Just Chicken Feed

Wish It Was Always This Easy

2008-05-12T10:16:00.003-04:00

Asker- "Dad, are you going to have time to eat breakfast with us?"

Toots- "Asker, you said diarrhea instead of breakfast!!"

Dave- "No he didn't Toots, you're smokin' crack." Nice, I know

Asker- "Yeah, Toots, you're cracking up."

Toots- "I know. I am correct!"

And everyone walked away happy.

Truth

2008-05-11T23:00:00.002-04:00

Today was an interesting Mother's Day. Usually, on this day, my thoughts are on on my own mother or my experiences as a mom. But today, for some reason, I kept remembering some of the other moms I have met over the years...

When I watched a friend at church interacting with her son's girlfriend (whom she does not particularly care for), with kindness and sincerity, I was reminded of one of my first visits to my ex-husband's mother's house. The first few hours were awkward, but as the evening wore on, I felt like I was making a nice impression on his mother and sisters. Before we went to bed, my ex wrote "S loves Jenni" on the dry erase board on the fridge. At breakfast the next morning, I noticed a "I wish he didn't" penned in underneath. S noticed it too and loudly protested, demanding to know who wrote it. His mother just smirked and told him the choices were not limited.

As I sat stirring a huge pot of homemade spaghetti sauce, this afternoon, I remembered visiting a friend's house in college. His mom decided to make spaghetti for dinner. I watched her boil the pasta and take out a jar of sauce. After adding the sauce to a pan to heat, I watched in horror as she took out a package of Italian sausage and added it raw and whole, casings and all, to the sauce. After cooking it for a very short time, she announced that the spaghetti was ready. She brought the pasta to the table- undrained. When I got up the courage to comment on his mother's meal a few days later, my friend admitted that he had never seen her actually cook anything before.

I played with my daughter's hair, this evening, until she shrugged me off in annoyance. And I thought of the little girl who lives across the street from us. The little girl who spends every free minute with our family. The girl who lives without a mom and lives with a dad who doesn't work. I thought of the time when I played with her hair and how she sat soaking in the love and attention as I poured stories of Jesus' love into her little mind. And I remembered how she looked up at me and said, "Miss Jenn, if someone isn't in your family, can they still call you 'Mom'?"

I thought of all the selfish and careless and stupid and horrific things I've heard of other moms doing.

And I thought of all the little ones without moms. Without the comforting touch, the reassuring voice, the steady shoulder and the gentle wisdom a mother gives.

And as I sit here feeling this tiny new life kicking inside of me, I am overwhelmed by the burden of it all. How can I possibly be the mom that my kids' need? I may not be outwardly cruel, like my exes' mom was. I may not rear my kids on fast-food and take-out alone, like my friend's mom did. I haven't disappeared, like the girl next door's mom did.

But I have been screaming far too often. And I get impatient far too easily. I break promises and forget important events and don't stop to hold them often enough. The last few weeks, in particular, I have been selfish and inwardly focused, and my kids have suffered because of it.

This Mother's Day has not been a celebration of who I am. It's been a reminder of what I never want to be.

Haiku Ouch!

2008-05-09T09:20:00.003-04:00

Two sharp white horses
on a red hill. Tramp, champ, bite!
Guess who's getting weaned?

By The Numbers

2008-05-05T11:43:00.003-04:00

My weekend, by the numbers...

7 bouts of vomit
1 direct hit on Mommy
2 kids with fevers
102 the average temperature of aforementioned 2
72 hours of whining
5 hours of sleep for Mommy
3 nights in which those 5 hours were accrued
3 movies which acted as babysitters
1 heavenly grocery store trip alone

1 baby mouth discovered full of dog food
0 children who live in this house who have never eaten dog food
1 baby kick felt!
1 "maybe that was just gas..."

All are healthy and happy now, and Mommy is taking the day off!

Bloggy Baby Bumper Shower!

2008-05-05T11:05:00.005-04:00

As many of you know, the fabulous Mrs. Fussypants is about to pop out boy number FIVE. So the awesome divas at Blissfully Domestic decided that just one baby shower was not enough.

Five babies means a full week of baby love!

Join us at Blissfully Domestic and Mrs. Fussypants Baby Shower Blog, all this week, for great articles on all things baby and some fabulous giveaways, too!

I Saved The Chicken and That's All That Matters

2008-05-01T08:45:00.004-04:00

Hi everybody. Um, this is Asker. Mom said I could tell you guys all about the physics lesson she gave us last night.

First, we put a chicken in a glass baking dish. Then, we put it in the oven and let it cook for about a half hour. Then we took it out to add the vegetables. Mom always does this. But this time, she used frozen carrots instead of fresh ones and guess what?

The glass exploded! Cool!

I told her we should have been wearing safety glasses, but then I recognized that look and went running.

