two months and growing!

Happy two months to S! :)

What a full month this has been, little man... you are growing so fast, we can barely believe it!  I'm guessing that you weigh between 12 and 13 pounds - but we'll find out tomorrow at your appointment.  Already, you are turning into your own little extroverted person.  But even so, you still love to snuggle with your mom and dad!

You met your Grandma G this month - and she was thoroughly enraptured with you!  She says you "smell just like a baby should" and took every opportunity to hold you and "drink you in."  You were super chill and happy as we walked around town in the cold with you on her visit.  You seem to actually like the cold Boston winters most days!

You went on your first overnight retreat this month, making you a full-fledged InterVarsity baby - you slept blissfully on a mat on the floor, whilst students played and socialized all around you.  And you smiled and flirted and convinced everyone that you never cry - not true, but you were pretty darn cute and happy.

You also made the switch to cloth diapers this month - a little bit harder to clean up, but we're hoping will be very cost-saving in the long run.  After a minor snafu  where mommy bought the wrong size inserts - those for babies 15-30 lbs (increasing your bottom size three-fold), we seem to be settling in well.  You seem to be mellow as ever, and mommy and daddy are slowly adjusting.  And you look super cute in them!

A snapshot of you this month:

• You learned how to smile, for real, and you do it a lot!  Especially when mommy and daddy do something funny.  A few times, you've come close to laughing, but not quite yet! 
• You can raise your head up well when you're on your tummy - and get some of your chest off the ground too - we're guessing it's only a matter of time before you start rolling over.
• You are very social, and love to entertain daddy's students, with your smiles and flirtations!
• You are super interactive now, making your own small (and large) noises in response to us talking to you - this is especially fun for us, as we try to make you smile and make happy noises.
• You no longer hate having your diaper changed - and actually are exceedingly happy on the changing table most of the time!  Coupled with your love for the bath tub, you seem to abide by a  "less is more" philosophy when it comes to clothing.
• You're consistently sleeping for 4-7 hour stretches at night - you set your personal record last night with 8 hours consecutively - 8:30pm until 4:30am.  While you stir occasionally, and need a quick pat on the back and your pacifier again, you have been sleeping really well these days.  
• You still enjoy taking a bottle from daddy once a day - even gulping down 7 ounces sometimes!

We love you so much, little man!  It's fun watching you grow more and more into your own person... :)

the power of naming

Thank you, friends, for all the kind notes and feedback that I got after my post on being proud of myself - especially from you mommies who have been there, and responded with such encouragement and grace, and your own stories of how ridiculously much you loved your own tiny joyful bundles and how unbelievably hard those first 6 weeks were, even so.  I felt incredibly encouraged and free just to be me, where I am, with unbelievable joy in early motherhood, and unmeasurable love for my son, but also full of chaos and overwhelmed-ness!  Thank you for giving me that grace and encouragement.  And things have been better in the last week or so, so thank you, to those of you who pray or prayed!

--

One thing you should know about me is that while I do not always emote freely, one thing that always makes me cry without fail, is when anyone gives birth - even before I was pregnant this was the case.  It could be a character on a TV show, a random commercial clip, or a dear friend - didn't matter, I am an equal opportunity weeper.  There is something so incredibly beautiful and intimate and powerful, about the intermingling of overwhelming pain and absolute joy - bloody, gritty, long fought joy, but joy nonetheless - in that moment when something new and beautiful bursts forth. 

And then in those moments of exhaustion and joy that follow, we are given the task of naming these new additions to our families - declaring publicly, this is ______.  Maybe it's a name that you've had picked out for months, or even years, or maybe it's an in-the-moment decision;  maybe it's already been public, maybe this is the moment of declaration - I don't know. Either way, we name our children.   And in almost every instance, it's not something we take lightly - we put a lot of thought into the names that we give our children, the identities we hope and pray that they will have.   There is something sacred about this process of naming - regardless of what the name is - even as it follows in the shadow of this joy-filled birth process.

For both of these reasons, I cry every time someone gives birth, and a new child is announced.

When Jon and I got married, the pastor who married us gave his homily out of Isaiah 62 - the text for which this blog is named - if you haven't read it recently, you should take a moment to do that right now! He preached about our power to name one another - and to rename one another;  the parallel beauty of our heavenly bridegroom who truly names and renames us, and the present reality that we too, made in His image, have the authority to "name" one another, for good or for ill.  The ways in which we get to affirm and build up, to remind each other of our true identities - or to mock, to jest without thought, to tear down, and to reinforce broken identities in one another.

