Everyday Life

Categories Parenting, Tirzah Mae

Tirzah Mae is Eight (Six) Months

3 Comments by

As of yesterday, Tirzah Mae is eight months old (corrected to six.)

In some ways she’s exactly at her age-by-birthday. In others, she’s maybe a little behind her age-by-due-date. But she’s growing healthily, normally, well.

Gross Motor Skills:
Tirzah Mae is rolling, rolling, rolling – and she can back on her hands and knees as well. Unfortunately, she hasn’t figured out any way to move forward. So, for now, this means she’ll frequently scoot herself underneath one of the couches so that just her head is peeking out – then she’ll cry for help because… forward, mom!

She’s still not sitting by herself – I’m not sure exactly whether it’s lack of muscle control or simply interest in moving around. She’ll sit for about ten seconds before she topples – except that topple isn’t quite the word for it. She’ll sit for about ten seconds until she lunges for some object a couple feet away.

Fine Motor Skills:
Our girlie has just about got the two finger grasp down. When she gets really quiet on the floor while I’m reading a book, I’ll look up – and, more often then not, she’s delicately picking up a piece of lint between two fingers and placing it in her mouth.

Eating:
I started her on solids around 7 months (5 adjusted) since she was grabbing at our plates and wouldn’t give us any peace at mealtimes unless we fed her (and no, breastfeeding would not do.) She generally has some fruit for lunch (or what I’m eating if I have enough leftovers for two), and eats what we eat in the evening.

I haven’t worried about introducing foods slowly (even though I have routinely encouraged moms to do that in the past – mostly because I had just enough moms come to me after the fact worried that their kids had intolerances and ended up doing elimination diets in an unsound manner – far nicer to add slowly while a baby’s getting good nutrition at the breast than to eliminate things when those are providing the bulk of a child’s nutrition). Anyhow – I haven’t worried about introducing things slowly, have just been giving her what we eat.

So she’s eaten enchiladas, curry, turkey and broccoli over biscuits, Great Grams’ spaghetti, Szechuan chicken, you name it. And she likes it all. (I won’t get too triumphant yet and pronounce this to be because of my expert child feeding practices – but I *will* say that if I’d stopped when she made faces on the first few bites, she’d have a much more limited palate.)

Sleeping:
This continues to be a struggle. Tirzah Mae sleeps “through the night” (meaning a five hour stretch) most nights, but she doesn’t often do more than that. She’s mostly in her crib, but still occasionally ends up in bed with us.

I think teething may be the cause of our most recent nighttime woes – she’ll wake up and want to nurse and then eventually fall asleep at the breast. But as soon as I take her off the breast, she’ll wake up and want back on – she’s not swallowing anything so I know it’s just for comfort. If I refuse her the breast or try the pacifier, she’ll be wide awake and screaming. I took her to bed with me a few nights, but she was on the breast absolutely all night long and I didn’t get any sleep. On the other hand, spending an hour and a half up with her trying to get her to sleep and finally resorting to graduated extinction (which means I don’t sleep for another hour after she goes to sleep because I’m still hearing her scream in my head) isn’t exactly ideal either.

This is a stage, I remind myself. I signed up for this, I tell myself. And it’ll only be another twenty years or so :-)

Teeth:

When are those teeth going to finally pop out? This is the question of the month. She chews on everything, rubs her gums with a fervor I’ve never seen, is fussier than she’s ever been, isn’t sleeping very well again. It’s GOT to be teething (right?) But the teeth remain stubbornly hidden and the teething process seems like it’s lasting forever.

This is a stage, I remind myself. I signed up for this, I tell myself. And it’ll only be another twenty years or so :-)

Social Skills:

Just yesterday at the library, one of the librarians came running (as she usually does) when Tirzah Mae and I walked in. Tirzah Mae took a little while to warm up before she smiled at the librarian. But, after a little bit of playing on the floor while her mama looked at books, she was ready to laugh at everyone she met – a girl near the computers, an older gentleman in the stacks, and the same librarian as we checked out.

It’s tremendous fun, being her mama.

Categories Everyday Life

Here’s to you, Mr. Robinson

1 Comment by

When I was in elementary school, I read an article about the Robinson family in Mary Pride’s Practical Homeschooling.

The Robinson story fascinated me. Lots of kids left without a mother, end up essentially “homeschooling themselves” with classic books.

I was always about being self-taught, thought that was the most wonderful thing. I wished I could be the Robinsons (without the mother being dead, of course).