Isn't homeschooling fun?

Oh, and she said if you have any comments like, "Duh!" or "Um, yeah that happens" to go suck an egg. I told her that wasn't very nice, but then I got that look again.

Because I'm Bored

2008-04-27T22:25:00.002-04:00

With all the media attention on the Texas-based FLDS church, and the predilection for copycat acts, there is a good chance that at least one, if not two of you lovely readers, will be joining a cult sometime soon.

But if the idea of wearing 19th century dresses (not red, of course) is not appealing to you, and you prefer not to share your children or husband- fear not, there are other options. Out of the goodness of my heart (and my insomnia), I have compiled a listing of some other unique worship opportunities and lifestyles. Peruse at your convenience, and if you find something you like, well, I'd prefer for my name to stay out of it.

The Brethren- Bible-based group frequently known as Garbage Eaters for their propensity to dumpster dive. All members are single, celibate and not allowed to show emotions or smile. Wins the most-appealing-reasons-to-join award.

Dove of Oneness- Supporters believe that a secret save-the-country law called NESARA was passed by Congress several years ago, but has been suppressed by the government. The law, which only becomes effective upon public announcement, removes Congress and the administrative branch from office, zeroes all credit card balances, abolishes the federal reserve and federal income taxes. Wins the I-wish-it-were-true award.

Raelism- Raelians believe that humans were created by light-green skinned aliens and that human cloning is the key to eternal life. Wins the least-creative-concept award.

Infinity Forms of Yellow Remember- Offers magic wands and empowered water that supposedly heal cancer, mental illness and weak hearts. I'm pretty sure the founder was in Pete's Dragon. Wins the coolest-name award.

And last but not least, everybody's favorite...

Scientology- Believe that most diseases are psychosomatic and can be cured with vitamins, exercise and saunas. Fee-based lessons allow a follower to achieve different levels of enlightment. Many levels (and dollars) in, the follower learns that the forces that are holding him back are really alien spirits that have been clinging to human bodies by the thousands ever since an alien overlord named Xenu tried to imprison them on earth 75 million years ago.The highest level offers the power to control time and space, create universes and never get sick again. Wins the bangs-head-on-the-floor award for stupidity.

You're welcome.

This Stuff Matters

2008-04-21T20:40:00.004-04:00

I seem to be nesting a bit early this time, but I like the results! My basement is almost clean, the attic is clearing and I can see closet floors.

Little time left for blogging, but this winter was a very cluttering one and I need the space more than I need the break.

It's amazing how a few weeks of sunshine remind me of how unimportant all the stuff we have is. We've been spending hours puttering around in the dirt, playing with Sammie the turtle and just soaking up the sun. Suddenly the toys and CDs and even the books just seem so pointless. I know I'll appreciate them come the next rainy day, but for now, it's good to simplify.

There are times when I look around at how much we have, and I wonder if we are doing our kids a disservice. My kids rarely ask for anything. They just get. Granted, they don't see or hear any advertising, so they don't have that I-need-it mentality, but we often don't give them the chance to really wait for something. Delayed gratification is such a lost concept.

My generation was reared in entitlement. Many of us were taught that we were the best, the brightest, the prettiest, the sweetest and all-around perfect... just because. Many of us were given everything we needed and far more than we wanted.... just because. And many of us never learned how to delay spending, how to earn something we wanted, or how to appreciate what we had. Fortunately, I was not one of them.

But I fear that my kids may be.

My kids have eaten out more this year than I did in my entire life before college. And I am not kidding. My kids get sweets on a fairly regular basis. My kids have far, far too many clothes and way too many toys. I know that eating out and having sweets and wearing clothes and playing with toys is not wrong. But at what point do we say, "Enough!"? It is a question I have asked myself several times over the last seven years.

Several circumstances have contributed to my renewed concerns. I finally, at the urging of Amy, watched The Story of Stuff. Although I found it a bit fanatical, it was a great reminder of how materialistic we have become in the last few decades.

The other thing that really got me going was an incident that occured at Asker's Tee-ball game. He was a late addition to the team and my first introduction to the other players and parents was at the first game.

He proudly put on his uniform at 2am and woke me up seventeen times before 7am. After hours of "can we go now?", it was finally game time. He grabbed his new glove and we left.

When the other kids started showing up, I was in shock. These were five and six-year olds decked out like they were in the major leagues. Almost every single other child had his/her own ball bag completely loaded with gear. Multiple bats per child, loads of balls and co-ordinated batting helmets. They had special shoes and special socks and UnderArmour for the cool morning. They had personalized water bottles and energy snacks. FOR TEE-BALL!

When I played Little League, we used team bats and balls and helmets. We drank out of the team water cooler and had a snack when the game was over. Asker has his own bat, but we hadn't even considered bringing it. I hadn't bought him a batting helmet that he would grow out of in a year, and I sure as hell wasn't buying him a $150.00 ball bag.