Whether we intend to or not, we name one another with our words and actions.  Not in the same way that we give our children a legal name - but in equally significant and sacred ways.  Yet my hunch is - we put a lot less thought into those names - and we often times are unaware of the ways in which we "name" one another on a day-to-day basis.

Growing up, my family was very musical - my dad is a phenomenal pianist, my sister is a superb vocalist, and my mom, while she doesn't often indulge in it, is also very musically inclined.  I have a good voice, decent pitch, good vibrato, solid sight-reading skills - and absolutely no innate rhythm.  And very little ability to actually remember lyrics to songs well.  And as a result, I, without malice or hurtful intent, received the name, "the one without rhythm; the less musical one."

But, here's the reality:  I love to sing and it brings a lot of life to my soul.  It might not be in 4/4 time, or even time at all, and I might humorously combine lyrics from 3 different songs into a creative melange mash-up, but it is life to my soul nonetheless. In college, a friend used to joke that she knew I was coming because she could hear me singing before she could see me.  And yet, for years, I have bowed out of musical opportunities, refused to practice or work on rhythm, and always qualify any compliment to my voice with, "yes, but I have no rhythm" or "thank you, but I'm not really musical - you should hear the rest of my family."  For years - sometimes still! - denying, or qualifying, and not investing in (and maybe even growing/improving in) part of who I am.

This is a silly example - but often times the ways in which we name one another are far more weighty.  Maybe you grew up as a tomboy, hearing and believing that you were not feminine - even though you are female - because you didn't like makeup, dolls or dresses, and you still believe that you are less of a woman because you don't fit in a particular mold.  Maybe you were the "smart one," the "fat one," the "one who is always alone," the "athletic one," the one who "can't ____" or the one who "always ____."

Some of those names run off like water on a penguin's back.  Others, even though they're rarely intended to be hurtful, soak in, are absorbed, and become a part of who we believe ourselves to be - shrinking us into smaller versions of ourselves, giving wounds which we don't even know are there until someone wiser points them out to us.

Our pastor's charge to us, on our wedding day, was to be a marriage - a husband and a wife - who named each other in redemptive ways.  Who reminded each other of who we truly are, and who God is remaking us to be - who name with hope and healing, rather than belittling, tearing down, or limiting with our words and our "names."

As I cried yet again this week, over the birth and naming of yet another baby, this is my challenge and reminder - to consider the ways in which I name others in the day-to-day, as equally sacred.  With truth, not exaggeration, to build up, to name with hope, to speak life, and to remind others of who they truly are, rather than limit them to, or reinforce, some smaller picture.

One Month Young

Happy one month birthday to S!

I can hardly believe that it's been a full month since you were born, little buddy!  In so short an amount of time, you have completely transformed our lives - we cannot imagine ourselves without you; you have become such an integral part of our life together, and we love you so much!

This is you and me, only a few hours after you were born.  You love to sleep on our chests, as close as you can get - with your little feet tucked up under your tummy and your arms right by your face.  This is still your favorite way to sleep.  You are so much more alert now then you were in the early days, even though you still sleep a good 15-17 hours a day.  You weighed 7 pounds and 12 ounces when you were born - which now feels teeny tiny compared to how much you've grown now!

This is you and me now, at 1 month old - you are super interactive and almost smile at your dad and me all the time, but especially in the mornings!  You have the best milk coma grin ever, and so we're really looking forward to the time when you actually grin at us for real.  At your one month check up, you weighed in at a strong 10 pounds, 1 ounce!

A snapshot of you this month:

• You can hold your head up on your own now and turn it from side to side, when you're on your tummy - you have a very strong neck!
• You almost smile very regularly! 
• You had your first bottle from Dad, and blew us away when you downed 4 oz at 2 weeks. You consistently eat exceptionally well!
• You hated baths when we first gave you one - but now you really enjoy them, even though you consistently attempt to eat the bath water.
• You have outgrown a lot of your newborn clothes already
• You have an interesting relationship with nighttime sleep - but two nights ago, you set your personal record and slept for 5 hours straight!  :)  So far, you've been averaging 2.5-3 hour stretches on good nights.
• You've just started "talking" to us - making noises and responding to us - when we talk to you.
• We have inklings that you might be an extrovert, because when you're around lots of people, you are so incredibly fascinated that you don't fuss (or sleep!) and you can't stop looking around!

We love you so very much, S, and are loving watching you grow, one day at a time!

choosing to be proud of myself

This afternoon, I did something that I intentionally don't do often: I posted a totally self-aggrandizing, somewhat proud status on facebook.