Of course, even though my family wasn’t using the Robinson curriculum, I could still be really smart and self-taught. I wouldn’t be surprised if that article wasn’t partly responsible for my decision to read Plato’s Republic in sixth grade.

But there was one part of the story that I envied intensely and had no way of replicating myself. Mr. Robinson, a Ph.D., wrote of how he’d have other Ph.D’s over to dinner, where his children would listen to the technical and intellectual conversation, seeing how bright minds are always asking questions of the world.

Oh how I longed for a Ph.D. around our table, spurring my mind to ask big questions.

Fast forward twenty years. I’m sitting around the table with my husband and his parents. Daniel asks his mom if she still has those CDs from the Robinsons.

“Rebekah would like to homeschool our kids someday,” he said, “and I think she might find them interesting.”

And my mother-in-law begins telling the story of when a Mr. Robinson was visiting the institution where my father-in-law was doing his post-doctoral work. Mr. Robinson was a widower and he homeschooled his children, so he’d brought his whole family along.

The Robinson family came over and had dinner with the Garcias, where the children notably refused brownies and ice cream, on the grounds that sugar was bad for them. They’d told of hiding their father’s sweet stash from him – not because they wanted it for themselves but because they knew it was bad for him.

At the end of that visit, Mr. Robinson gave my mother-in-law a copy of their family’s homeschool curriculum on several dozen CD-roms.

Yes, the Ph.D. dinners I’d so longed for as a child? They were a reality for my husband.

I never got a Ph.D. dinner growing up, but my children will. Every time they go to visit their grandpa, my children can have dinner with one of those same Ph.D.s the Robinson children had dinner with.

Categories Everyday Life, Faith

Powerful Dreams

2 Comments by

I watched paralyzed as she dunked my little brother again and again under the bathwater. He struggled and then went limp.

When at last she relented, he was alive but not alive.

My bundle-of-energy, always-sociable, never-without-a-grin-and-a-fresh-face-scrape brother was an automaton, going through the motions, but no longer with any sign of his former animation.

Then I awoke. It was two in the morning. I could check on him in his crib, but that wouldn’t do any good to reassure my troubled mind, my racing heart. When he was sleeping was the only time John didn’t display his characteristic energy – the energy the faceless old woman had robbed from him in my dream.

I went into the living room with my Bible, turned on a lamp, curled up in the couch and read. I started in Matthew. By the time I reached John, I had at last calmed enough to fall back asleep.

Nevertheless, the dream continued to haunt my future, when any ordinary occasion could make my heart race again with fear for my little brother.

Other times I dreamed of friends, family members sinning against me or against another loved one in terrible ways. I’d awaken knowing that it was only a dream, that nothing had happened, that my friend or family member was innocent of the nightmarish accusations. But I struggled nonetheless to avoid hurt, anger, and bitterness towards those who had offended in my dreams.

Yet other times, I dreamed that I was engaging in some illicit act, taking pleasure in evil. Even when I knew it was only a dream, that I had neither done the evil deed nor chosen the wicked contents of my dreams, I felt ashamed, guilty for what I’d done in my sleeping dreams, for how I’d enjoyed what I truly abhorred.

Dreams are powerful because they’re not under our control. They’re powerful because while they aren’t reality, while we can know they aren’t reality, we still experience them as reality while we dream – and still feel the effects of those experiences once we awaken.

I am usually a rational person. I like to think things out. I like to believe things based on thoughtful consideration. But dreams circumvent my thoughts and go straight to my emotions.

When I dream, I’m not relating to the world through what I know to be true. I’m relating to the world through my emotions. And when I wake up, those emotions, those responses are still there.

And just like when I first started dreaming these powerful dreams, the Word of God is the antidote.

It is insufficient for me to tell myself that my brother is fine, that my sister hasn’t done something horrific, that I haven’t rejoiced in something perverse.

Instead, I must steep myself in the character of God, in the reality of sin, and in the hope found in the cross of Christ.

In himself, my brother is a dead man walking, devoid of life. But in Christ, he is a new creation, a new creation such that neither disability nor death can rob him of life.

In herself, my sister is a sinner who offends against me and God and others. But in Christ, she is a saint who is being transformed more and more into the image of Christ.

In myself, I do indeed glory in the worst of debauchery. But in Christ, I was created for good works and delight to do God’s will.

Yes, I need to know that the dream is not reality. But even more, I need to know that sin is real – and the solution is real.

