... and Mommy's heart melts

We were reading books tonight, assembling puzzles and generally relaxing before bed. As I stretched out on the floor, Miranda scrambled on top of me and laid her head against mine. "Oh, my Mommy..." she sighed, "...let's always be together."

July 30, 2005 -- Addendum

Ok, I realized that I needed to unpack the last post just a bit. In honor of Miranda's 3rd birthday, I wanted to do something that I haven't done since her birth, which was create a slideshow of the actual event.

It was a long labor, just under 24 hours (the first 21 hours were drug-free, then we had the epidural), and we were fortunate to have a professional photographer there for the last half of the event. The Lexington Herald-Leader was doing a story on our midwife and wanted to get coverage of a "natural" birth. So, they asked if they could be present, and we said yes. Sure, not everyone would have wanted to have them there, but we've always been grateful for the photos of that incredible day. I especially love how they show Billy's involvement in the whole process; he was definitely not sitting on the sidelines!

The pics really are not that graphic (although they are realistic), and are a beautiful way of commemorating what to me is a somewhat dreamlike few hours. Anyway, feel free to watch it or not, whatever you prefer!

July 30, 2005 (i.e. the long-awaited sequel to the last post)

Someone asked why I'd waited so long for the followup post about Miranda's birth. I told her, "I just wanted everyone to feel like it took as long to get through it as I did when it happened." ;-) No, it just took me a while to create a slideshow I actually liked.

So here it is -- a pictoral journey through the very first minutes of Miranda's life. Enjoy!

(PS -- Ok, I just ran through the show, and it tends to drag a bit. Try using the right arrow to advance the slide every few seconds. Wow -- a self-serve slide show!)

Make a Smilebox slideshow

July 29, 2005

The beautiful belly!

After 12 hours, I'm... only 4 centimeters???


Many an hour was spent in the tub.

18 hours and 7 centimeters later...

Relying on support from Billy and our doula, Anita

Our midwife Nancy, who's had 5 children, can see the lighter side of it all.

And, we await July 30th...

The Paradox of Motherhood

If you ever read the BabyCenter blog "Tending Violet", you might recognize the basic format of this post. But if you've ever read this blog, you know I am not averse to shamelessly stealing good ideas for posts (and giving credit where credit is due). And I remember, when I read this certain post on Tending Violet, how much it spoke to me as a mother. And for some reason, I thought about it today; I guess I was just having one of those days. So, thanks Joyce for first pointing out this paradox, and I hope you don't mind my borrowing it. Here goes...

Sometimes, I am so tired of being a mother. I'm tired of asking Miranda to keep her feet off the table/please don't play with your food/stop mashing the food/please don't spit the food back out, when it goes in your mouth it stays in your mouth... at least twenty times during each meal. I'm tired of so many meals being rushed and chaotic. I'm tired of constantly running out of diapers, wipes, and milk at inopportune times. I'm sick of chasing little socks around the house and losing them in the laundry. I'm sick of having one outfit after another stained and ruined (hers and mine). I'm getting depressed about having no time to shave my legs, put on makeup, exercise, actually have the time to do something nice with my hair. I know, I could get up earlier in the morning and get these things done, but I'm tired, damn it, and I don't feel like getting up. I'm sick of taking care of someone who demands and demands and demands. I'm tired of having to arrange each and every moment we have away from her. I'm tired of trying to balance motherhood and school, and feeling like I'm shortchanging both. I'm exhausted by the burden of always wondering if I'm parenting in the right way. I'm just tired.

But Miranda, baby, I'm not tired of you. I love hearing you squawk in the mornings, throwing out your pacis and chattering away. I love snuggling you as you drink your milk, wondering which book you'll want to read first. I love how excited you get when you see Daddy or me, running towards us and yellling, "Mommy! Daddy!" I love how, whenever Grover comes back from a new adventure on Sesame Street, you get out your World Map placemat so I can show you where he's been. I love being your companion on the journey of life, watching you explore the world and learn new things. I love your sweet feet, and the fact that you have my legs. I love playing hide and seek with you, and how you play in the basement when Daddy's working, and how you run to the garden to pick tomatoes in all stages of ripeness. I love how you love your friends. You are my precious, my sweet scrunchie, my big girl and my baby, and I'll never get tired of you.