But then as they were all sitting on the bench and the coach told them to get their batting helmets on, little Asker spoke up.

"Excuse me, Coach? I don't have my own batting helmet."

And a little knife of guilt went through me.

What kind of mom was I that didn't buy her perfect, precious first-grader a batting helmet. How could I expect him to do his best if I didn't provide the tools? Did the other moms think we were too poor? Hell, I was standing there, visibly pregnant, holding a snotty-nosed 8-month old and trying to keep two toddlers quiet. What would they think of me?

And then the coach reminded me of what it all was really about.

"That's okay, buddy! We're a team and we have lots of helmets and bats to share!"

And I remembered why we didn't buy the extra gear. I remembered why it hadn't even crossed our minds to buy the extra gear. He didn't need it.

After the game, Asker asked me if he could get his own helmet. I thought about it for a minute and told him that he needed to play the entire season and show responsibility, respect and commitment. And that if he was a good example to the (mostly younger) other players and tried his best, we would get him a helmet for next year. He smiled and said, "Awesome!"

And, in that moment, I felt sorry for the other kids' whose parents had probably not even considered not buying all the extra gear.

But I also realized that had we seen all the other kids' gear first, before that first game, we probably would have bought him a few extra things. Just to keep up. Just because it was expected and it was the norm. And that scared me.

I want to make sure that the choices we are making as parents are the right choices. not just the socially acceptable ones. I want to think through every choice and make sure my kids are learning delayed gratification, appreciation and, yes, even disappointment. I want them to understand their value doesn't come from just being, but from the respect, honor, love, joy, patience, friendship, mercy and grace they show others. Of course, we value them even when they show anger, disrespect and hatred, but I want them to realize there are better choices.

And I think reducing our materialism (yes, even farther) is a key.

So, we went through forgotten or unused toys and clothes. We talked about kids who need them and the joy their stuff will bring to others. We talked about how hard Daddy works and how we need to value the things we buy because they are a result of his labor. I reminded them of the true story we read last year of the children in the Liberian orphanage who ate a plain donut for every single meal. Every single day. Every single year.

I hope it will stick.

And maybe the next time I get a 10pm craving for Taco Bell, I'll open the fridge and just eat some leftovers.

Get Out of My Head!

2008-04-14T00:38:00.004-04:00

I've always been a dreamer.

Well, not really. I'm actually a strict realist.

But I've always had, and remembered in detail, vivid dreams.

When I was young, I had four main dreams that cycled through the years.

The first dream was yellow. That's it. No plot, no characters, no setting. Only yellow. But it was an amazing yellow. Not fluorescent. Not creamy. More like a daffodil yellow; a true yellow. It was peaceful and slightly spiritual. Perhaps it was just the reminder of story-book angel images. Or perhaps it was God's way of bringing calm into the life of a very behaviorally-challenged child. Whatever the source, the dreams were a special gift to me. And the color yellow still makes me smile.

The second dream was flight. This one varied a bit, but always resulted in my flying high above the earth. It was freedom and exhilaration and adventure that was novel to me- a child haunted by claustrophobia, acrophobia, agoraphobia, and hydrophobia. *

The third recurring dream I had was a bit more detailed. It may have come from reading the complete and unabridged Gulliver's Travels at a very young age. Or possibly hearing the raindrops night after night on our gabled-ceilings was the reason. But I began dreaming that many little men would sneak into my bedroom, turn me into a hot-dog and squirt ketchup and mustard all over me. Although I would laugh when recounting the dream in the morning (a vital part of the dream process), I was thoroughly frightened at night.

The last dream I had as a child was my fear-based dream. This one was so scary to me, that I would actually venture into the dungeon (the slightly damp, cold and dark basement which housed my parents' bedroom) for instant comfort. It was one of those dreams where perception was distorted. Far was near and near was far. Up was down and short was tall. Try as I may, I could never control any aspect of that dream and it terrified me.

I dreamed that Easter eggs were falling from the sky toward my upturned face. I don't remember the colors or designs, but they were Easter eggs in my mind. They would grow, morph and expand, but just before they would hit me, they would disappear. I realize now it was the distortion that caused such fear and uncertainty.

I have not had any of those dreams in nearly twenty years, but I still have amazing dreams.

And lately, you people have been in my head.

First, it was BusyDad. He showed up in the middle of a perfectly normal dream to see if I would take his 5 year old, Fury. He just couldn't handle him any longer. He was going to pay me $5000. And then the dream changed before I could answer him.

Dude, I totally would have done it for 2K.

And then OhMommy.

Ms. OhMommy.