Christ died for sinners. For me, for my family, for faceless women who abuse children. If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. Me, my family, the person who tried to hurt us. No one can kill what God has made alive in Christ. Not me, not my family, not anyone.

“For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

~Romans 8:38-39

That’s the truth, more powerful than any dream.

Categories Homemaking, Work

Don’t try too hard

Leave a comment by

Imagine having your boss greet you in the morning with: “Don’t try too hard to get things done today.”

What would you think of your boss? What would you think of your place of employment?

If you heard that someone else’s boss greeted them with that, what would you think of their boss? What would you think of their place of employment?

I think of city road maintenance crews. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s how their bosses greet them every morning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a road maintenance crew try too hard to get things done. And everyone knows (right?) that government agencies have to use up their full budget by the end of the year in order to get a full budget for the next – so it’s in a government boss’s interest to waste money.

Certainly, I never heard that from my bosses when I worked in the private sector.

But, honestly, I’ve never heard that from my public sector bosses either.

No.

Bosses are interested in getting value out of their employees. They want their employees to work hard and get things done.

Sure, some bosses are better at motivating their employees to work hard and to accomplish things – but no employer would go so far as to tell their employees not to try too hard to get things done.

Except my boss right now.

My husband is not interested in getting as much hard work out of me as possible. That isn’t his goal for our home.

I’m not at home so I can be hyperproductive, so our home can be immaculate, so I can finish a to-do list a mile long. I’m not at home so my husband can arrive home to a harried, exhausted wife who is frustrated with not meeting her expectations of the ideal housewife. I’m not at home to be frustrated at our daughter for keeping me from completing my to-do list.

I’m not a homemaker so I can “get things done.”

Does that mean my husband was encouraging me to lie in bed all day long, to not rinse and wash the diapers, to not make him dinner, to not tidy the house? No. He was not encouraging me to idleness.

No, he was encouraging me to have perspective.

Because trying too hard to get things done makes me worse, not better, at my job.

It makes me impatient and unresponsive as a mother. It makes me frustrated and unhelpful as a wife. It makes our home a place of chaotic frenzy instead of peaceful rest.

Right now, I am called to fulfill a role (or several roles), not merely to complete tasks.

Which means I need to listen to my boss when he tells me not to try too hard to get things done. I need to stop and consider what is really important.

Categories Everyday Life, Technology

I don’t comment like I used to

3 Comments by

The advent of smart phones has brought with it plenty of advantages. My smart phone means I rarely double book myself, I always have my price book/grocery list handy, and I can pull up my weight history or blood pressure history at the doctor’s office without a problem.

On the other hand, it has affected how I use social media – and blogs.

Facebook’s app made it way too easy to spend hours on Facebook, since it would give me frequent notifications that my sisters-in-law had posted new photos of nieces or nephews. I would get onto Facebook to see the photos and end up spending another 15 minutes just scrolling through my newsfeed – multiple times a day.

Eventually, I decided to uninstall the app. I still access Facebook on my phone, but I do it through the browser. I visit when I choose to, instead of when a notification tells me to. I still see the notifications once I get to the website, so I don’t miss anything – I just choose when I’m going to see them (and how many times a day I’m going to waste time browsing.)

I still probably overuse Facebook on my phone, but it’s better than it used to be.

But what concerns me now isn’t my on-phone Facebook usage or the amount of time I spend connecting via Facebook.

What concerns me is my on-phone blog-reading – and how the phone experience keeps me from connecting when I’m reading.

You see, before social media became a big thing, there was this little thing called blogging. I did it. Lots of people did it. We wrote “posts” on our “blogs”. We read other people’s “posts” and we left “comments”. When other people read our “comments”, they visited our “blogs” and read our “posts” and left “comments” of their own. We developed relationships through this mutual sharing.**

This was what I did.

And then the phone came along.

It was a boon to blog reading, with it’s available-everywhere-Feedly app. I could read in the car (while Daniel is driving, of course), in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, while sitting on the loo (yes, you do it too.)

But it was a death-knell to commenting. To comment, I’d need to click on the title, wait while the browser opens, scroll down to the comment box, attempt to type a comment, and try to get past my phone auto-correcting the word-verification caption. All this with an oversized finger on a tiny screen.

Then there’s trying to continue the conversation. I subscribe to the comments feed on each post I comment on because I want to hear if the author says something back or if another commenter riffs on the same topic. It’s a way to be a part of the conversation. But to do that on the phone, I’d have to try to find the RSS feed, try to copy the URL, switch from the browser app to the Feedly app, and try to paste the URL into the subscribe area in the Feedly app. All this with an oversized finger on a tiny screen.