How to feel like a really, really, really, really, really, REALLY bad mom

While visiting the refugee family (newly-arrived from Burundi) that Communality has adopted for Christmas, have your daughter attempt to seize each of the (few) toys they have, saying "Mine! Mine!" over and over. Have the refugee boys (ages 4 and 6) look at her and each other like they're thinking, "She's a little crazy, this one -- better let her have the toy just in case."

Yikes.

Miranda's lullabies (part 2)

This is the other song I've been singing lately to the Wee Wunchie. It speaks of adventure and laughter, and seeing beauty in your beloved, and providing warmth and comfort. I try to sing it over her as a kind of benediction, hoping that I provide to her all these elements of a good life.


If I were a feather bed
And in your house so fine
I'd hold you in my arms each night
Keep you warm in the wintertime

And if I were a big wool rug
Just a-sittin' in your front hall
Well, I'd tickle your feet, and make you laugh
If you stepped on me at all

If I were a breath of wind
On your cheek as you walked by
I'd pick you up upon my back
And I'd teach you how to fly

If I were a drop of rain
Trickled down your chin
I'd run right up, and kiss your lips
And I'd kiss them twice again

If I were an old banjo
Felt your fingers on my strings
I'd sing the sweetest little song
A banjo e'er did sing

And if I were a hair ribbon
Color it was blue
I'd be ten times as beautiful
Cause I'd be wearing you

If I were a feather bed
In your house so fine
I'd hold you in my arms each night
Keep you warm in the wintertime

Miranda's lullabies (part 1)

I've started singing Miranda to sleep at naptime and bedtime. Wasn't sure if it would work, but she seems to enjoy it. And I've been thinking about the songs I've chosen to sing to her. For some reason, I've been on a John McCutcheon kick these last few weeks, and she's been hearing the same two songs over and over.

I was introduced to John McCutcheon during my first year at ASP, and it's stayed with me pretty powerfully ever since. I heard this song in concert, and learned it was written for his uncle's funeral. His uncle had only one arm and for that reason was not allowed his dream of entering the Catholic priesthood, yet had a life filled with love, family, and vocation. I think the song speaks powerfully about the value of a life well-lived, even (especially?) in its simplicity. I hope that someday Miranda and I can talk about why I sang it to her.



One humble shoemaker
From a small Polish town
One of twelve German children
His life seemed so small
One heart rent with sorrow
As the Church closed its door
“A priest needs two hands
to embrace all the poor”

One last child at home now
He watched them all go
Nursing mother and father
As their health stumbled so
Quiet voice in the parlor
Reading Grandma the news
Giving sight to her darkness
I saw visions, too

One strong arm to hold you
One firm hand to shake
One clear voice to guide you
One good heart to break

As a child I remember
His back bent with toil
Over sick beds, shoe forms
Children and soil
Tending roses and loved ones
The family business at hand
Tending one nephew longing
To be such a man

One strong arm to hold you
One firm hand to shake
One clear voice to guide you
One young life to shape

One form in the screen door
His eyes dancing with glee
With a single red rose
That he’s cut just for me
My sons sees his first birthday
As I reach for the phone
Takes his first stumbling steps
As his Uncle’s called home

One strong arm to hold you
One firm hand to grasp
One clear voice to guide you
One good life to last

One humble shoemaker
From a small Polish town
We are all lifted up
As we lower him down

Could this happen to you?

Note to self: Monitor Miranda closely during all trips to museums and art galleries, at least until she's weaned.

Rocking and reading

We've been having some very rough naptimes at our house lately. Miranda has suddenly decided that she'll only nap if someone is holding her in the rocker. Place her in her crib and she stands and yells and crawls around and screams... for over an hour if we let her go that long. It's pretty crazy.

