big, obvious reminder, and He sure came through yesterday.

The song played through while I stood in the kitchen, eyes closed, drinking it in. After it faded, I stood there for a moment and turned the music back down as Jack Johnson came on singing about banana pancakes. The hymn had been so beautifully random.

That's all I've got today, friends. I hope you have a lovely day.

The Liturgical Baptist.

When I was fifteen, the Baptist church we were attending suffered a split and my family left along with several other families in the congregation. I was what you would describe as an "active" member of our youth group, volunteering for various ministries along with singing for the worship band and youth choir, and playing the piano for the offertory on Sunday morning and Sunday night. I was known and affirmed for my service and appreciated the pats on the back I received in return. High-five for the involved kid in the youth group.

So, needless to say, the church split rocked my cozy little world and my safe walls came tumbling down. Adults whom I had known for years said hurtful things. Friends whom I had had for years said hurtful things. We were all hurting and we hurt each other in return. I turned my nose up to the idea of ever attending another Baptist church again and I allowed that hurt to settle into the deep recesses of my heart, where a tiny root of bitterness took hold. I can be a slightly cynical person by nature anyway, which didn't help anything, either.

I didn't have an issue with God or really of church in general--just of Baptist churches. I spent the next few years floating between my friends' churches, ignoring the bitterness and therefore letting it grow. My freshman year of college, I took a break from church altogether. I attended chapel at least once a week and felt it was sufficient. And really, at that time, I think it was.

My degree is in Family and Human Services and at the university I attended, this particular degree falls under the Department of Biblical Studies. That meant that along with my classes on counseling theories and family law, I was also taking Philosophy of the Christian Faith, Spiritual Formations, Theology, and the like. I studied the works of Augustine, Kierkegaard, and Bonhoeffer, and spent countless hours in the offices of my professors, discussing questions and revelations I had about my faith and the experiences that were shaping my worldview. I attended liturgical services, went to my first Ash Wednesday service, and observed Lent for the first time. I found these things to be tangible ways for me to worship and not altogether distant from my early years spent at a Dutch Reformed church that practiced its own methods of liturgy. It resonated with me and my faith grew enormously.

My sophomore year of college, I started dating the guy who would someday become my husband. I remember one night casually asking him where he went to church when he was home from college, and he said it was a Baptist church.

I don't like to think that I am dramatic, but sometimes my responses to things can be a little, eh, over the top. I promptly threw my hands in the air and declared that we couldn't date.

Thankfully, he ignored my little outburst and instead listened to the story of my hurt, the reason I felt the way I did. I was surprised when he didn't laugh or toss the story aside, but instead took it seriously. He said we would pray about where God was leading us as a couple, and that would be that. I nodded. That night I started praying. I prayed diligently every night for months, that God would release my hurt and, truly, my hate towards this specific kind of church--the same kind of church that the man I loved, and the man who's family I also loved, chose to attend. That root of bitterness had grown and had been nurtured over the years and was now a strong one. I know it seems silly to be weighted down by something that in the scheme of things seems so ... minor? Insignificant? I mean, the kind of church you attend? Who cares?

But wounds from the church are of the worst kind. If you've experienced that, you know it to be true. I couldn't forget the hurtful words, the dirty looks, from people I used to share my life with. All at a time in my life that was a decidedly poignant one.

In college, I became familiar with the Apostles' Creed. If you don't know it, this is how it goes:

I believe in God the Father Almighty,

the Maker of heaven and earth,

and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord:

Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost,

born of the virgin Mary,

suffered under Pontius Pilate,

was crucified, dead, and buried;

He descended into hell.

The third day he rose again from the dead;

He ascended into heaven,

he sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty,

from thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Ghost;

the holy catholic church;

the communion of saints,

the forgiveness of sins,

the resurrection of the body;

and the life everlasting.

Amen.

The holy catholic church. The lowercase "c" refers to the universal church. The universal body of believers. As I studied the Creed, I realized that these were the things that mattered. These were the pillars of orthodox Christianity. If a Bible-believing church taught salvation and adhered to these truths and followed them, then I was on board, regardless of how they chose to worship or what denomination was listed under the name on their church sign.

Maybe even Baptist churches.