So I read my usual blogs and think of all sorts of things I’d love to chat with the blogger about via comments. I mark the post “unread” in Feedly, figuring I’ll go back and comment when I’m on the computer. But there’s rarely enough time to go back – and when there is time, it’s weeks later and the post is old and conversation no longer happening.

I don’t comment like I used to – and I think it’s sad.

**Side note: Was this explanation necessary? I’m not sure. As I observe it, blogging has a very different character nowadays than it did when I first started. The blogging I see now tends towards selling stuff (even if that’s selling your own story) versus sharing life. Developing relationships through blogging seems much less common, while “networking” via blogging is perhaps more common. Blogging is a business venture rather than a friendship.**

Categories Following Christ, Parenting

The End of Myself

Leave a comment by

Desperation.

That’s what I felt as Tirzah Mae’s not sleeping at night approached two months.

Would she ever sleep through the night again? Would my “good” baby, who never cried unless she needed something, ever return?

Despite the doctor’s ultimate diagnosis of colic as the source of her crying and frequent night waking (in other words, “crying for no understandable reason”), I was convinced there was something causing her crying. Yes, we ruled out GERD when two weeks of medication had no effect. But prior to this, Tirzah Mae never cried unless she needed something: she was hungry, she was dirty, she was overtired, she was in pain.

As I got up with her yet again, bleary eyed and exhausted from two months of rarely finishing a sleep cycle and from the effort of cleaning up a filthy mobile home while my own home slipped back into chaos, I was absolutely desperate.

I made a plan to do what I’d been toying with for weeks – I’d go to the pharmacy, pick up every scientifically suspect remedy. Gripe water. Simethicone. Homeopathic remedies.

I was willing to throw away my scientific dogmatism, to do anything, however contrary to my training and philosophy, if only it would help.

That’s when, in desperation, I cried out to God: “God, heal my daughter.”

At long last, she was soothed and fell back asleep. I left her in her crib and returned to my own bed, where I continued to cry out to God until I fell asleep myself.

And I slept. Two hours, three, four.

I roused, thinking surely my overtiredness had kept me from hearing Tirzah Mae’s screams. I heard her rustling in her crib – and nothing more.

I fell back asleep.

Six hours after she had fallen asleep, she awoke and fussed for her mother.

The next night, she slept another five to six hours. And the next. She’s slept wonderfully since Tuesday.

And I turn, at the end of myself, wondering why I waited so long to turn to God.

Why is it that I only turn to Him after I’ve diagnosed her myself, after I’ve turned to the internet, after I’ve turned to the doctor, after the medication fails? Why did I wait until my only other resort was hocus-pocus?

It’s frightening, how slowly I turn to the one who knows all things, who alone has the power to change all circumstances.

It’s humbling, how sinful I am even in turning to Christ.

But it’s so amazing, how God’s mercy doesn’t punish me for waiting to turn to Him. Instead, He graciously grants my daughter (and myself) sleep.

Just one more example of the gospel at work: God, graciously giving good gifts to those who don’t deserve it, forgiving those who turn aside so often to self-reliant idolatry.

Thank you, Lord, for bringing me to the end of myself. Thank you, Lord, for your patience with my delay. Thank you for reminding me again how it is only in you that I live and move and have my being. May I turn aside from self-idolatry and ever more quickly turn to you, the source of all life.

Categories Everyday Life, Family & Friends

Lifecycle of a nightie

Leave a comment by

Some 20 years ago, my little sister Grace grabbed one of my mom’s nightgowns out of the laundry basket and started carrying it around.

It was a “slicky” nightgown you see, some sort of synthetic with a silky feel, perfect for snuggling against or rubbing between one’s fingers.

As I remember it, Grace carried the nightgown with her whenever she had a chance, slept with it, and generally loved it until Mom made her a “slicky” of her own – something akin to a handkerchief made out of similarly “slicky” fabric.

Years later, mom retired the nightgown and I grabbed it up. I cut off the lower portion, added a casing at top for elastic and wore it as a slip for eight, ten, or more years.

Recently, I pulled the slip from my drawer and added it to a pile of mending sitting atop another dresser in our room. The elastic in the waist is shot. Either I need to replace the elastic or convert the slip to other purposes.

