#PayItForward

On her blog, Teaching Sam and Scout, Elizabeth Chapman has been interviewing working moms.  There are several questions she's asked them to answer, but the one that sticks out to me the most was this one:  What's the best thing about being a working mom?  What's the worst or hardest thing?

When I answered that question initially, all I could think about was missing milestones in Ryan and Eli's lives, but now that I really consider that question I would answer it differently.  The worst thing about being a working mom is likely also the worst thing about being a mom in general:  anxiety.

I can only wish that I would be able to capture the minutiae of anxiety the way William Styron writes about depression in his work Darkness Visible.  Unfortunately, no amount of wishful thinking makes me a writer, so I'll simply tell you what I know:  anxiety is a sneaky bastard.

There are a hundred things I enjoy about being a mom and teacher.  These titles are the things I like best about myself.  But there are days when I can only focus on the piddling things that surround these designations.  

Eli wakes up happy almost every day.  He smiles at me and tracks my movements as I walk through the kitchen to gather my stuff before I leave.  He talks and coos and giggles, and I try my best to soak it in because I know he won't be little for long.  I'm pretty successful most days.  Then the sucker punch:  the diapers have a smell they shouldn't have; my living room is a mess; I don't have time to read/grade papers; I haven't had time to meal plan; I need to go to the grocery store; my milk supply seems to be decreasing; I don't exercise regularly; I'm still struggling with the baby weight.  

Any one of those things is completely manageable, but there are days one of those issues or any combination of those issues will knock the breath out of me.  I cannot get my mind off of the fact that maybe I'm not washing diapers correctly or I won't be able to nurse Eli the way I had hoped (which is made harder by the fact that I couldn't nurse Ryan).  I get snagged in the threads of detail and I cannot manage to untangle my feet from the mess.  And the bigger picture?  Completely invisible in those moments.

They attack without warning.  On the best mornings--the ones where I'm feeling the best, that things are going well and I'm doing a good job at most things in my life--they ambush me from a corner.  And because I don't like to cry in front of people, I spend those mornings gritting my teeth and attempting to occupy my racing mind with something other than the knotted thread tied around my brain.

That is the worst part of being a working mom.  Actually, now that I think about it, that's the worst part of being a human being.  I can remember the same issues in the days I didn't work and I can certainly identify them in the time period we waited to become parents.

But this anxiety made me think about another question Elizabeth asked:  "What items or tips do you recommend to help 'make it work'?"

I responded that we all need someone in our lives who can help keep things in perspective.  That's true, but I think working moms, moms, and people in general need encouragement.  On the days when the anxiety is the worst, I need someone to pat me on the back and tell me I'm doing a good job.  (Which is weird given that words of affirmation aren't really my thing most of the time.)  

Because of that, I wonder how many of us are willing to choose one person, just one person, to encourage every week for the next month?  And what if we asked each of those people to pay it forward?  What kind of change would we see in our families, our workplaces, our own demeanor?

Would you join me in a pay it forward campaign?  Feel free to share ways people have encouraged you #payitforward

The Next Month

I've spent the better part of the last two years pregnant.  After eight years of attempting to align my mind to the belief that we wouldn't have kids without IVF, it's been a bit of an adjustment.  What kind of adjustment?  Well, the one where I attempt to trust my body and believe it can actually do good things.

I mean, clearly it did.  It housed and birthed two beautiful boys.  (Ryan in three pushes and Eli in one push.  I think that's pretty amazing for a girl who has next to no ab muscles.)  But in spite of that fact, it is still largely unpredictable.  Most of the time, only other women with PCO believe me when I say I eat between 1500 and 1800 calories a day.  They get me when I say that my weight will not budge despite this fact.  They are the ones who understand when I say I'm tired all the time.  They know what it's like to keep a carb count at a certain level and still look in the mirror and see something that refuses to change no matter how much you want it.

They get it.  I wish I knew a few more of them.

My frustration hit a new peak when I had my thyroid tested last week.  Like all confusing elements in my life, it came back completely normal.  So why haven't I been able to lose weight postpartum?

