Morals vs. Tan Lines

I did one of my least favorite things today: shop for a bathing suit. I haven't bought one in quite some time, with the exception of a maternity bathing suit last summer. With my tail between my legs, I confess that it still wears well. You wouldn't really know it was a maternity suit unless you read the tag. But when I wear it in the water, the tops balloons out and reveals what seems to be acres of ghost-pale skin. Trust me- it's pleasant for no one.

Luckily I had the support of my mother as I roamed through endless sale racks at Macy's trying to find ones appealing enough to try on. Every option that was presented to me prompted one of two answers: "Sure, why not?" or "Ummmm absolutely not." About an hour later, I had found two perfect suits. I was ecstatic. They were comfortable and flattering. But most important to me, they were modest.

Modest. What a heavy word. It can mean so much, but at the same time, imply such a large gray area. So how do I determine that something I am wearing is modest? I have a simple one-question test that I use: "Would I feel comfortable wearing this in front of my father?"

This war is waged every summer in many Christian homes. The morals vs. the bikinis. To wear or not to wear? Does modesty count on the beach? Are we leaving room for imagination? Blah, blah, blah.

Before I continue on my feelings about modesty and bathing suits (or just modesty in general), let me reveal a frustrating aspect of this "soapbox": I feel my opinion would carry far more validity if I had the body to don an immodest bathing suit. "Oh yeah, easy for fat-so to knock bikinis." Look- I'm not a small girl. And I'm not one of those girls who labels themselves as "curvy", holding up deuces and in a mirror-pic saying "meat is better than bones!". I get it- I'm overweight. I have plenty of junk in an extra-large trunk. Do I hate myself? No. Do I wear clothes that do not fit in an attempt to feel better about squeezing into a smaller size? No. I wear my size (ladies, you fool no one). However, I am down 25 lbs. since I started living a healthier lifestyle and am proud of it! Could I be doing better? Sure. Okay, lost my train of thought.

I do possess some "assets" I could easily... highlight... in a bathing suit. So maybe that gives me a little room to have an opinion on the matter. :)

There are two arguments I want to address in the "Bikini Wars":

1) "You don't wear clothes like that in the mall, so what makes them acceptable on the beach?"
We are going freaking swimming. Though I love 3x Hanes shirts and colashes as much as the next guy, they just aren't fun to swim in. Next.

2) "You are responsible for guarding the hearts of men."
1 Corinthians talks about refraining from eating a meat that causes your brother to stumble. I get the message. If you can do something to protect the heart of another, do it. But you can only do so much. That's a really difficult line to draw in the sand. I'm not saying this is argument is invalid, but I don't feel it's the appropriate one to apply in this situation. Unless you are wearing a bathing suit complete with artificial leg and chest hair, it will make a guy look twice. And sadly in some cases, even with the body hair. Okay I need to stop talking about that.

So what IS our argument? What is our rubric of bathing suit wearing and what the Lord would find pleasing?  I don't know what yours is or should be, but I will share with you mine:

What is the motivation of my heart when I put on this bathing suit?

Get it? Pretty easy right? Let's face it: God is not in Heaven comparing our bathing suit to an adjustable dressform mannequin saying: "Hm, nope. It shows 4.6 more square inches of skin than it should. I'm going to chalk this up as a loss."

"The LORD does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart." 1 Samuel 16:7

Do you think God cares about my cleavage, or the message I want my cleavage to convey? Does He care about my cheeks hanging out in the back (and front, side... all of the above), or the eyes I want staring at them? Am I satisfied with my bathing suit choice because I feel like a lady, or because my body screams "Check me out!" 

I don't have a daughter. Maybe if God decides to bless me with the option to have children again, He will bless me with one. If I did have a daughter, my heart would pray over her innocence incessantly. I pray for my son's, but let's face it: he won't be faced with the decision between Daisy Dukes or Bermuda shorts. (well, I hope not, anyway). I grow sick with concern at the pressure she would face to flaunt her body or to look a certain way. I just pray she understands that the message of her clothes is so much more important that the style itself. I pray she knows that the man God has for her one day will be madly in love with her heart and her warmth instead of the length of her shorts or depth of her tan. I pray my daughter will equate the comfort of wearing something in front of her earthly father with the approval of her Heavenly one. 