Ms.I-wear-stilettos-at-all-times-my-children-are-gorgeous-and-well-behaved-and-my-house-is-so-clean-you-can-lick-the-floors OhMommy showed up at my my-house-is-so-messy-you-can-lose-a-child-in-the-laundry-mountains house to ask Ms. I'm-glad-if-I-get-my-teeth-brushed-before-4pm Jenni how to make pierogi. I told her to go ask her Mamusia and I was neither classy nor fabulous about it. **

Perhaps I should stop catching up on my reading at 1am, huh?

*None of which I currently suffer from. Having been replaced by Chiraptophobia and Menophobia.

** I realized as I was reading through this again, that I sound super catty and nasty. I adore OhMommy and her supposed perfectness. And I'm sure there are days when she has mountains of laundry too. Except not really.

Warning: Cute Hiney Ahead (And the Kid's is Okay, Too)

2008-04-10T22:10:00.003-04:00

The first really warm day of spring. Almost 80 degrees and it was heaven. HEAVEN.

Warm day plus Daddy home early means one thing.

Mud.

Startin' to understand why I got these here 5 kids aren't ya'?

See You.....Soon

2008-04-08T00:22:00.002-04:00

Here it is, 12:24 am. And I feel like myself again. I've caught up on my reading. I've cleaned the house. I've made lists of everything I need to do for the rest of week. Heck, I've even painted my toenails.

Has my evening sickness abated? No.

Have my children suddenly stopped bickering, whining, needing or breathing? No.

Has my schedule cleared itself? Actually, it's busier than ever.

The difference is- Dave's finally out of town again!

I know, I know, I'm horrible. But, damn it, the man's been home for two straight months.

Don't get me wrong. I love having him here. He's an amazingly hands-on dad. He gets more done around the house in two hours than I do in two days. But the strange thing is, when he's home, I have this need to sit and talk with him. And do other things. None of which involve cleaning, organizing, writing, reading or painting toenails.

But we're used to the breaks. We need the breaks. Sometimes, I think the breaks are the key to our marriage. We got married when he was in the Marine Corps, and he left for six weeks not a month into our marriage. And he's traveled for his job for the last five years.

I love the me time. I love sitting in absolute silence for more than ten minutes. I love reading a favorite novel for the fourteenth time and not feeling the need to share any of it out loud. I love making a snack and not having to make one for anyone else. I love having a blanket all to myself (at least until the little ones start showing up). I love remembering who I am.

He loves his alone time, too. He loves eating dinner without constant interruptions. He loves bathing without little faces pressed against the shower doors. He loves jamming on his bass as loudly as he wants without me asking him to turn it down. He loves watching the movies that I hate (middle-school boy humor type).

But over the years, we've also learned to appreciate each other through a little distance, as well. I recognize my real need for him. He realizes the emptiness that bachelorhood brings. I acknowledge his daily sacrifices (4am wakeups!) so that I can stay home. He sees my devotion to our family.

I couldn't do six weeks any longer. I need him now, more than ever. I need his insight and help with the kids. I need his companionship and back rubs. I need the adult conversation.

But I can wait a few more days.

Catch Up

2008-04-05T19:11:00.002-04:00

So I kind of took a mini-break.

Mostly due to the fact that for the first pregnancy ever, I am sick, sick, sick. In the evening. After the kids go to bed. How completely and utterly unfair is that?

But my energy seems to be slowly returning and I'm beginning to get that pregnancy rush. Does anyone else get that? The I-can-move-mountains-with-my-belly feeling? Love it!

I was also quite honored this week to receive two awards. I know blog awards are a dime-a-dozen, but sometimes they really mean something. Dawn who just lost her own father, awarded me a Perfect Post for my post about my father's miraculous healing. I was incredibly touched by her heartfelt appreciation of my story. Dawn, you are in my prayers.

I was also picked by the Graco team for their March monthly nod for my Blissfully Domestic post on stretching your grocery budget. I've been told that a small gift is on it's way. Um, just so you know, I'm going to have five in car seats, and those suckers are expensive! I really like this one.
Cuz' this baby's going to be a girl, or Toots and I just may take off.

What Happens When the Boys Outnumber the Girl

2008-04-03T12:23:00.002-04:00

Or "Sure we can play babydolls!"'

Memes Come Here To Die

2008-03-27T20:49:00.003-04:00

I'm an all-or-nothing kind of girl.

When I decided not to post ads, I didn't just keep that to myself and leave a little wiggle room in case I changed my mind (I won't). No, I had to proclaim it to the world.

When my ex-husband and I had an argument over amputees, I decided to make my point by not using my arms for an entire day. A wire hangar in the mouth and I was good to go. Of course, I was much more limber then, but I proved my point.

And now I feel another declaration coming on. The memes, the memes, the dreaded memes! Some are so old that I feel bad even acknowledging them. But I just hate these things!