Your guess is as good as mine.

But I know that I can't stay here.  So I'm going to try something new.

I'm putting this out here for the world to see in hopes that it's going to create a bit of accountability:

I'm going to do a Whole30.

Go ahead and click on the link and read.  I'll wait.

Maybe it seems a little drastic, but I feel like I'm out of options.  If calorie counting and carb restriction isn't going to cut it, then I need a complete revamp of my eating habits.

For the next week, I'm going to be making grocery lists, meal plans and searching for compliant recipes online.  I'm going to be gritting my teeth and thinking it's cruel for them to discount alcohol when that'll probably be a necessity about three days into this program.  And I'll be modifying my meal plan to include one yogurt a day.  I'm nursing, so I think it's a good idea to keep some milk in my diet.

And people who say that's not a real Whole30 can suck it.  Seriously, I'm tired of naysayers.  One yogurt a day (especially yogurt without artificial sweeteners or real sugar) for a nursing Mommy is not the equivalent of blowing the entire program on a Blizzard from Dairy Queen.  (Which, for the record, I will probably eat tomorrow since they'll be a no-go in the near future.)

I'm giving up black beans, and I'm sad about it.  I'm giving up all grains.  That's not a huge sacrifice with the exception of quinoa.  I'm giving up cheese, and no oatmeal for the duration of the program.  Those are the things that make me a little sad.

But the possibility of getting my body back?  Feeling good again?  Being able to keep up with my boys?

Yeah.  Those things make it worthwhile.

So pray for me (and the people who have to interact with me) for the next 37 days.  I don't have a ton of faith in my ability to complete the program, but if there's anything my body doesn't lack, it's tenacity.

So here we go.

On Value

At small group we've been talking about our stories--about the things and the people who have defined who we are.  Favorite and I laughed because we've become those people who talk about their children incessantly.  My Instagram feed is all kids all the time, and I've found myself fitting Ryan and/or Eli into every conversation I can.

Maybe most new parents can relate to that sentiment.  I'm just not sure I'm ever going to get over the wonder of being a mom--in large part because that wasn't supposed to happen.  Maybe it's weird to keep defining myself with loss and infertility in mind, but those experiences color the way I see my current reality.  They changed the way I approached Christ and the way I interact with others.

That said, I do not believe those experiences mean I value motherhood more than the woman who got pregnant very quickly and birthed a healthy child with no complications.  My experience colors my interactions--not the way I see yours.  Stick with me here because I'm going to try to share these thoughts as diplomatically as possible starting with my own experience:  I do not believe my experience is more spiritually significant than someone else's.  And I'm tired of people who seem to believe otherwise.

As a member of the Christian community, I believe in the idea that life is precious, but I refuse to promote the notion that one life is more precious than another.  It stands to reason that I would be offended by people who imply that adoption would've been far more laudable than giving birth to Ryan--and not because I fought tooth and nail for that pregnancy.  It's offensive because it implies one life or action deserves to be honored above another.  That one sacrifice matters and another does not.

One thing I would often repeat to myself on days I was really struggling is a quote from John Donne:  "Other men's crosses are not my crosses."  It wasn't just a reminder that we struggle differently; it was a reminder that my struggle may lead to a different outcome than someone else's.  My situation definitely helps me keep things in perspective on the days I have two very fussy boys, but I would never Jesus Juke another Mommy with that information.  (You know, when people say things like, "You should really appreciate what you have because some people can't have it."  Or another variation of that statement.  Or imply some people would/have paid an arm and a leg for the same privilege, blah blah blah.)

For the life of me, I cannot understand why we attach value to human beings because of how/when/why they came to be in our lives.  Ryan and Eli have value to me because they are mine--regardless of how they came to be in my life.  But their real value comes from the fact that Christ loved them first--before they were born or imagined in my heart.  That's where all value originates.  Not in our experiences (difficult or easy, expensive or cheap) but in the heart of a Saviour to gave Himself for us before we were even in existence.  