Maybe your father is different than mine. I know he's not as awesome. That's a given. But maybe he is not as concerned with your modesty as much as my father is with mine. I pray that's not true, but if it is, remember there is another Father who does care. He cares about your heart and the message you desire to convey with your body.

I wouldn't judge someone for what they wear. If you can rock a bikini and you feel modest, I wouldn't second guess your judgement. Rock on with your sweet self. As for this ghostly, flabby girl, I'll stick with my one-pieces. You're welcome. 

By the way... here is one of my suits from today.

And yes, my father loves it. :) 

Is it hostile in here, or is it just me?

It's been a long time since I've posted. I've had plenty of things to say, just not the time or grace to say them. I've had a lot going on as I try to manage my schoolwork and keep my head above water. You know what really bothers me? When people say that parenting is a full-time job. Negative. A full-time job is 40-60 hours a week, with paid vacation, sick time, and... oh yeah... you get paid for doing it. Parenting is a lifetime job. Can we all be on the same page and start calling it that? Besides, the benefits are far greater than any other profession, and instead of getting paid you have to pay... a lot. Worth every second, though.

Which leads me to my thoughts as of late. As if the parenting aspect of, well... parenting... isn't enough, there is so much social pressure that is really difficult to evade. Social media is mostly to blame, but it's hard to escape the unwanted advice and suggestions from outsiders and parenting veterans. If I could just take a moment to tell the ENTIRE WORLD: Unless I ASK for your opinion (and I will most likely only ask my mother), I do not want or need your advice, regardless of the intention with which it was offered.

I'm going to confess something that's really hard for me to admit and is a little embarrassing: I cry. Not only do I cry, but I cry a lot. Often behind the closed doors of my bedroom after my son has fallen asleep. Sometimes I feel like I am the furthest thing from the mother my child deserves.

Now before you start your "oh sweetie"s and "you're a great mom, honey!"s, let me preface my soliloquy with this: I know I'm not a terrible mother. And I know that because my child cries out for me, lights up when he sees me, is very healthy, and will have more love his whole life than his heart can hold. But none of this negates the insecurities that I often dwell on. I want to assume that every mother feels this way, and feels this way often. That could just be my desire to not feel alone in my suffering- a wishful thinking, if you will. If it's not true, just humor me and tell me that it is.

Back to social pressure. I often am asked the question, "Are you on Pinterest?" Well, yes, I am, but do I frequent the site? No. Why, you ask? Because I don't need to be constantly reminded that my closet looks like Goodwill threw up in it instead of being color-coordinated and labeled. I don't need it brought to my attention that I could be making my own baby laundry detergent and Febreeze instead of paying out of the butt for it. I don't need all these crafty 1st birthday party ideas just so I can post pictures of it on Facebook and say, "Look how crafty I am!" My son will be one and will just want to smash his face in a cake! Do I need to spend $200 at Hobby Lobby to enjoy that? Absolutely not.

And Facebook. Oh, lord. Do you have any idea how many mommy-activist groups there on Facebook? More than should exist. And several of my friends are active in them. Those friends constantly repost things from that group saying I should do this, don't do this, "If you do this your kid could die!", "If your kid eats this he will have cancer when he grows up!", "Breastfeed your child until they're 2!", "Circumcise your son and you're evil!" etc. I want to ask sarcastically, "Is there a check-list for raising a child and I just missed it?" But I'm sure there is. And I missed it. My son is almost 8 months old and I haven't had professional pictures made. I just simply don't have the money. I know babies that are several months younger than Lennox and have had their pictures taken multiple times already. I know it sounds ridiculous at face value, but those kind of things make me feel shameful. Other kids have these supermoms and dads and my kid just has a mom. Granted, a mother that loves him more than he could ever comprehend, and he will never be without, but I still just want to be a supermom.