Now, I know I do Haikus and I've done a few carnivals, but the memes. Come on, does anyone really like them or are they just good for a post when you can't think of anything else to write?

Well, whatever your opinion on the meme is, I have decided that Just Chicken Feed is the place for them to die.

Yes, friends, I am an:

Feel free to grab the button if you want.

And please, no offense to anyone who's tagged me or who loves the memes. Some of them are really interesting. Just, you know, not really.

Given The Choice, I'd Rather Clean Vomit

2008-03-25T09:36:00.003-04:00

"Mom, what awe those bubbles on the floow?"

"It's carpet cleaner, Toots."

"Why awe you cweaning the cawpet?"

"Well, last night, Asker had a diarrhea accident. I cleaned it up then, but I need to clean it a little bit more."

"Hmmmm. If I had an accident, would you cwean my cawpet?"

"Of course, honey. Accidents happen, it's okay when they do."

Toots disappears.

You know where this is going.

"MOM. I peed on my cawpet!!"

The Birth Story and The Rant

2008-03-24T09:52:00.003-04:00

When Lotus first announced her Birth-Story Carnival, my heart did a little jump. There are very few things that get me going like the subject of birth. Birth is, to me, the most amazing gift that God gave us. It is pure and emotional and amazing and spiritual.

But birth also makes me incredibly sad, because I see so many women who suffer. From total fear of childbirth, needless interventions, convenience surgeries and far too often, tragedy, birth in America has become something very different than God intended.

So I am going to post my latest birth story. And then I will rant. Be warned!

I've posted Asker's birth story before. It was an atypical hospital birth (hey, Satan was there!), but amazing nonetheless. But as my last three births have been home births, and many women never have seen or experienced a home birth, I wanted to offer a glimpse into this wonderful, safe option.

The Birth Story

Having done this a few times before, I was not too surprised when I went into labor three weeks early in August 2007. I was measuring large, my previous son had been three weeks early, and my body had been telling me that birth was imminent. So when early labor started that Thursday evening, I told the kids their new sibling would probably be born by morning and put them to bed.

I had never had a night labor before, and was looking forward to the solitude that darkness brings. I encouraged Dave to get some sleep and started my early labor routine.

I prefer to stay active during the beginning of labor. I wanted my labor to progress and intensify, not taper off, so I walked around, cleaned the house and relished in the excitement that early (read: not painful) contractions bring. I ate a large dinner to keep up my energy and then prepared my bedroom.

I placed a large plastic drop cloth over most of the bed and the bedroom floor and then put another set of sheets over it. I brought the crockpot upstairs, filled it and turned it on. I unpacked my birth kit (chucks, peri bottle, gloves, cord clamps, etc.) and got out my other necessary supplies (old towels, baby hat, receiving blankets). My midwife would bring the majority of needed supplies, but I liked to have the birth kit with me, just in case she didn't make it in time!

I called my midwife before I went to sleep, to let her know I was in labor. My first three births had all been ten to twelve hours, so I anticipated the same with number four. My midwife happened to be at her second house, two hours away, so she encouraged me to call her back as soon as I felt that labor was moving into second stage.

As my contractions were consistent, but not truly painful (more like intense), I decided to sleep for a bit. I've not had the occasion to sleep through labor before, and it was a truly unique experience. The contractions invaded my sleep, causing some extremely bizarre dreams! Around 3am, I awakened to a very painful contraction and realized that my labor had definitely gone to the next level. I called my midwife and she and her assistant hurriedly headed in my direction.

I love to get in the shower during labor. The hot water directed onto my back really takes the edge off contractions. Combined with a hands-and-knees position (which facilitates the baby moving down), labor can really progress quickly. I spent the next few hours in the shower, hoping my midwife would make it in time.

And then.....my......labor........slowed......down.

And the kids woke up.

Previously, my mom or my sister (or both) have come to my house to help during labor. But as Dave was home and we had a midwife assistant this time, we chose not to call anyone else. The TV was a real blessing that morning! The kids stayed occupied, only coming to "check on Mom" every hour or so. It was nice to hear their happy chattering downstairs while I waited, upstairs, for my labor to start again.

My contractions had gone from every two minutes to every ten. They were more intense, but I could tell that pushing was still a long way off.

At some point, I asked my midwife to check my dilation. It was my first internal exam during the entire pregnancy! I hate to be checked in the impending weeks before birth, because it creates such a feeling of impatience (at least in me). I was almost fully dilated, but as with my previous pregnancies, my bag of waters was full and very thick. I tend to have incredibly thick membranes and artificially breaking my waters is the only intervention I prefer. She broke my water, and I waited for the intense contractions I knew were to follow.

