Of Being a Mother of Four

Despite the raging amounts of insanity that can occur in this home on a daily basis, I have learned, within the past couple of months, that there are some distinct perks to being a mother of four (other than knowing, of course, that I have birthed four beautiful children who make me crazy, yes, but also make me laugh daily and I consider myself greatly blessed).

One of these being the insta-excuse I now have for what might previously have been labeled "laziness," "poor time management," or "crazy emotional psychosis." Now it's simply, "Oh, don't worry about it, you're a mother of four!"

Late for church? I'm a mother of four. Messy house? I'm a mother of four. Screaming like mad or curled up sobbing in the corner? I'm a mother of four. Oh, did I forget your birthday? Oops. Did I mention I'm the mother of four?

It's as though toting four little people around as my personal entourage has suddenly depleted me of all expectations of acting like a responsible human being (unless, of course, those four monkeys are running around like hooligans [ok, three would be running, the fourth might just be crying], in which case, I have failed the only responsibility I have been given - being the mother of four).

Don't get me wrong - I hate the idea that my inability to keep all my ducks in a row is often blamed on my children who are, in fact, a few of those ducks themselves. To me, it's like saying it's ok if my children look like ragamuffins because I own a lot of dishes that need to be washed. The fact is, I'm responsible for a lot of things and those adorable little people are my primary priority, but I hate feeling like a failure in other aspects of life simply because I'm a mother of four.

Because four is apparently the magic number at which sanity has clearly left the room and a woman is now over-extended beyond capacity.

BUT, on the flip side of that coin, on the days when I can make it happen and we can get out the door and we arrive somewhere on time, or I've vacuumed the house, or I put dinner on the table, I'm suddenly super woman.

It's like people are amazed I can still dress myself, let alone do anything else meaningful. So anything above keeping those children alive is a miracle. And I am, thereby, a superhero by the mere fact that I can still complete a sentence and fold some laundry.

Yay me!

It's an ego boost, really.

So, let's re-cap: as a mother of four I'm now off the hook for any semblance of responsibility, but if I do accomplish something, I'm amazing.

Not gonna lie, things could be worse.

Of Summer

Today was the day the kids have been looking forward to since last August. They have asked almost weekly over the past nine months, "Is it summer?!" (Yes, they even asked as we drove past snow-covered trees and stepped over ice slicks in the parking lot - we might need to work more on our seasons.)

And today was finally the day I could say, "Yes." (without going into the technicalities regarding solstices and the like). Because today was the day we signed up for the Summer Reading Program at our local library.

Because they understand that summer at the library means toys - particularly a small new treasure to take home each week. And everyone knows that's what the library is for - toys (and computer time). Those bookshelves everywhere? Those are just something to run between on our way to the toys.

Fortunately, with those months between the summers, they have learned to enjoy story time at the library and the stacks of books mom picks out to coordinate with the homeschooling theme for the moment (this week is elephants). They enjoy picking out their own books (typically board books, since those are the only kind Mommy lets them look at in the car on the way home - I'll risk my own pages, but the library books are a little more precious!) and movies (but not Pokemon, because . . . well, just because).

But we all know this was just the build-up for the main event. Because nothing beats a sticker chart and a treasure bowl.

Or basically free stuff.

Okay, so maybe they're my children.

This year's Summer Reading Program theme is "Fizz, Boom, Read", which means there are now science-related toys to play with while visiting the library. I'm telling you, it's all about the toys.

Of My Less Than Perfect Life

Sometimes it seems we all enjoy perfect little lives. If we looked at Facebook or social media, we would think everyone else is spending their time playing with smiling children, eating fresh-picked raspberries, snuggling their beautiful babies and indulging in that delicious chocolate concoction starring in the latest instagram photo.

And our lives do include those moments. Precious moments, to be sure. Documenting them helps us to remember we have things for which to be grateful.

But what about the in-between moments? The ones we don't share on facebook? Because no one wants to see our ugly. Sure, there are the humorous reminders that sometimes the kids are crying or the laundry didn't get done and by now we all realize that ours aren't the only clothes never getting ironed. And in those posts we can remember life isn't always sunshine and roses and we aren't the only ones letting the ball drop just occasionally.

But do we acknowledge that when we're not laughing off our failures we may be laying in the fetal position crying over a life that sometimes overwhelms in the little things. That even when, from the outside life seems grand, on the inside turmoil is winning?