Lennox had really bad acid-reflux when he was really little. This led to a couple problems. First, he rejected my breastmilk. He would only retain about 1/3 of what he would ingest. I tried everything. I eliminated almost everything we could think of from my diet, but time was running out and he was throwing up more and more. Keep in mind, my marriage ended when Lennox was 6 weeks old. The doctor said that when a breastfeeding mother is stressed, she releases hormones in the milk that can upset the baby's stomach. We put him on a special formula to see if it helped. He took the entire bottle with no problems. I lost my mind. My life decisions were already ruining my son's life and he was only 6 weeks old. My body stopped producing milk because my child couldn't stomach it. I eventually came to terms with the fact that my son was now a formula-fed baby. There are mothers out there that don't want to hear excuses- that if your child is not breastfed, you're an awful mother (and yes, they will come right out and say it). I have so many friends that are breastfeeding and I am so happy for them, and though it's not their intentions to brag, when I see or hear them talk about it, I want to smash my head against the wall. Why can't that be me? Why can't I just stop screwing up?

The second problem that evolved from that fiasco was that Lennox has such an upset stomach that he developed a hatred for tummy-time. Even though he no longer had an upset stomach, you would think you were causing him unthinkable bodily harm when putting him on his stomach. I tried and I tried, and it was a losing battle. This has led to some delaying of motor skills. When our pediatrician told us we needed to start seeing a physical therapist, I became an absolute wreck. Again, all my fault. My poor child has to climb obstacles that I, HIS MOTHER, put in his way. What kind of mother am I? How could this happen?

Side note: he has made leaps and bounds of progress in physical therapy. So much so that he is almost caught up in his posture and upper-body strength. But when I see that other babies his age have been crawling for a while now, it really bothers me. Again, one of the things I so often cry about.

Have you ever heard of Dr. James Dobson's book, "Bringing Up Boys"? Great book. Until you get to the chapter about Single Moms. I wanted to die. He drudges on for almost the whole chapter about statistics on how screwed up boys are when raised by single mothers. But then "redeems" the topic by saying that with God's help, anything is possible! I threw the book across the room and sobbed. Like I needed to hear those statistics. THANK YOU SO FREAKING MUCH. I know my kid won't be a statistic, but I didn't need to be reminded of the impending battle.

And that's the icing on the melancholy cake.

Now before I get bombarded with well-meaning and encouraging messages and comments, I know I'm comparing myself in ways that I shouldn't. I know that, at the end of the day, I am a good mother. I know my son will grow up to be successful because of the love he has as a support system. And don't feel that I'm some depressed, raging masochist who has it out for the entire world. I don't. Truth is, I've never known this type of contentment before. I am so in love with my son and being a mother. But no, it's not easy. And sometimes I have to purge myself of all these types of thoughts so I can go on about my business.

Everyone knows a mother. You have one, you are married to one, you are friends with one... etc. And some of those moms might be the supermoms that I envy so much. Some of them may not be. Some of them may masquerade around as one but inside are a miserable slave to the same pressures I am droning on about. My point being: take some time and meditate on your role in that mother's life. Are you encouraging? Do you lift them up? Do you criticize and demean, even if your intentions are not so? Do you pressure them to live up to unrealistic expectations? Do you provide them with methods of relaxation? Do you add fuel to their fire of a hectic schedule? Do you love them and constantly remind them how grateful you are of them? Most importantly: do you pray for them?

Being a mother is the most difficult, yet most rewarding, thing one could ever do in their lives. Do we really need to make it harder?

Though a woman can do it alone, she shouldn't have to. Go hug a mother. I guarantee she needs it.

Woke up on the yesterday side of the bed.