Ten hours had passed. Twelve hours had passed. But even though my contractions were strong and consistent, I was feeling no urge to push. Close to the seventeen hour mark, I began to feel a little exhausted. I had eaten and drunk at will, firmly believing that a starved, dehydrated woman is not in the best position to do the hard work of labor and delivery. But still, my body was tiring.

My midwife asked me if I wanted to try a tincture to push me over that edge. She applied a blue and black cohosh tincture under my tongue several times in the next half-hour. She told me that labor would probably move quickly, but I wanted to get back into the shower.

I never made it back out of the bathroom.

A few minutes later, I felt that distinctive, amazing, my-heart-is-racing-just-thinking-about-it urge to push. I called for Dave, the midwife and the kids and climbed out of the shower.

She brought in a birth stool and I started pushing. My first push was completely useless as I was laughing so hard from the "Eew, Mommy just pooped on the floor!" comments coming from my left. (The one negative that comes from eating during labor!)

After a few pushes Superboy was born. I grabbed him and brought him to my chest, and marveled, once again, at the beauty of birth. It was not until several minutes later that I realized he was having trouble breathing, and while I was commenting on his wrinkles and hair color, my midwife was calmly suctioning him and massaging his back. When I compare this to the yank-the-baby-cut-the-cord-rush-him-for-tests approach of a typical hospital birth, I am so grateful for a professional, competent yet conscientious midwife.

We let Asker announce the gender and his cry of, "Yes, the boys are still winning!" was adorable.

It was quite a tight squeeze, with me, the midwife, her assistant, Dave and three little people in a rather small bathroom, so we moved into the bedroom where I began nursing.

I held him for about 45 minutes, waiting until I had delivered the placenta before cutting the cord. Eventually, we weighed him, measured him and cleaned him up. Although I always feel more relief that love directly after childbirth, those first few minutes of pure bonding are priceless and irreplaceable!

All the while the kids were kissing, touching and oohing over their new baby brother. They were able to hold him before he was hours old, and having them with us created beautiful family bonding moments that we will never forget.

Thus ends the birth-story portion of this novel. If you have read this far, bravo. If you keep reading, God bless you!

The Rant

Although I have had some amazing, wonderful and safe home births (and anticipate the same for this one), I do not believe that home birth is for everyone. Nor do I believe that completely natural labors are the best choice for every woman.

But I do believe that every woman should be given the knowledge and power to make the right choice for herself. Unfortunately, as birth in America has turned from a natural process to a medical procedure, the vast majority of women are undereducated and even deceived when it comes to their rights, abilities and choices.

God created our bodies to give birth. Our bodies do an amazing, complex and unique job of pushing a large (relatively) body out of a small place. But it works!

Of course there are women who cannot deliver vaginally. I am so grateful for the educated and highly-trained surgeons available to women who need C-sections. But with an national 2006 C-section rate of 32% (some areas of the country average almost 50%!), and the rates continually rising, it begs the question, "What is going on with birth in America?"

Unfortunately, the third highest international C-section rate, does not create a low infant mortality rate. Indeed, just the opposite. As America's C-section rate has gone sky high, our infant mortality rate has climbed. America has the second worse infant mortality rate in the developed world! And as this thoughtful post by Amy shows, our maternal mortality rate is unacceptable as well!

There are many factors that have led to the sweeping changes in American childbirth. From the incredibly high rate of pitocin-induced labor, to ridiculous policies that are more concerned with avoiding liability litigation (no VBACS, induction immediately following membrane rupture), labor and delivery looks nothing like it did for centuries.

I could go on, but this post is far too long as it is. I would like to encourage any woman who is pregnant, who is planning on getting pregnant, who knows someone who is pregnant, or who just cares about maternal issues in general to watch the movie The Business of Being Born. Produced by Rikki Lake, it is an excellent look into the "business" of birthing babies, in America.

Please feel free to contact me with any questions you may have regarding natural childbirth or homebirth.

Also, please know that if you made it this far and are feeling burned for having a not-so-natural birth experience, that is not my intention. I know that there are good reasons for all interventions. I also know that knee-deep in labor is not the best time to think through decisions, and we trust our care providers to make those decisions for us. If you were encouraged to have an intervention, then you made the best choice you could at the time.

I just want to encourage women to take a step back and examine birth from outside of the labor room. Perhaps, next time, you will have the knowledge and understanding to make a different and/or better choice.

Haiku Good Friday

2008-03-21T08:01:00.002-04:00

Smell the blood and tears.
Pain, loss, death strangle the air.
Weight of the world hangs.

Mock, scorn, spit. Ignore.
Cacophony, then silence.
Your name on His lips.

Forgiveness and grace.
Mercy, peace, truth, perfect love.
Defined in one death.

Death was not the end.
Battle and then victory.
Tomb empty, alone.

Freely given; this.
Payment made, and debt erased.
For me, for you. All.