In Which I Attempt to Make Sense of Priorities

I've been a mom of two for approximately three seconds so I obviously need to put some thoughts out there about what it is to keep all my balls in the air. 

Really, though, I've been considering priorities.  Ok.  That's stretching the truth a bit.  I've actually been thinking about my thighs.

So, turns out that when you have two kids in two years, your body changes.  Obviously, I gained weight.  But that information aside, my whole body changed.  I carry weight where I didn't used to.  Pants that fit at a certain weight no longer fit at that same weight.  I'd like to say that I've taken this information in stride because, for the most part, I have.  I haven't stressed about weight loss, and I knew that it would take a while for everything to go back to normal--especially considering everything that's happened to my figure in the last two years.

But I'm starting to stress.

Like anyone else who wants to lose a few pounds, I've been logging my calorie intake in MyFitnessPal.  I make sure to make lunches and breakfasts ahead of time so there are no surprises.  I'm careful with my evening calories.  I make sure to include a large portion of vegetables and then hedge my bets with Greens First.  Oh, and I calculate my carb intake at each meal to make sure it's between 45-60 grams.  (That last part is a PCO necessity.)  I've even reminded myself to stay calm because I know weight loss is difficult for me.  One pound at a time, you know?

The major difficulty in my current equation is exercise.

First of all, I know I need to exercise.  I have never argued otherwise.  Secondly, I wouldn't mind exercising.  I'm not avoiding it like the plague or attempting to give all the reasons exercise isn't a benefit.  I know how beneficial cardio is for PCO.  I miss running a tiny bit.  I also miss the community I had when I was running on a regular basis.  But when it's the topic of conversation and I share this information, I often hear things like, "Get up at 5 am." or "You make time for the things that are important!"

I agree.  So help me find the balance.

4:30--5 am:  Eli wakes up so I get up to nurse him.  After I nurse him, I try to pump for 15 minutes to make sure my supply doesn't diminish while I'm working.  If he wakes up at 4:30, I may get to lay down for another 30 minutes before I have to start on my morning routine.  But that's rare.  On the mornings it does happen, I am groggy and know I will not be starting an exercise routine.  Judge me if you must.

5:45-6 am:  Finish feeding/pumping and get in the shower.  Attempt to get ready for work in 45 minutes.

6:45-7 am:  Leave for work.

7:15-3:30:  Work.  I've been asked if I have time to exercise at work (like on a lunch hour), and, unfortunately, the answer is no.  My planning period is 4th hour (10:44-11:32).  I pump during that time and try to work on grading, etc.  Then, during my lunch (12:28-12:58), I eat and pump again.  There is little time for anything else.

4 pm:  Monday & Wednesday I head straight to Mom and Dad's and nurse Eli right away.  Tuesday, Thursday and Friday I head straight home so I can nurse him promptly.  On Monday or Wednesday, Ryan and I (and Eli) usually eat with my Mom and Dad because my Mom has been awesome enough to cook dinner.  Between nursing and dinner (and playing a little bit with Ryan), we usually stay until a little after 6 pm because Eli will likely want to nurse again at 6.  

On Tuesdays, I try to find something to cook for Ryan and I so we can eat dinner.  Often it's something simple like sandwiches.

On Thursday, Chris is home.  We either go out for dinner or cook something quickly at home so we can be at small group by 6:30.

On Friday, Chris is home.  We try to go out and spend some time as a family.

6:45-7:30 pm:  Put Eli in his bouncy seat and get Ryan in the bathtub.  After his bath, I get Ryan in a clean diaper and jammies, go through his night-night routine and put him to bed.

7:30-8:30 pm:  I had been waiting to start Eli's night-night routine until 8, but it seems to work better to start nursing him at 7:30.  It usually takes 30-45 minutes to nurse him at this feeding (so he gets enough to sleep through the night).  We spent a little bit of cuddle time without wrangling big brother, and then he gets a clean diaper, jammies and a swaddle and I put him down for the night.  Sometimes I fit a bath into this time period.