Recently I stumbled upon a quote that has preoccupied my thoughts:

"I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I'm going to be happy in it." -Groucho Marx

If I were a crafty person, there is no doubt I would slap this sucker above my bathroom mirror in some sort of decorative fashion. There is something so inspiring and empowering about this quote. As I play it over and over again in  my mind, I wonder if I have the will to put it into practice. Do I believe I can control my destiny? Sure. But do I put any effort towards taking control? I want the answer to be yes, but I think the truth is that I don't.

Anyone who finds themselves in a situation similar to mine- or any consuming tribulation, really- will tell you seeing past the past is extremely difficult. I find it a grinding chore to pay any mind to the future, much less today or tomorrow. At the end of the day, as I lay in bed, I can only congratulate myself on being alive at the end of it. 

I remember seeing Napoleon Dynamite in theaters. I also remember falling asleep. At first I hated that movie so much, but after it became a cult classic, I was so on board. I knew Napoleon's entire moon-shoe dance without even realizing I had memorized it. One of the plot lines in the movie is Napoleon's uncle, who is desperately seeking a method of time travel. He is so consumed with a detrimental mistake he made during a high school football game that, in his opinion, cost him his football career. If he could only go back to that moment in time and correct the mistake, he could have the life he always dreamed of. Taken at face value, it's supposed to funny (and I apply the term "funny" loosely). The idea of someone so preoccupied with a small moment in time seems ridiculous and pathetic. 

I guess I'm ridiculous and pathetic. 
 
There's always that moment. That moment when everything could have changed if I had done something differently. Just one thing differently.


Did you know that the odds of being in a fatal car accident are 1 in 23,000? If that were the odds of a jackpot lottery drawing, there wouldn't be enough trees for paper to print tickets. Seeing as how you are reading this, I think it's safe to assume that you have not been the victim of a fatal car accident. You might have been involved in an accident in which someone else was killed, or someone you know or loved as been killed, but not you yourself. So every single time the decisions you made while driving were what we will label as "successful". Let's assume for a second that you subscribe to thought of parallel universes in which there is another "you" who just makes different decisions. Maybe that other "you" decided to stop for coffee that one time you didn't, which resulted in a fatal car accident. Or maybe the other "you" filled up on gas before the light came on, whereas you waited until the last minute, and "you"'s productivity was rewarded with death. Seems a bit extreme, I understand, but you have to admit: it makes you wonder. Every moment of our entire life has such definitive consequences. 


My point being: I can't regret the mistakes I've made. I have to step back and think about how truly blessed I am in my life. For one thing, I'm alive, and so are the people I love most. I have my healthy, beautiful son. I am almost done with school, and soon to embark on a career that I love. I don't have money, but I have more than what I need. Just like every decision I have made behind the wheel has kept me alive, every single decision I have made in life has brought me to these blessings. 

You can't imagine how many dumb decisions I have made. Seriously. It's so embarrassing. But if I were given the opportunity to go back in time to change them, would I? I'm not going to lie, I would be seriously tempted. Unbelievably tempted. But I wouldn't be where I am now if I did. I wouldn't have Lennox. I wouldn't have learned the heart-breaking lessons that I have. I would be living a life of no mistakes, and I'm not really sure I want that life. 

So today. Can I really be happy today? Can I accept the fact that there is no magical time machine, and if there was, there is a good chance I would hate the life resulting from using it? I know I need to forget the past and be happy. But can I?

I can't change what I've done, and neither can you. Should we continue to base our decisions off of decisions we've made in the past? What good would that do? "I've failed to make the right decision before, so I should keep failing? Screwed once... so I'm screwed forever?"

Do the people around you keep reminding you of the wrong decisions you've made? Causing you to re-live the guilt over and over again? Screw 'em. THEY'RE NOT YOU. And they're not me. They didn't make the decisions we made, and are not dealing with the consequences like we are dealing with them. Should we give them the authority to chain us to wall of our mistakes? It sounds ridiculous when you say it aloud, but it's so easy to do. I have heard a few "I told you so"s, and that's not including the ones I know people are saying inside their head. They need to mind their own. I'm taking care of business, with or without their criticism.