"fitting back into pre-pregnancy skinny jeans - good feeling! elastic waistbands, you've been swell, but adios!" 

 And I feel a little bit guilty about doing so, I'll be honest. I am aware of the ways in which pride is not healthy, and can be hurtful to others - especially if your triumph has been their struggle. And for that, I want to apologize, if I have brought up something hurtful for anyone - please forgive me. 

 But I chose to post that status with intentionality today, because today I need to remind myself that there are things for me to be proud of. That I have succeeded in some things. That I'm doing OK. And perhaps on a deeper level, though not articulated in that status, that I am worthy of being proud of... 

Today has been a good day so far... we slept last night - in chunks, yes - but we slept. My son is cute and smiley when he wakes up in the mornings. He's actually put himself to sleep a few times, in his crib - which is significant for us. The doorbell did not wake him up. I can in fact fit into my pre-pregnancy skinny jeans again. I've had a shower. And I feel somewhat in control of my day.

But the reality is, a lot of my hours and days thus far haven't been that way lately. And it's hard to find the spaces and ways to talk about that portion of motherhood, in a healthy way. But for the sake of honesty and being in process, I'm going to try to. The reality is, there are hours and days when I don't love being a mom - when it feels more like a takeover of my life, my body, and me, rather than a joy. Hours and days when constant lactation does not feel like a blessing, but makes me feel like a cross between a broken sprinkler and a cow. There are hours and days when I feel invisible to in the shadow of our adorable child - and I, shamefully to admit, am begrudging towards him, of the attention he receives, and the ways that leaves me ignored. Hours and days when I'm weepy and weary - for no reason - and feel completely out of control of my life, not even capable of articulating why I'm crying to my husband. Hours and days when I wonder if our lives will ever feel "normal" again.

 And most of the time, I feel completely out of control. Totally inept at everything that I try to do. In meltdown mode over whether or not to use a pacifier to help my son sleep. Not good at balancing being a wife, mother, friend, and human being, let alone trying to figure out when I last showered - I wasn't sure this morning, but I'm pretty sure it had been several days...

And when that happens, I enter into the very dangerous place of believing that there's something wrong with me: that I am the failure, rather than the situation just being hard - or, in this case, completely normal for early parenthood. That I suck. That I should have it together. That I should "feel" like and act like the perfect mother all the time. That I should be totally fine feeling invisible - or shouldn't mourn the changes that my life, our lives, and lifestyles are undergoing. And the downward spiral of self-loathing and guilt begins to take over... that I have nothing, that I am nothing, to be proud of.

Malarkey.

The reality is, this is normal. It's okay for me to mourn the changes - even in the midst of the intense joy also present there. It does not dishonor my son, for it to be hard for me to selflessly love him all the time. It is not wrong for me to not know what to do next. It is okay for me to cry - even cry without reason. And it's okay for me to feel out of control.

 I am not a failure. And even more importantly, I would still be worthy of being proud of - even if everything that I did failed. The fundamental truth from which this blog derives its name, still holds true. Regardless of my successes or failures, I am called daughter. delight. beloved. I am loved. And worth being proud of. That is something I need to be reminded of today.

 And in some small way, maybe daring to be audaciously proud of myself for something small and silly - like fitting into my skinny jeans or actually remembering to shower today - can help to remind me, just a little bit, of the larger lesson of the day.

unconditional love

Hello, blogging world - it's been a while.  I've semi-fallen off the grid for the last several months, for which I could offer loquacious explanations and apologies, but instead I'm going to opt to simply say, "here I am, I'm back."  While it is a healthy practice for me to write - and one which I hope to practice with a bit more regularity in the upcoming months - it is not one for which guilt is due in its neglect.  That being said, I am excited to re-enter the blogosphere, and am looking forward to this space to process, reflect, and share in the journey with others...

As I sit here, this Valentines day - with my two and a half week old son bundled and sleeping in a mobi wrap on my chest, currently making very contented noises that sound like small puppies yipping (don't ask me why, I don't know), running on 2 hours of sleep, because that's how long he slept in his crib last night  - for the first time, I believe ever, I feel the need to reflect on love on Valentines Day.

Please understand, this is a cardinal sin, if you are a V-day skeptic like me.  I am the woman who has, at various points in time, sworn off the holiday for any number of holy reasons - one who hates the commercialism and the self-loathing ("singles awareness" day vibes that tend to arise), refuses to wear red/pink/purple, etc. because everyone is doing it, went to see the most gory movie possible on V-day for a number of years because the chick-flicks were too stereotypical, buys her husband non-Valentines day cards for the week before, just on principle because red and pink cards get a dollar added to their price, and are often times too sappy, etc. etc. Yes, I have been a hater.  I can freely admit that.