So, on the days when I just can't fight that battle for that long, I get a glass of water and a good book, and gather up my girl and rock her while she sleeps. I'll read and just look at her sweet sleeping face. It's actually one of my favorite times of the day, after I've submitted to it. Billy and I are not exactly of the same mind about this situation, but we're doing the best we can.

On the way to the rocker yesterday, I grabbed our copy of The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom. It's an amazing story about sheltering Jews in WWII Holland, and I'm not sure I've ever read it in its entirety. And I started to wonder, How did this book find its way into our house? Why did I get this in the first place? And I realized that I first read it (parts of it, anyway) as a child in Lubbock. There must have been a copy at my parents' house when I was young -- certainly before junior high. I started thinking about some of the books that I read (or began to read) during that time:

• Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin
• Anatomy of an Illness by Norman Cousins
• The Road Less Traveled by M. Scott Peck
• Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes

I'm not sure that I fully understood any of these books at the time, but I had enough of a connection to want to return to them later in life. And I think I understood enough to be impacted by them, to be introduced to the themes of intelligence and human worth, and racism, and genocide, and spirituality, and optimism and inner healing. They sank roots into my heart and mind.

So, here's a big shout out to my parents, who had the good sense to fill their home with good books for us to discover. And here's hoping that the same thing happens with our little non-napping scrunchie.

Mother of the Year???

OK, just in case you were wondering if I was in competition for your award... I'm not.

Monday night, I left an extra strength Tylenol on the bed, which she swallowed very adeptly. My quick-thinking husband called a friend and then called poison control, who assured him that one wouldn't hurt. (Although that teething fever will be history.)

Tuesday morning, after a very sleepy nursing session, I thought, "I need to roll her over to the middle of the bed. I need to... zzzzzz." Yes, I was awakened by the thud of a small, scrunchy body hitting the floor, followed by a sleepy but increasingly wide-awake wailing. After a few minutes of crying and a few minutes of nursing, all was well.

Yikes. I shouldn't make mistakes like this. Sure, everything is OK, but it still isn't good. So, is anyone else out there doing stuff like this? Tell me your stories and make me feel better (or just make me laugh, which works just as well!)

Wrongful birth?

Ok, I'm going to risk offending some folks here. I was on the bike at the Y, reading People when I should have been reading something for school, and I found an article about a family who sued their OB-GYN after their daughter was born with spina bifida. Theirs was a "wrongful birth" suit. I can't find that article online, but here is a link to a similar story on the CBS site.

To start -- I don't have a disabled child, and I can only imagine how difficult it would be to parent a child with significant medical issues. OK, I really can't imagine, to be truthful. There's the disclaimer.

But I guess I was struck, initially, by the wording of the thing. What does it mean for a child's birth to be "wrongful"? Is that the same as just plain "wrong"? Is there a difference between the birth being wrongful, and the life itself being wrongful? Does this mean that the child's existence is wrong? How blurry are the lines of distinction between these questions? The excerpt below raises a key concern:

“It seems as though we're questioning not only the value of life, but the value of people who are not perfect,” says Anita Allen-Castellito, a law professor at the University of Pennsylvania and a bio-ethicist. Castellito worries that Ryan will be damaged emotionally if he learns that his mother testified that she would have had an abortion if she had known about his condition. “Realistically how many children are going to hear that complicated story as opposed to the simpler message that ‘I didn't want you, you're disabled, I didn't want a disabled child,’” says Castellito.

This is an admittedly brief and inelegant attempt to discuss a very complex and highly emotional issue. I'm sure there are many other posts that might deal with it more thoroughly, which I'd love to you to forward to me if you find them! But I wanted to at least ask the questions.

I've been following the blog of a friend-of-a-friend who's son (one of twins) was born with serious health complications. And I've been deeply moved by the incredible care and concern he and his wife have lavished on their boy. It competes with the time they have for their new daughter, and seems to be exhausting. But they've named him in honor of strength, and faithfulness, and Christ himself. They post pictures of him next to his daddy's marathon medals, and cheer him on as he grows. What a beautiful, beautiful gift to begin this little life, and to proclaim its value.