I have my today. Nobody else has my today. I didn't make those decisions today. I made them yesterday. Lesson learned. Tomorrow will be better, because I'm not making those decisions today.

"I’m not saying that I have this all together, that I have it made. But I am well on my way, reaching out for Christ, who has so wondrously reached out for me. Friends, don’t get me wrong: By no means do I count myself an expert in all of this, but I’ve got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward—to Jesus. I’m off and running, and I’m not turning back." - Philippians 3:13-14, The Message 

Carry on, my abrasive, doctrinally unsound, and wayward daughter.

Sorry I haven't posted in a while. Just been a little preoccupied. When I do have time to sit and write, I don't know what to say.

I was so over-whelmed with responses to my last entry. Most of it positive reinforcement. Some responses I feel should have been kept to the person who shared it. Some people assume they think they know exactly what went wrong in my marriage, and some of them even had the balls to guess aloud. Not one person has been correct. But I expected it. The people I care most about and I know the truth, and that's comforting.

I was talking to my good friend Amber last night. She is, without a doubt, the most uplifting and insightful individual I have ever known. She knows the extent to which I am imperfect, but not a hint of condescension is in her voice as she reassures me that I am not a terrible person. Something I shared with her last night is something I will share with you. Bare in mind that these are raw thoughts- politically, and I'm sure theoretically, incorrect statements that have not been approved by your minister.

I suffered in silence in my marriage. Why? Because I felt that I made my bed and I must lie in it. A lifetime of misery was my consequence for entering a marriage that my martyred conscience knew better than to enter. I also did not what to hear "I told you so", "That's what you get for not listening,", or "You should have thought about that in the first place." I also did not want to admit to everyone that I had failed. I did not want to walk through the doors of a church and have them say to my face, "I'm so sorry," but in their heads say, "I knew they would never make it." I didn't want to be labeled as a "damaged good". If I ever moved on in life, how do I explain my mistakes to another suitor? Would anybody ever want me again anyway?

Sidenote: What gave me the strength to leave despite these things was my son. He deserves a happy mother and a happy home. I would not be doing either of us a favor if I pretended to be happy for the rest of my life, while on the inside I felt like I was slowly dying. So I don't give a rat's behind what anyone thinks of me for his sake.

So my question this: Does the church demonize divorce to the extent that people who are hopelessly miserable in their marriage sentence themselves to a lifetime of turmoil? My answer is YES.

Now, I know that every marriage is different. Some are entered to on well-intentioned terms, and then suddenly one of the spouses really messes up. Or gradually messes up. Maybe both mess up. Maybe a spouse is not guilty of abuse or adultery, but maybe they are guilty of intentionally withholding affection, isolating the other into a dark corner of neglect, or choose to dishonor the other by making selfish choices. Maybe they are guilty of not caring anymore. What if there are things that counseling simply cannot fix? Or what if a spouse simply refuses to go to counseling in the first place? Does the other spouse have biblical grounds for divorce? Well not technically, I suppose. At least I have been unable to find it. 

So then what? Are they supposed to just tough it out? Deal with it? Suck it up?

This is how I knew that my marriage could not continue: After exhausting every resource and approaching from every angle, I could not glorify God with my marriage. I'm not saying the divorce glorified God in any capacity, but it opens my son and I to a life in which we can go on to glorify Him. My initial mistake was taking a relationship that did not glorify God and decimating the sanctity of marriage by entering into it on such disrespectful terms.

So was my sin getting a divorce? Or was my sin entering a marriage I knew I should not have? Would staying married have upset God more than my breaking of a promise? God hates what is not good, so do both the marriage and the divorce piss Him off? Was I screwed either way? I don't know the right answer, or if there even is one.

Sometimes the guilt is overbearing. Sometimes I wish I could stand on a town square and be stoned as angry townspeople yell "Slut!" and "Whore!". And you know what? I know I shouldn't feel that way. I do, but I shouldn't. Regardless of what got me to this point, God doesn't want me to feel that way. He has chosen to redeem every failure, not just socially acceptable ones.