Because here's my moment of honesty - I have failed. More often than not, I fail to see the joy and the blessings. And what I see is a house - a beautiful, brand new-to-us home - that isn't put together. That feels like it will never be "done," because amid the painting and unpacking that continues to be pushed to "tomorrow," the daily tasks have returned. There are still dishes and laundry and dirty floors and hungry children. And the kitchen counters feel they'll never be fully cleared. The floors will always have something for me to trip on. The children will always find something to cry about.

And so will I.

And my to-do list will never be done and my children will never be fully satisfied in what I can do for them. And the days can't all be spent doing nothing but snuggling and picking raspberries (I don't even know where I would find one).

And when I find myself in these moments, when all the world seems to be caving in, caused by nothing but the little nothings that shouldn't even matter, where do I turn?

And this is where I have failed. Because I don't turn to the Peace that passes understanding or my Help in times of trouble or the Source of grace when I need it most. I turn to me, and I see where I have lacked, and I crumble. I turn to the world, the perfect posts of happy lives, and I fall apart.

And it's not the fault of the internet or anything found there. It's not the fault of the laundry or the dishes or the children. It's the fault, the lacking, of my firm foundation that should keep me from crumbling. Because in prioritizing my days based on what needs to be done, or who I need to be, rather than on the One for whom I live, I have allowed the cracks in that foundation, so that the little nothings have seeped in and threatened to bring it all crashing down. And I feel like that shouldn't be true, couldn't be true - because I haven't seen the worst of what could fall upon us. I haven't endured what others have. But a swarm of gnawing termites can bring a house down just as surely as the tornado that wreaks destruction.

So this is me, crying out, but praying. Praying that nothing would matter more to me than my foundation and that the maintenance of my relationship with my first love (Revelation 2:4) would become not only my top priority, but my only priority, and everything else, built upon that Rock, will be added unto me (Matthew 6:33). I'm turning to Him for my perspective and my security. He is the strength of my heart.

Of My Little Treasure

At six weeks, our little Niah girl was sleeping seven hours straight at night (then returning to sleep for another five hours or so after a quick 10-20 min feeding). At seven weeks she was sleeping 10 hours solid. We'd lay her down when Mom and Dad went to sleep and she'd be the last to rise in the morning (which is amazing considering the amount of volume created by her siblings as they entertain each other in their rooms - right next door to hers - every morning).

On the one hand - the one that recognizes I'm a momma of four who needs her rest if she's to keep Mean Mommy at bay - I was grateful for the uninterrupted slumber.

But can I be honest without being hated too much by mothers of babies who don't sleep through the night until they're twelve? I was mostly sad.

Sure, the first night was great, waking up well-rested and refreshed. But then I started to realize those precious early morning hours in the dark were ours. They were just for my Niah and me - tender moments one-on-one with my youngest daughter. Quiet minutes for me to catch up on my reading and treasure uninterrupted snuggle time with my sweetie.

In fact, every moment with this little girl seems entirely too precious to allow it to slip away.

I recall with my first, I enjoyed the newness of a little baby in my arms, but I still struggled with giving up "me" - I still wanted to do and be all the things I was before I was a mommy and I wasn't sure how to reconcile that with the new little one before me. And so I treasured the new milestones and embraced her sweetness, but I also let too many moments pass, wondering when I would be able to get back to "me."

With my second child, I was, again, adjusting. I didn't know how to care for one child who was very active while savoring time with this new little guy. It seemed if he didn't NEED to be in my arms, eating, he wasn't - I was just too busy trying to keep everything else in order.

My third child brought a little more awareness with him. I began to recognize, as I watched the first two blossom right under my nose, saying good-bye to those fleeting baby moments comes much too quickly. Now is the time to cling to what will soon be gone.

And my fourth has brought an entirely new perspective.

For a long time it felt this baby train might never end. And, as we're leaving things to God, it could be we're still in the middle of these baby bearing years. But the truth is, one of these babies will be our last. And in leaving the decision to God, I have no idea which one it will be. I don't know when the last moment of suckling a precious girl in the wee hours of the morning will come. I don't know if this is the last of my own little ones that will curl her tiny fingers around mine or spread unbelievably adorable gassy (or just plain happy) smiles across her face.

And even if she is not my last little one born of this womb, there is also the ever-present reality, made all the more distinct in light of the passing of a beautiful little family member much too young, only weeks before we welcomed this one in our arms, that I don't know when my last moment with her, or any of these cherished members of my family will come.