It was a historical creed, one that is rarely recited in Baptist churches (though is sometimes sung), that made me open to the possibility of the idea of attending one.

My last semester in college, I knelt one night by my bed and prayed again what I had been praying for a long time--that the root of bitterness would die. And in that moment, it did.

I opened my eyes and couldn't believe it. The hatred was gone. The bitterness was gone. God had answered my prayer. It was the biggest stronghold I have ever experienced and the disappearance of it was, thusly, the biggest relief I have ever experienced. It's like holding your breath just a moment too long and finally releasing it to breathe in fresh air. You want to laugh and collapse at the same time. I probably did.

Ironically, after my attitude underwent this crazy transformation, my husband and I didn't end up attending a Baptist church. We instead went to a church across town and stayed there for six years, and loved it. Then, almost a year ago, we felt God calling us to the church where he grew up. The Baptist church. We wanted our kids to have the experience of going to church with their grandparents, and after months of prayer and discussion, we did it. The transition has been a beautiful one. I'm still the same me--I will still attend an Ash Wednesday service and I still observe Lent and read through the Book of Common Prayer. These are the ways I love to worship. I also love the genuine joy of the body of believers God has called us to, the Bible Studies, the kids running in the hallway after church, and the glow on my in-laws' faces when they see their grandkids in the children's wing. The pastor and I have had really good conversations and even if we don't see eye-to-eye on everything, I respect him greatly and he has shown that he respects me as well, which is huge. God not only released my hatred towards all things Baptist, but He gave me love in its stead.

And as I sit here teary-eyed, I'm not entirely sure as to why I felt the need to share all of this with the Internet. But it was on my heart this morning, so, there you have it.

Have a lovely day, friends.

Motherhood: Pregnancy The Third.

I'm sitting here looking like I've been hit by a dump truck.

I'm looking snazzy in my sweatpants and maternity tank top (ow ow!) and I gracefully tripped over a sippy cup on the floor on my way to the computer. My laundry room is impassible, the dishwasher is full, and I've been having achy-breaky Braxton Hicks all afternoon. I started the day with gusto, however, with a breakfast with the kids' great Grandpa, a three mile brisk walk through the neighborhood pushing the kids in the jogger, hide-n-seek with Cub for an hour, and I even threw in a craft for good measure. Energy! Blessed energy!

Then I crashed at nap time. CRASHED.

The exhaustion that has decidedly accompanied this pregnancy is naturally blamed on the fact that I have two little ones to chase around. As you can see by the aforementioned game of hide-n-seek, the word "chase" is a literal one. As I crash into bed at the end of the day, I tell myself, "You had two kiddos to care for, no wonder you're tired!" I mean, right? Not just kids, but toddlers. Little kids. Baby kids.

It wasn't until today on the couch that it dawned on me that I've been wrong this whole time.

I don't have two kiddos to care for.

I have three.

The baby in my tummy requires his/her own amount of care, which, in this case, means stopping. Resting. Putting my feet up during nap time and taking a snooze myself. It's really the only time I can rest, seeing as any time I sit down while the kids are awake, even if they are on the other side of the house, they sense my pause in action and coming running to crawl on my lap and wallow and hang and pull and whatnot. Nap time = Rest time.

I kind of have to force myself to do it, since I see nap time as a time to get a few extra things done. But, sorry laundry room, you're just going to have to stay cluttered for a bit. I spend the morning paying attention to my two oldest. Nap time is now for the youngest.

Wow that's crazy to say.

And this "Dump Truck Chic" look will just have to be something to get used to. :)

Have a lovely day, friends.

21.5 Weeks.

I'm not typically a weekend updater, but I realized that by Monday this picture will be null and void, since I will technically be twenty-two weeks then and not twenty-one like I am in this picture.

HUGE DIFFERENCE here, people. Ha ha.

And ... the chances of me getting another picture taken in the near future are pretty slim.

So, here you have it:

The baby bump.

Have a lovely weekend.

Cheers.

It wasn't until I was pregnant with Naomi that I had a false alarm.

I mean, she was my second. Meaning I HAD DONE THIS BEFORE and really, should know how contractions and labor and baby pains and all of that felt.