My thought is this: How many people are sitting beside me in the pews who are desperately miserable in their marriage, and are too ashamed to acknowledge it? And how do we let them know it's okay to tell somebody?

Wait a minute, Sarah. Do you mean to say that you want to further escalate the statistic of more than half of all marriages failing by encouraging people who want to get a divorce to get a divorce? Of course not! I am, however, suggesting that by getting more people to open up about their troubled marriages, the more we might be able to save. I believe there is a point of no return- that once you stop wanting to make things work, that it cannot be undone.

There is a time, place, and special group of people somewhere aptly equipped to deal with saving marriages that can be saved, and given my experience, I am certainly not one of them. I do wish that churches made more of an effort to support families and marriages. Advertising for a once-a-year marriage conference or hosting a couples Bible-study is not going to cut it.

Sarah, are you suggesting the church is responsible for your failed marriage? ABSOLUTELY NOT! The blame lies solely in myself! I'm not even sure that any amount of effort on the church's part could have intervened with my determination to do what I wanted to do.If that's what you get out of this, then you are misunderstanding my tone.

How can the body of Christ support marriages in glorifying God with their union? And how can the body of Christ encourage those who need help with their marriage to seek it? And how can the body of Christ heal those whose marriage has failed?

What lesson can I learn from MY selfishness, MY failure, and MY mistakes, and how can I apply that lesson in a way that glorifies God? I'm still trying to figure it out. In the meantime, I'm  inexplicably grateful that He is faithful in His promise to love me despite my stupidity.

When I hold Lennox during his feeding time, I suddenly become an insightful philosopher. I slip into a thoughtful trance, reassuring myself I can solve the world's myriad of problems, as well as my own, by searching every inch of his face. I am still so easily overwhelmed at how my love for him can simultaneously be both simple and complex. Simple because it's so instinctual. Complex because I can't explain it. I often worry that time is slipping from me in such a hurried manner, because let's face it, it is. I try to soak up every single second, and then wonder if I'm missing out on memories because I'm too worried about missing out on memories. In his face somewhere is a brighter future for him and myself. Judgmental vibes and doctrine-driven criticism can't deter God from giving us the life that He promised.

And so through the mire I trudge.

It needs to be said.

This is extremely difficult for me to admit. Difficult, embarrassing, shameful... I could go on. I've been putting it off, but it needed to be said sometime. So here I go.

My marriage is over.

There it is. That's it. I don't know how to successfully expound on that in a manner that is pleasant to read. There are more questions than answers right now. Not just for you, but for me. More than I'm willing to answer, anyway.

I'm sure I'll be judged for ending my marriage. "How could you do that with a newborn baby? How are you going to raise him on your own? Aren't you doing a disservice to him?"

Let me assure you of something really fast: My kid will be without nothing. What was done needed to be done a long time ago, but for some reason, God wanted this kid to be in this world. I am so sure of it. My child has a grand purpose in this life, and I'm so thankful I have him. I always wondered where my strength came from to continue in my marriage, and then he was born, and I wondered no more.

"What about counseling? Have you sought help?" Listen, I'm not just throwing this away on a whim. It's not like I woke up one morning and said, "Hm, I think I want to get divorced today." Wise counsel has been sought on behalf of the parties willing to seek help. I trust the authorities from whom I have accepted advice and counsel. A part of me accepted a very long time ago that the logistics of my marriage were inoperable, and somewhere along the way I subconsciously surrendered to a countdown clock.

It's made me look at the world differently. Appreciate people who have been divorced and successfully moved on. Who have successfully raised their kids on their own or partnering with their ex. But I will tell you one thing, my home will NEVER be labeled as broken. It is far from it. It used to be broken. We will say it is now in the process of being remodeled, and will eventually be prime real estate.

If I let myself stop and think about it, I get terribly upset. This is not how I imagined my life turning out to be. I can't go to the store without seeing families with their children, and I hurriedly try to turn the corner on the next aisle so I can wipe my tears. I look at family pictures on Facebook, and wonder if my friends are truly grateful for what they have.