Yeah, It's Time!

2008-03-20T10:17:00.003-04:00

So, it's the first day of spring. And if your house looks like mine it could use a good spring cleaning.

I found a few websites with some wonderful articles on how to clean, organize and beautify the home. But they were working under some major assumptions.

1) I have zero children.

2) I have one hundred and twenty-five hours in each day.

And then I found Amy's amazing one-hour-a-day spring cleaning. Her schedule tackles one room at a time, one hour a day.

I can handle one hour a day.

Of course, her one hour equals four of my hours. What with the breastfeeding and refereeing and band-aiding and milk-spill-cleaning-uping.

But I'm getting it done. My fridge is clean, my kitchen floor is clean. My cabinets are almost organized.

Head over to the MotherLoad for Amy's great printables (including a daily slow cooker recipe!) and get your house in order, sistah!

Gave A Whole New Meaning To The Phrase "Hot Lips"

2008-03-18T22:48:00.003-04:00

As I was catching up on my blog reading tonight, chomping down on some hot wings, I was reminded of a time not so long ago...

We eat a lot of spicy food. But the kids and Dave are lightweights. They can handle Frank's or Tabasco (the white trash of hot sauces). They can manage the red pepper flakes I add to everything (I remember Asker eating a full pinch and saying, "mmm, -picey" when he was 2). And they love my homemade wings.

But when I need a really hot fix, I order the 911 wings from our local wing shack. Made with Dave's Insanity sauce (the sauce was actually banned from the National Fiery Food Show for being too hot), these suckers fill a need in my life that no man can touch.

They are pure heat.

I can eat them just fine. It's the stopping that kills me. For about ten minutes, I breathe fire. Then a slow burn sets in that lasts for several hours.

I usually eat them after the kids go to bed, and I only use one hand in case I get called to mommy duty. The hot sauce can linger for hours even with repeated hand washing.

Well, one evening I ate my wings as normal and a few hours later I started to get ready for bed.

I'm a Natural Family Planner. That means part of my evening ritual is checking my cervix.

I used the wrong hand.

Yowsers!

Welcome Home

2008-03-16T21:02:00.008-04:00

Hello hormones, my old friend.
You've come to talk with me again...

I've spent my entire life fighting the reputation of being a B. There was a time when that title was rightfully earned, but although I am a softer and gentler woman than before, I still tend to get labeled.

I'm not an emotional woman. I'm level-headed, analytical and slightly cold. Some days, not so slightly. I don't have many deep friendships. I don't like forced bonding (read: playgroups, women's retreats, get-togethers in general). I don't share deep personal secrets with anyone (the internets does not count, of course). I do NOT like to be touched by anyone who has not been inside my body one way or another. And I usually hide if I see someone I know unexpectedly.

Wanna' be my friend?

Mostly, though, I don't cry. I don't cry when I give birth (I sigh, in relief). I don't cry when I'm angry (I clean). I don't cry when I'm hurt (I plot). I don't cry when I feel like I'm going to burst (I do handstands- very head clearing).

But, oh, when I am pregnant, holy crap, the floodgates open! Actually, that's usually how I know I'm pregnant.

"Mommy, can I have a drink of milk?"

"Just a minute."

"Please, mommy, I'm thirsty."

"Why can't you be patient?" sniffs "I'm trying to change a diaper." sobs "Sometimes I just feel like a maid." snorts

"Mommy, are you having a new baby?"

For so long, I viewed emotion as weakness. I used to value my father over my mother because he is level-headed and logical. My mother is deeply sensitive and tender, and cries at the slightest hint of emotion (be it pain, joy, fear or surprise). For years I tended to think of him as strong and her as weak. It is only in recent years that my eyes have been opened, and I have come to realize that her mercy and grace and empathy make her incredibly strong.

During my first pregnancy, the rush of hormones was not welcomed. I felt alien, betrayed and helpless. I would cry about ridiculous things and rage over minor details. But, for the first time in my life, I began to relate to people; in particular to women. I could empathize with a friend's frustrations on a different level than before. I could relish my mom's small victories without thinking her shallow. I could listen without feeling the need to offer advice. Okay, perhaps not fully, but at least I didn't always voice the advice.

During the subsequent pregnancies, I would throw my hands up in surrender at the first sign of hormones. I knew the next nine months would be full of angry outbursts, pity-parties and meltdowns (No clothes that fit? Life is over). I accepted the hormones, perhaps even relished in using them as an excuse, but never embraced them.

This time, I welcome them. I welcome the insight they bring to my slightly narrow-minded life. I welcome the input they offer to my know-it-all self. I welcome the alternatives to logic and sanity. I welcome the maddening outbursts of stream-of-consciousness blather. Well-formed sentences are overrated, anyway.

Mostly, I welcome the softening.