And so I hold her a little longer. I rejoice just a bit when I hear her cries, once again, resounding much earlier than I'd planned to rise, looking forward to her sleepy eyes drooping in the dark. I take in the tiny swirl of hair on her crown, the precious snores of her slumbering next to me as I type, those chubby rolls and that little outie of a button that swirls in just the most perfect way - a reminder of our attachment that will never end.

I grieve laying her down to move on to other tasks and watching her grow out of clothes she just began wearing. I cry just a little to think of the day she won't be sleeping peacefully on my chest, tiny arms wrapped tight.

But mostly I embrace her, counting every moment as a treasured gift.

(And take a ton of these - vain attempts to hold on to just a fraction of these sweet, yet fleeting, times)

Of Life in the Brokenness

Last summer, as I made my first visit to the midwives to plan for the birth of our baby girl, I passed by, for the first time, the unmistakable, glaring signs of destruction left behind by a string of deadly tornadoes which had ravaged our state only a couple months before.

I was surprised that after two months it looked like the winds had ripped through just yesterday. A distinct path of trees, gnarled and stripped bare, remained, along with homes and buildings barely boarded up. Would it ever be the same? What would become of these trees devastated by destruction? How long would they lay broken and barren before they were cut down from despair?

Yet, as I returned home from my final midwife visit - the six-week, post-partum check-up for little one and myself - I noticed something remarkable.

These same trees, twisted and broken for months, never changing, a constant reminder of what had been, were blooming with new buds. Broken limbs sprouted green leaves. The areas which once seemed to be irreparably damaged were now, still bent and torn, showing signs of new life.

I found it amazingly appropriate that this would be the sight I would see on this, the anniversary of the death of a precious friend.

One year ago, we mourned, we wept, we cried out. Would it ever be the same? What would become of this mess left behind?

And, no, it's not the same. Life has continued, but brokenness remains. Yet, from those twisted ruins, new life has come forth. There are buds of hope springing forth from the devastation left behind.

Our God remains faithful and there will always be beauty from these ashes. But beauty and brokenness can, and often do, co-exist. I thank Him for the constant reminders of His hand at work through all life's storms.

Of Hananiah

"Then the king commanded Ashpenaz, his chief eunuch, to bring some of the people of Israel, both of the royal family and of the nobility, youths without blemish, of good appearance and skillful in all wisdom, endowed with knowledge, understanding, learning and competent to stand in the king's palace, and to teach them the literature and the language of the Chaldeans. . . . Among these were Daniel, Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah of the tribe of Judah. And the chief of the eunuchs gave them names: Daniel he called Belteshazzar, Hananiah he called Shadrach, Mishael he called Meshach, and Azariah he called Abednego." - Daniel 1:3-4, 6-7

A number of years ago, back when we were a mere family of three, I studied the book of Daniel with a precious group of women through a study written by Beth Moore. While I'm sure I had learned previously that Daniel, of the lion's den, was a close friend of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, of fiery furnace fame, I believe this to be the first time it had ever occurred to me that, for some reason, while Daniel retains the usage of his Hebrew name throughout the book, his three friends must endure their fifteen minutes with the pagan, Babylonian names bestowed on them at the time of their capture. Almost no one refers to their true identities - the names given by their parents, the ones that pointed to their God in Heaven.

Shadrach had been Hananiah, meaning "God is gracious," in his previous life. Meshach was Mishael, "Who is like God?" (another form of the name we gave our first-born, Micaiah) and Abednego had been Azariah, "God is our help."

When I learned these names, I loved them all and thought about how beautiful they would be for children of this day, even. Hananiah was my favorite and it remained a strong name contender (only as a girl name, in my mind) from that time forward.
 
Fast forward a few years and we are finally having a second girl and now we have to name her. And our indecisive nature when it came to picking baby names shone bright and clear. The names I had once held dear I rejected. I actually pulled away from the name Hananiah for quite awhile. Though I loved the story, of standing firm through the fire, of Shadrach and his companions, I felt the name was too soft for our little girl - the one I felt, even in the womb, would be giving us a run for our money with her boldness.

And then the fires came - we watched loved ones lose their loved ones, we fought for a home to call our own, we waited, endured, for her arrival - but God was faithful through it all. And I knew, if I wanted nothing else for our precious girl, I wanted her to know who her God was and to be willing to cling to him when the world turned up the fire of opposition to all she believed. I wanted a daughter who would stand firm and - through the reminder of her name of God's good grace - push us all to stand firm, as well.