At the end of the day, I have the most wonderful family to support me and my son. I couldn't make it without them. I hold my son and he smiles back at me, like he knows I would do everything in my power to help him have a great life. Because I will. It might not be the best anyone has ever had, but it will be the best I can provide. Though it's not the American Dream, my son is my dream come true. I will emerge from this stronger and wiser, and as a result, a better mother for my son.

Au Naturale

Lennox and I took my brother Kyle to the doctor one day last week. I was a little worried at first. Worried of being "the lady in the waiting room with a baby who won't shut up". Then I rationalized the action with the notion that I've put up with my fair share of screaming babies in my life, and it was my turn to be on the offense. Don't get me wrong, Lennox is an amazing baby, and does extremely well in public. But say he does start screaming in the waiting room. What are my resources to soothe him?

"Here Lennox, awkwardly stare at the old man in the argyle socks picking his nose with his freakishly long pinky fingernail."
"Let's count the number of AARP and Medicare ads in this germ-infested golf magazine."
"Let me bounce you up and down anxiously as I pace the hallway garnished with photos of doctors treating patients who are curiously excited about whatever disease they've come down with."

Yeah, no, perfect place to bring a (at the time) 7 week-old.

Luckily, Lennox did great. We had to wait a much longer time than anticipated, though, and at about the one-hour wait point, Lennox got a little fussy. I held him close and rocked back and forth and cooed him back to sleep. I lifted my head to find that a older lady was staring at me with an eyebrow raised.

"Is that your son?" she said.

No, I like to spend my free time in doctor's office holding babies I nabbed from the pediatric office on the first floor. 

"Yes, he is," I smiled.

"Oh, he is just heavenly. What is he, your 2nd or 3rd?"

You skipped an important number there, lady. Do I look like I've had two or three kids? I know I kept a little weight on, but geez....

"No, he's my first."

"Oh, really? You just look so... natural."

Natural? Natural as in worn? Natural as in not exuberant? Natural as in Amazon woman?

"Um... thanks."  I think she could read the confusion on my face.

"I didn't meant offend you, dear. I just meant that you seem to know exactly what you're doing."

But I don't know what I'm doing.

That was always my one fear. I was so scared that after the nurse handed my son to me for the first time that I would be at a lost for instructions. Everyone always talks about that "mother instinct". I was sure it was a myth, or at the very least some cruel inside joke I would never be a part of. Sure I had taken care of plenty of babies, but the instructions were always left on the counter next to pizza money. Who was leaving the instructions for me? How do I ask for help if I don't know in what ways I needed to be helped? We aren't talking about making a mistake and moving on with life. Mistakes I make could seriously screw up a life! My son's life! The poor kid already has me to deal with for a mother, does he really need me making extracurricular errors?

I looked down at Lennox, asleep on my shoulder.  

Well, he is alive. And I guess he seems to like me enough.

Okay, so maybe I'm not a natural, but I suppose I'm not terrible. But how did I get to this point? How did I turn into a person I didn't know I needed to be?

I've been reading Ephesians lately. As I pondered this mysterious motherhood mutation, I came upon this verse:  

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen. - Ephesians 3:20-21

I just can't imagine what it would be like to be God. I'm so bound by my human limitations, I forget that God has none to restrain Him. I can bow and pray to Him about my situations all day long, thinking I have every piece to the puzzle and that I just need help arranging them.

But He is able to do immeasurably more than I can ask or imagine. Forget the puzzle pieces. I'm missing entire puzzles.

I could ask for God's help with Lennox all day long. But the truth is, I really don't know what I'm doing. My son will be a great, Godly man, and if I think for one second that has anything to do with me knowing what to do, I've lost my mind. I'm doing nothing. God is doing everything.

Not me. Through me.