So, one night I laid in bed with what I thought was horrible back labor. Ughhh. It was searing and uncomfortable. Back labor was the primary labor I experienced with Cub, so it was all I knew. I was about 37 weeks, so my husband called his brother to come and stay with Caleb while he and I headed to the hospital.

After much monitoring and adjusting and urine sampling they came in and told me I was dehydrated.

Note: DEHYDRATION MIMICS BACK LABOR.

I had no idea. I drank water all day and all night but it didn't seem to matter. They said they were glad I came in because I needed to be put on fluids to catch up to the hydration level I needed to be.

This time around, I'm feeling just as dry.

I joke that coffee is my primary beverage of consumption but, of course, it's not. I drink my allotted amount, maybe ... three times a week? And if you ask my friends they will tell you: I never finish a cup. I'm a slow drinker and a slow eater and by the time I'm halfway through my delectable brew, it's cold and I'm done.

Weird.

So, after I've had my approximate 4 ounces of coffee, I spend the rest of the day guzzling water in the lovely blue mug pictured above. Classy, yes? My husband picked it up for me at Lambert's Cafe when he was a sponsor for our church's junior high camp. So romantic. But, really, it's been quite useful. Every morning I fill it up with ice and then fill it with water, and guzzle away. By the end of the day, I normally have consumed four or five of these bad boys.

Please note the mug is the size of my head. This ain't no easy task.

What's crazier is that I fill it up before bed and continue drinking it all night. I'm THAT DRY. And my coffee days are no drier than my non-coffee days. I live in a perpetual state of thirst. Weird. What's even weirder is that in my pregnancy with Cub, when I was pregnant allllllll summer long and drank a lot of coffee (I was working then and Starbucks happened to be on my way to work ... wait, no it wasn't .... but it was still easier to access ... excuses, excuses ...) and I wasn't dehydrated one bit. Ever.

Huh?

So, can someone please tell me if this is a blood sugar thing, maybe? In your expert opinions? I'm borderline hypoglycemic and my glucose tests in pregnancy are always very low, so I have to wonder if that matters ...?

Anyway. Back to my blue mug.

Have a lovely day!

Itchy.

I really love getting my hair cut. The lady who cuts my hair is amazing. Her name is Connie and I have a hard time referring to her as my "hairdresser" because she is my slightly older and much wiser friend and "hairdresser" just sounds so ... not friend-ish. She does everything out of her house which is wonderfully relaxed and I've been known to sneak over when my friend is getting her hair done, just so I can sit and chat with the two of them.

You get the idea.

So, the other day, I slumped into Connie's chair and whined that I needed a change. As she nodded and "Mmm-hmm"ed, she parted my hair and our jaws both dropped.

It was there.

DANDRUFF.

Three flakes. THREE. I have never had dandruff (dry hair, but not a dry scalp) and I sat there with my jaw dropped, stunned that this pregnancy not only cheated me out of the voluptuous curly hair I had with the other two, but that it also added DANDRUFF.

A fat belly and dandruff. Sweet! High fives all around!

She suggested that before I reach for a default bottle of Head & Shoulders, I should instead try Paul Mitchell's Tea Tree shampoo and conditioner. She said it would work like a charm and then she snipped away, once again reading my mind and cutting my hair exactly the way I wanted without me being able to describe it accurately. She's awesome that way.

I then started my hunt for this stuff.

Target is where I purchase my typical Matrix hair stuff, so I looked there first. I'm not sure if they didn't carry it or if I was looking for the standard black and white Paul Mitchell bottles, but either way, I couldn't find it there. I was bummed. A few days later I took Cub to a kind of hole-in-the-wall salon where he's had his hair cut since he was born and waited patiently while he sat through his trim. I happened to glance up at their (small) product shelves and lo and behold, there was the stuff! On sale, no less! So, I purchased the shampoo and conditioner set and rushed home to wash my hair.

Oh, y'all. Love it. LOVE IT.

Slightly tingly with a great fresh scent. I don't feel like my scalp is burning. And, best of all, the finished product is ridiculously smooth, clean hair. My hair felt light as a feather. Love.

So, if you happen to peer into the mirror and see a few little flakes waving at you from your scalp, may I suggest you try Paul Mitchell Tea Tree formula shampoo and conditioner. You will not regret it, and then you can wave GOODBYE to those pesky flakes.

Have a lovely day!