8:30 pm:  I attempt some light cleaning--picking up toys, cleaning off the counter, putting a load of laundry in, loading/unloading the dishwasher, hanging up/putting away clothes, making sure the cloth diaper situation is under control, getting my lunch/water together for the next day, cleaning out the diaper bag.  I've given up almost entirely on sweeping and dusting.

9:30 pm:  Sit down and pump for at least 10 minutes.  If my supply has been dwindling, I may do a power pump (10 minutes on, 10 minutes off for an hour).  On the nights I don't power pump, I consider starting an exercise routine.  I've scolded myself for NOT starting one.  But frankly, I'm tired.  So I usually go to bed.  When I do power pump, it's 10:30 and I know I only have about six hours before Eli is up and I have to start all over again, so I usually go to bed.

On the nights Chris is home, I do most of the same things from 7:30-9:30 with the exception of power pumping.  Usually, Chris and I will talk and/or watch whatever TV box set we are into at the time.  Sometimes we have time to go for a walk after we eat, so we fit that in if we can.  Since Eli is starting to stretch his nursing routine a little, that's more of a possibility than it used to be.  And on Saturdays and Sundays, I have more flexibility.  Those days aren't an issue.

As it stands, I'm struggling to find time for regular Bible study, exercise, grading and general cleanliness during the week.  My house is in disarray most of the time and I feel like I never quite catch up at work (well, except for now.  But it's the beginning of the school year.  The grading pile is coming.) and I miss sitting down to dig through scripture.

I appreciate the people who seem to find the time for everything.  I'm also a little jealous of them.  But since I'm a variation of a single parent Saturday--Thursday, some things are a little more difficult to schedule.  So forgive me when I want to egg your house after you tell me I need to prioritize in order to lose weight.  Honestly, I don't think I'm wasting a lot of time on unnecessary things.  (But in all sincerity, I'm not jealous of your progress.  I think whatever anyone else does to be healthy is fantastic.)

Here's the other problem:  when I say these things, I feel like I'm being ungrateful for the gifts I've been given and I SO do not want to give that impression.  Ryan and Eli are among the most extravagant of blessings--the ones I never thought I would get.  If having them meant I had to stay this size for the rest of my life, I would gladly endure it.  I remember what it was like without them.

I guess I'm just trying to figure out how a healthy lifestyle fits in my new normal.  I've committed to doing an exercise video on Saturday and Sunday because I know I have the time.  I can usually get Eli to sit in his swing for 30 minutes.  It's the other days I'm having trouble with.  Am I doing this wrong?

Mean Girls

I usually attempt to craft some sort of opening that will catch my readers' attention because I like to pretend I'm a writer.  But since having kids, my thoughts are significantly less streamlined.  They look a little more double-helix-y these days--one thought connects to another thought connects to another thought--until I have no idea where I started or how I started concentrating on this subject.

In fact, Favorite likes to play this game with me:  he'll ask what I'm thinking about in that very moment and I have to tell him and then trace how I got to that thought in the first place.  It's often an odd set of associations that have ultimately reassured him he will never understand the way my mind works.  

Ladies, this is why we should feel a little sorry for our men.

But the bigger thought on my mind is how our men usually end up taking the blame for something I think we've perpetuated on our own.  Namely?  Mean Girl Syndrome.

I can't exclude myself.  I am horribly judgmental--particularly when it comes to other women.  Which is odd given that I would prefer to avoid close relationships with women because of The Drama.  (Of course I capitalized it.  And I'm willing to bet all of you know exactly what I'm talkin' bout.)  Like most things, though, it took blatant observation to call my hand on my own hurtful stereotypes.

We stare at women who don't look the way they used to--the ones who've gained a little weight, a few wrinkles or other physical imperfections.  Many of us use those visual sessions to reassure ourselves that we are (thinner, prettier, younger looking, less blemished) than the model we see in front of us.

But the thing I've noticed more than labeling physical appearance?  Some inherent need to call other women crazy.