But one day, about a week ago, Tirzah Mae’s lovey (a “slicky” I made for her with ribbon tags) got dirty and was in the wash – and Tirzah Mae was not settling down for a nap without it. I grabbed the old nightie-turned-slip from the dresser and snuggled it against Tirzah Mae’s cheek. Safely nestled in a “slicky”, Tirzah Mae fell asleep.

Tirzah Mae with the old nightie

Today, she wraps her hands in it and waves it around, just as her aunt did some 20 years ago.

Categories Everyday Life

A springtime project

2 Comments by

Posts might get scarce around here for the next month or so – because I’ve got quite a spring cleaning project to work on.

The bathroom after two hours of work

A peek inside the trailer’s back door – after two afternoons of work

We’ve got a rolloff out on the land and my task is to empty the trailer into the rolloff.

The roll-off after one hour of work

One hour’s worth of trash

Since Daniel is still needing to work mega-overtime, Tirzah Mae and I are mostly on our own for this project.

My cleaning buddy

My cleaning buddy

Which means we’ll be busy – really, really busy in the next several weeks.

Categories Parenting

Grandma on childbirth and baby feeding

2 Comments by

I was telling my grandma about our Bradley class (I think) when she commented that she’d heard about natural childbirth somewhere toward the end of her childbearing years. She told her doctor she’d like to try. He told her no, she didn’t. She had twelve children, including one set of twins. None were born “naturally”.

I was talking with Daniel’s grandma early on in our marriage (before we were pregnant) and somehow we got on the topic of childbirth and breastfeeding.

She doesn’t remember anything about how her children were born – she was out for their delivery.

She didn’t even see her babies for a fair while after they were born – but she breastfed all four.

Daniel’s other grandma didn’t breastfeed her children. “It wasn’t encouraged in those days,” she told me apologetically. Now she regrets that she didn’t “nurse”. She’s so glad I’m nursing Tirzah Mae. “It’s such a wonderful thing,” she said.

I was mentioning how NOT fun pumping had been when we’d had to do that – but that my supply had been abundant. My grandma told me she’d tried with her first but that it didn’t work out. Grandpa complained about all the money that Similac got from them – twelve children’s worth.

None of Tirzah Mae’s great-grandmother’s had ideal situations. But they managed the best they could. They raised their children with the resources that were available.

And they raised some pretty terrific children.

It’s worth remembering, even as I long for the ideal – and long that the ideal could be available to as many women as possible – that generations of women have experienced the less-then-ideal, have pressed through, have raised their families well.

Natural childbirth. Immediate skin-to-skin. Successful breastfeeding.

I wish that every woman had the physical capability and the support she needed to achieve them.

But when she doesn’t?

She can still mother well.

Take heart, mothers who feel disappointed with your birth or breastfeeding experiences. It’s okay to be disappointed. For those who were coerced, it’s okay to be upset. But your birth or breastfeeding experiences do not define your mothering.

You do.

Our grandmothers pressed through the less-than-ideal and raised our parents well. You can too.

Categories Parenting

The child will live

1 Comment by

Anxious caregiver stays up all night applying compresses to feverish child’s face, chest, limbs.

Child tosses and turns, moaning and breathing laboriously.

Everyone knows that the child is on her deathbed, everyone wishes they could do something – but to no avail. They stand vigil outside the child’s door, waiting for news. The doctor’s worried face declares that the danger is real.

Then, as daylight breaks, the child’s fever subsides. She falls into a “deep, unlabored sleep.”

The doctor declares the worst to be over, orders the anxious caregiver to sleep.

All breathe a sigh of relief. The child will live.

What story am I telling?

I’m not really sure. I feel certain I’ve read this story or a variation on it at least a half dozen times if not more – but I can’t remember where.

Do you know?

All I know is that I felt a little like I was in this story (and yes, I am being melodramatic) last night.

Tirzah Mae went to sleep at nine, woke up screaming at 10:30, midnight, one o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock, four o’clock, and five o’clock. I had a nightmare that I was (thankfully) able to wake myself up from at 11:15.

It’s been four weeks now that Tirzah Mae’s not been sleeping well, been waking up screaming, been inconsolably fussy during the day. My own sleep has (understandably) suffered.

We took her to the doctor Friday, got some medication. And this weekend has been the worst that it’s been so far.

But this morning, as I was reaching my very wits end, I breastfed Tirzah Mae and she fell into a “deep, unlabored sleep”. She slept for four hours (longer than she’s slept at a stretch since returning from Lincoln on Easter Sunday).

And her mother relaxed into sleep as well. The worst is over. The child will live (and so will her mother.)