I remembered the words of Hananiah and his friends, as King Nebuchadnezzar threatened to throw them into the flames for not bowing to his idol, "[O]ur God whom we serve is able to deliver us out of your hand, O king." (Daniel 3:17) Our God is able. In ALL circumstances, He is able.

And then what followed, "But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods" (Daniel 3:18, emphasis added)

But if not.

Our God is able to deliver us from earthly suffering, but sometimes He chooses not to - and yet He is faithful, and as these men stood firm, even with the knowledge that God may choose not to deliver them from the fire, they declared their loyalty to the God of Heaven.

This is the strength I wish for all of us - the strength to trust in the goodness of our God, knowing He is able in all circumstances, and trusting that if He should choose not to deliver us from the fire, He is sovereign and His will is good. And this is the reason we chose to name our daughter for one of the many great heroes of faith.

Of Our Real Homebirth

A week ago this evening, eleven days after her initial "due date," after a little prodding, I began feeling contractions (for the umpteenth time in the past couple of months). Twenty-two hours (and much, much prodding) later, another baby entered this world.

After my previous home-birth, I would often say I felt like I cheated, because it wouldn't have mattered where I had the baby - his 3.5 hour entrance into this world would not have varied too widely. Honestly, I didn't feel I'd earned any kind of special home-birther badge.

This time, I earned it. In fact, I earned a whole freakin' trophy. It should be large, the kind that gets its own pedestal.

In some ways, the tale is much less harrowing. Hour after hour of labor that started and stopped and a body that really didn't seem very interested in hurrying this baby into the world.

According to conventional wisdom, each child comes progressively quicker. Thus, after such a short delivery time for her older brother, I expected this baby to fly out. I was mentally prepared for that.

I was not mentally prepared for a marathon. Or my longest birth yet. To say I was discouraged would be an understatement. And the process of continually reminding my body it was in labor was exhausting and, to be honest, boring.

So much of me, after decrying the unnecessary tactics of the hospital's over-use of the drug pitocin to hurry along labor, wanted nothing more than to head on out, lay down in an uncomfortable bed and let them hook me up to the machine. Let the drugs tell my body what to do so I didn't have to.

Then, of course, hook me up to the drugs that make it so I can't feel the other drugs bossing my body around.

Yep, I wanted it all.

Not that I was in an intense amount of pain. I was, really, just bored. And just wanted to sleep.

No, the pain didn't come until later.

That would have been the final two hours.

Those final two hours when my labor took a turn for the immortalized births of film legend, the ones with the crazy pregnant lady (a role I've never before taken on), screaming at those around me about my inability to do this and just someone get this baby out of me - yelling talking back to my ever-patient midwife that I did not WANT to send the energy down to my baby. I did not WANT her to check me and I did not WANT whatever suggestions she had to offer.

All I WANTED was to push the baby out. Because that would make it all stop.

But then there was that cervix. The one that didn't want to get out of the way so the baby would come. The one that made the pushing that much more excruciating because it required outside intervention. The problems I've never had before. All I've ever had before was the urge to push, a few contractions of shoving and a baby in my arms.

This was NOT the birth I had imagined.

Not in the least.

And all I wanted, after decrying the unnecessary C-sections the hospital dishes out, was for someone to just cut me open and pull this baby out. Anything so I didn't have to do it anymore.

Meanwhile, throug it all, there was my husband. My wonderfully patient husband who stayed by my side for 22 hours. Sleeping while I slept, holding my hand while I contracted, rubbing my back as I moaned in discomfort, swaying with me as I contracted, reassuring me of the strength God had given me, crying while I cried out in pain. He was surprised and fearful, only for me, when I turned into evil, pregnant lady, screaming at all those around me, but never did he shy away or take it personally (and I never did claim to hate him or blame him for any of it, so there's that redeeming factor for my crazy stage).

And even though his rightful role, the one he'd been anticipating long before the process was even in full swing, was of being the one to catch our precious new baby in his arms as she entered the world, he gave it up without questioning when I would not allow him to leave my side or let go of my hand. He did what he needed, what I needed, whatever that was.

I am immensely proud of him.

And, thankfully, in the end, we got our trophy. Our preciously squishy bundle of snuggles that has been placed on her proverbial pedestal by all those around her.

And while the tale of her arrival may be much less exciting and much more filled with pain, impatience and unpleasant memories, the ending remains the same - worth every bit of it all.