I can count on two hands the number of times I've heard someone refer to a man as crazy.  One of them was when a guy I knew snowed a large group of people and stole money from a non-profit organization.  Another was when a friend's husband spent the 8 years they were married constructing a life that was more fairytale than anything else.  In both of these instances, it was clear that the people involved did not have strong footing in reality.

The number of times I've heard a woman described as crazy?  Incalculable.

Here are the instances I can think of right off the top of my head:

1.  She's not married but she wants to be.

2.  She doesn't have a baby but she wants one.

3.  She thinks another girl's boyfriend is cute.

4.  She doesn't agree with me on a subject.

5.  She's not the kind of girl I would hang around with.

6.  She's marrying someone I have a close relationship with and I don't much like her.

7.  She doesn't like the same things I like.

8.  She doesn't have the same hobbies I have.

9.  She talks about working out all the time.

10.  She talks about her struggle to lose weight.

11.  She is very passionate about her family.

12.  She holds grudges.

13.  She refuses to discuss certain subjects.

14.  She doesn't openly share her life story so we can understand her.

15.  She shares too much of her life story.

16.  She spends too much money.

17.  She refuses to spend any money.

18.  She focuses too much on one subject.

19.  She's very confrontational about subjects where she has no experience.

20.  She's stupid and loud (which apparently also makes her crazy).

How many things can crazy mean?  And ladies, what is our obsession with handing out that label like we're all psychiatrists?

In the darkest days of my life, I felt like I was sliding down some sort of crazy slide with no bottom.  I couldn't control how I felt and I was terrified I would never be myself again.  I can remember feeling like the world was in fast forward around me, and the number of people who treated me like I was just another nut case who needed to get my crap together was severely hurtful.  

I have no idea what was said about me in the privacy of another person's home.

But I can imagine.

And more than anything, it makes me wonder why we, as women--knowing the places we've navigated--don't seem to offer a little more grace to the women around us.

We don't know it all; I don't know it all.

We can't make the judgment calls that dictate whether or not she is right for him.

We can't constantly refer to her struggle through this or that as crazy.

We can't continue to dismiss each other because our experiences or likes are a little different.

On a good day, I like to pretend that our preoccupation with weight, looks and psychological well being is due to the pressure put on our gender by men.  But my experience tells me that thought couldn't be further from the truth.

I keep thinking it's time to let these thoughts inform my actions--to myself and the women around me.

This is part of grace...right?

Elias Carter

You arrived without pomp and circumstance a full two days after your due date.  Your delivery was so significantly different from your brothers that I almost doubt I'm the one who gave birth to both of you--and had I not been present, I wouldn't be sure.

When you failed to arrive on your due date, my doctor scheduled an induction to begin Saturday evening.  They went through the usual steps and finally started Pitocin after noon on Sunday.  Frankly, I didn't expect much to happen, but I was clearly mistaken because you made your grand entrance at 6:08 pm.  Less than five hours of labor and I was holding you; that's a surreal experience for someone who spent three days in labor previously.

When my nurse was asking about previous labor, Daddy and I mentioned that I never would dilate, but when I finally did, I went from a 4 to a 10 in about an hour.  So when Dr. Schneider came in to discuss labor with us and the nurse, she confirmed that when I got to a 4, my nurse really needed to be on her toes.  She walked out of the room and that sweet girl looked at me and said, "So, as soon as you feel pressure, I need to know.  OK?"

Not long after that, I felt pressure.  I told Daddy and he said I should wait for a couple more contractions just to make sure I was feeling what I thought I was feeling.  After two more contractions, I was pretty sure.  We called the nurse who immediately confirmed I was at a 9.  She called Dr. Schneider who said, "I'm on my way."

She walked into my room 30 seconds later and automatically began "suiting up."  My nurse looked at her a bit panicked and said, "She hasn't dilated fully.  The baby nurse is next door.  They're doing practice pushes."  Dr. Schneider responded, "Call her.  We aren't practicing; we're actually having a baby."

Five minutes and one push later, they laid you on my chest.  The baby nurse hadn't made it in time.