So come, hormones, wash over me. Flood me with your clarity and your confusion. Take away the B that still lingers and replace her with a gentle, slightly soggy girl.

But if you touch my belly, she WILL be back!

Haiku Stuff My Face

2008-03-14T10:32:00.002-04:00

Food, glorious food.
It's all I think about now.
While eating for three*

Pizza, spaghetti,
Beef stew, homemade rolls, pancakes,
All made since Wednesday.

Steak, salad, taters;
On the menu for today.
Who knew food is joy?

*Pregnant and nursing

Think Pink!

2008-03-12T00:29:00.004-04:00

Fakers

2008-03-10T23:45:00.002-04:00

We spent Saturday in Baltimore at a nephew's baptism. The weather was lovely, the baptism was moving, the family was wonderful.

And the fake tans were alarming. Can someone please explain to me the need for obviously artificially dark skin in March?

Dave's step-sisters are Greek and they have naturally beautiful bronze skin. Even in the middle of winter they are dark and lovely. But some of their friends were just plain scary!

I don't think this color looks good even on a toned, bikini-clad body in July. But on an average chick's body, with boots, jeans and a bulky sweater, it causes double-takes. And not the good kind.

I spent a few minutes observing the couple of ladies who were sporting the orange, and I walked away a bit sad.

Both of the ladies are beautiful. Both have lovely smiles and pretty features. But their natural loveliness was overwhelmed by the heavy makeup, bleached blond hair and fake tans.

As the mother of a young daughter, I feel such a sense of anger that society constantly tells our girls that they must look a certain way to have value. Between the highly sexualized role-models, the constant imagery in ads of all sorts and the incredibly grown-up clothing marketed towards toddlers, it seems like our girls are fighting an uphill battle from day one. I don't allow Barbies for that very reason (that and I don't want the boys playing with b00bs).

I left the gathering with a renewed sense of urgency to remind Toots that her attitude, her smile, her kindness, her faith and her mind are what makes her beautiful.

In defense of those two ladies, I don't know them at all. They may be self-confident geniuses.

Maybe March IS Spring

2008-03-07T12:13:00.003-05:00

Sun has shown his face.
Birds are chirping me awake.
Daffodils have buds.

Something new to share,
you'll have to wait 'til Wednesday.*
My cloud has lifted

*Nobody actually pronounces Wednesday with 3 syllables, right?

A Father's Love

2008-03-05T10:13:00.003-05:00

A few months ago, I wrote about my dad's pancreatic cancer and how his blood tests seemed to indicate that the cancer was gone. Well, this week, his CAT scan results were finally read and there is no cancer in his body. Anywhere!

Please go back and read the story so you can understand how powerful this is. Pancreatic cancer is not a curable cancer. He did not have a successful resection surgery. He was given months, then weeks, then days to live.

Now, over three years later, his cancer has completely disappeared.

It is difficult to put into words the range of emotions I've felt during the last few years. He was diagnosed the day I gave birth to Clam. Recovering from the birth, I was unable to attend his surgery and felt very disconnected in the first few weeks.

From the first moments we were told he had cancer, Dave believed that he would be miraculously healed. Every time the subject would come up in conversation, Dave would pipe in with a, "But the Lord's going to heal him."

And I despised Dave for it.

I felt like he was glib and unrealistic and that we needed to prepare for what we were told was imminent demise. As I watched my dad literally shrinking before my eyes, I knew God was capable of healing him. But I didn't really expect it to happen this time. It just seemed too big.

I prayed for him, but always with a "Your will be done," out for myself. If he wasn't healed, I could always just say, "well, it wasn't the Lord's will," and save myself the embarrassment of explaining.

But then, he didn't die. And more than that, he changed. Dramatically.

My dad has always been an incredibly strong man. Strong of convictions, strong of opinion and strong of faith. But after a family tragedy about 15 years ago, he had turned inward. So far inward that we rarely glimpsed him. We saw anger and frustration and empty words, but the spark was gone.

And now, during a fight for his life, his passion had returned. Barely able to rise from the couch, he would speak of God's love with such compelling force that the room would be moved to tears. Always having bestowed affection begrudgingly, he now poured out, "I love yous" and initiated hugs. A hermit for nearly a decade, he began a weekly men's Bible study in his home. And when we would leave , Dave and I always joked that we were "coming down from the mountain."

His faith (and my mother's) became contagious. I began to pray, not, "Your will be done," but, "I know that it is Your will to heal." (James 5:14-16). I began to, in the words of Dutch Sheets, stand before death and ask for life.

And more than anything I began to realize that God is not limited by our minds. We cannot ask too much. We cannot ask too often. We cannot ask enough.

God healed my father's heart. He healed my heart. He has touched countless people through my dad's story.

And now, He has healed my father's body. And I can't stop smiling!