I can't imagine Mary's anxiety. My son won't be perfect, and that takes off a little of the edge. But her son was perfect. Talk about pressure. God used her in ways she could never imagine. I'm sure she couldn't ask for help with the things she needed to do. She didn't know she needed to do them. I don't know that I need to do them. I can only ask that I behave and react to every situation in a way that is pleasing to God, and pray that the result is raising a son who lives a life pleasing to God.

I can't even begin to list the mistakes I've made, or being to imagine the ones I have yet to make. I'm not the perfect mother. And I don't need to be. But God is the perfect Father. Between the two of us, I think Lennox will be okay.

Now if God could just slow the laundry down....

If my thoughts were Shamu....

I'm not one of those people who blog. Well, I'm blogging, so I am, but.... you know what I mean. While I find that releasing my personal thoughts and experiences into a free-fall in cyberspace leaves me vulnerable to criticisms, questions, and what-was-she-thinkings, nonetheless, I find myself baby-talked out and in need of a release somewhere. So beware to those of you reading. If my thoughts were Shamu, you would be in the analogous "Splash Zone".

I love being a mother. No doubt about it. But it has scared the crap out of me. When I first saw my son, I tried to play cool. Do what I was supposed to do. I had watched "A Baby Story" enough, so I was pretty sure I could pull off the "Oh my God, this is the happiest moment of my life!" look. And I did, I think. At first. But it wasn't long till slight hysteria set in.

I am a mom.

I AM SOMEONE'S MOTHER! I AM THE ONE he is going to run to when he gets a scrape on the knee. I AM THE ONE he is going to yell for at 3 am when he wets his bed. I AM THE ONE the teacher is going to call to tell me he kicked another kid in the nuts. I AM THE ONE who signs all the permission slips. I AM THE ONE who will be at EVERY game, rain or shine. I AM THE ONE who will hate the woman he eventually marries because no woman could ever love him the way  I do.

Like I said, terrifying. The first week of my son's life I was physically ill with how much I loved him. Mothers know what I'm talking about. The mere thought of something bad happening to him made me want to throw up. I missed him so much while I was taking a shower I felt like someone punched my lungs. You think you love someone. You think you love your mom, your dad, your significant other, but until you give birth, you have no idea what love is.

Now I understand God's love for us. How no matter how stupid I am, He can't stop loving me. I understand how something that breaks my heart breaks His, too. I understand how He would stop at nothing to provide for me. I understand how He would move mountains and vanquish enemies just to keep me safe. Just like there is nothing Lennox could ever do to make me not love him, there is nothing we can do to make God not love us.

1 John 4: 7-8: Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love.

I don't have all the right words to say that would provoke you to want me anymore than you already do. - Like You Promised 

That being said, I really need to share some big lessons I have learned as a mom.

#1: 2-story house + newborn = TERRIBLE IDEA.
I have essentially isolated myself downstairs. The thought of walking downstairs at 3 am with a baby in my arms while I'm half asleep scares me bajezus out of me. Plus the thought of walking upstairs every time I need to change his clothes or diapers makes me yawn. Next house will be flat.

#2: Why doesn't anyone talk openly about breast-feeding? They should! (slightly TMI warning)
I had a rough time getting Lennox to latch. No one ever warned me how difficult it would be with large breasts. I cried and cried. It just wasn't happening. But I was determined that my baby was going to drink breast milk. Thanks to a good family friend, she gave me her pump and I have been able to pump all of his meals, not needing any formula. I'm satisfied with how it turned out. I can't stand, on the other hand, the critics. "Are you sure you tried every thing?" "Are you sure you didn't give up too soon?" "Have you called someone who can help?" YES, NO, and YES! I have done everything I can. Bottom line, my son is getting the best milk available. I'm satisfied.

#3: PUT THE BABY DOWN!
At first it was impossible for me to get anything done. I just could not put Lennox down unless he was sleeping. It took me a while to learn that it's okay to put him down when I need to get something done. And it's okay if he cries (he's fussing now, as a matter of fact). Yet alive.

#4: Family, family, family.
Can't do it without them.

Well that's all for now. I'll update you when I make another mistake (20 seconds from now).