You are beautiful, little Eli.  You are everything we've anticipated, and the sweetest blessing since we met your brother just over a year ago.  Your name means "Yahweh is my God," and there's no better acknowledgement of how you came to be in our lives.  Some people anticipate one blessing.  Few people can embrace the overwhelming surprise of two, but that's exactly where Daddy and I are:  two blessings, two boys.

I'll love you forever; I'll like you for always,
Mommy

On Fear

I can't remember a time I didn't love to read.  Even when my parents strongly encouraged us (with lack of choice) to participate in children's quizzing at church, I found stories and characters in scripture with whom I fell in love.




But they weren't the Israelites.




There wasn't a time when I read anything about the Israelites that I had any faith in their ability to be anything but whiny pains in the butt.  Deliver them from Egypt?  They think they'll starve.  Give them food and water?  They'll refuse to follow directions and hoard so it rots.  Follow them as a cloud and a pillar of fire?  They'll build a calf so they can have a tangible representation of something to worship.




It might be fair to say I'm a bit of a smug reader.  I could flip forward a few pages and know exactly how God intended to provide so I spent a lot of time smacking my forehead and thinking that these Israelite people really weren't the brightest crayons in the box.  The God of the Universe who delivered you from Pharaoh was clearly going to feed you in the desert, morons.  Get.It.Together.


If only I'd known that somewhere in my 30s I'd realize fear can be an awfully powerful motivator.  Because then?  I'd recognize myself in the hearts of these people who had witnessed miracle after miracle only to whine that the next set of needs could not possibly be met.


Fear is paralyzing.  I know because I've spent much of the last year in that state.


Oh, let's be honest.  Fear is the thing I fight on a regular basis.  But it's certainly been much more debilitating this last year.  After moving from a church with pastor/financial issues, Favorite and I found ourselves in a church with severe pastor/financial issues.  While we weren't the only ones blindsided by the lies, we did ask a lot of questions.  It's hard to discount the fact that two churches faced similar leadership issues (which one church sanctioned and one church did not) and the only common denominator was us.  An entire congregation faced severe loss--in friendship, trust, unity and money.


I lost the first close friend I've had since my best friend moved to Ohio.


Let me be honest:  I've been terrified.  Sure, I've seen God move us in miraculous ways, but in the latter part of 2013 (and the first part of 2014), all I could see was that He led us out of Egypt to starve in the desert. 


It wasn't long until things at work unraveled due to an unsettled contract and negotiations that would prove to create what is best termed as a hostile work environment for the better part of 6 months.  We were far from destitute, but in each situation, terror was slowly claiming pieces of my mind.  And the unclaimed pieces?  Were dry from the desert sun.


Then, in the desert, I discovered we were expecting.


If Ryan was the blessing of my life, Eli is proof of God's overwhelming extravagance.  But his presence did little to alleviate my fear.  Suddenly, I was hoarding manna and quickly discovering God's command to take only what I needed resulted in rot and panic.


In the past 7 months, I've been terrified that Eli's birth will meet with far less excitement than Ryan's.  It's hard to lose a cheerleader, and I know Courtney would have asked about every doctor's appointment and movement.  She wouldn't have raised her eyebrows that my sons are going to be so close in age (or told me terrifying stories about how awful the first year is going to be) and she would've thought it was great we were having another boy.  I'm not romanticizing her reactions either; I experienced them first hand with Ryan.


I'm scared to become a mom of two.  Sure, women have done it before me, but I've only been in this mommy business for a year.  I don't have it figure out so throwing another baby in the mix when Ryan is still very much a baby is, well, I have a hard time catching my breath.


Blessed?  Sure.  Beyond belief.  But like a thundercloud at a pool party, fear often overshadows the blessing I know I should be feeling right now.


I keep putting my ear a little closer to the page when I read about the Israelites.  I need to hear their individual voices and see God's tender hand consistently moving across those pages to touch the concerns of each person--not because I'm not blessed, but because I don't want fear to become the mitigating factor in my reaction to every situation.


Like Paul, I think most situations are about having scales fall from our eyes so we can see just a little more clearly--all the while anticipating the day when we don't see through a glass darkly.