But the reality is - today, I'm reflecting on love.   And maybe it's the two hours of sleep talking, maybe it's this new parenthood thing, but gosh darn it, here goes:

I have very little concept of what true, sacrificial, unconditional love is all about.  

I have been very blessed, to marry a man who loves me incredibly well.  Who chose me.  Who daily sacrifices for me.  Who loves me, even when I'm in a tearful ball on the floor, even when I'm screaming in pain or anger, who calls me beautiful at 9 months pregnant, who sticks with me, through thick and thin.  And I think we do have a really healthy marriage, where we do love each other in sacrificial and selfless ways.  Where forgiveness is required, and given, and love and acceptance and grace are daily choices.  I have seen true love in that relationship.  And am so incredibly grateful for this man that I have been given.  I am loved, I do love, and marriage has taught me immeasurably about the strength, the hard work, and the power, of every day love - as well as the sweetness of real love.

But this little 8 pound bundle of sleepless joy - who is adorably cute, but precociously refuses to sleep at nights by himself - is totally obliterating my sense that I had any previous concept of selfless love.

See the beauty of my relationship with Jon - and really with almost everyone else to - is that they have the capacity to return my love.  In other words, I almost always get something back for any expenditure of love that I make.  Not so with my infant son.  He is, for all effective purposes, a human leech - and I mean that in the cutest, best possible way.  Receiving, but not returning.  Demanding, but never saying thank you.  Needing, but never giving.

The closest thing we get to a thank you? Or love in return?  A completely uncontrolled milk coma grin, or a hefty deposit in the poop bank, aka diaper.

Please don't get me wrong - I fully trust that my son will love us, that at times in the future he will express gratitude. Nor am I in any way persuaded that it is necessary for love to be returned for it to be right and good.  And I absolutely, 100% love my son, regardless of his ability to return that love.

But perhaps that's simply my point:  for the first time, I have a picture of what it means to love someone else entirely selflessly, with no personal gain or return.

And friends, I am not good at this.  Case in point, last night, after an hour and a half of fighting with the wee one, trying to coax him into the sleep which he so desperately needed but was fighting against with true familial stubbornness, I had a complete melt down of anger and frustration - that my 2 week old son could not realize that after ALL I had done for him, the least he could do would be give me 2 hours of consecutive night-time sleep.  Tearful puddle on the floor - made worse by overactive mammary glands.  Unconditional, selfless love?  Hard.  Good.  But really hard.

But here's the truth for me today - while I get a teeny tiny glimpse of what it means to love another person unconditionally and selflessly, I also have a much bigger picture of what unconditional love looks like from my Father in heaven.  While my love ultimately is limited and conditional, and selfish, His love isn't:  no matter how messy I am, how many times I fail or fall, how much I rant and scream and fight against him, no matter how much I reject what I need and truly want from Him, how much I refuse to rest in Him - His love remains constant.  Not a weak love, that is walked all over for some vague sense of being needed or being some loosely defined ideal type of "giving" person, but a strong love that gives without strings or selfish motivations.  Freely given.  Unconditional.  Joyful, even.

Yes, like me, He longs for that love to be returned - for more than a weak sleep-induced grin in response - but His grace and love and compassion to me does not depend on it.

So today, in honor of either Valentines Day or sleep deprivation, rather than reflecting on the sappy sentiments of pink and red cards, I am reflecting on the strength of unconditional love from my Father, that I rest securely in, find freedom in, and long to know more of.  And asking Him for strength to mirror that in some small way, to those He places in my path, even at 3 in the morning.

every day grace

Some days grace is extravagant, elegant, and noteworthy.  The kind of grace that you write books based on, compose lyrics for, and tell all your friends about.   But most days, at least for me, grace looks remarkably less... well, remarkable.  The everyday kind of grace that we're called to practice, whether anyone notices or not.

The kind of grace that's less rewarding to practice, rarely noticed in its presence, but is radically noticeable in its absence.   The kind of grace which sometimes I practice, and sometimes I willfully or unknowingly omit, excuse, and pass by - and almost all of the time, resent.

... grace to listen to the long-winded caller share their life story with you, even though you gave them the information they needed in the first minute.  Grace which gives empathy and a kind word rather than a terse reply, even though you have your own deadlines that you're struggling to meet.  Grace which treat him with dignity and respect, and doesn't joke about him once you get off the phone.

... grace to see the struggle in her eyes and voice, rather than just patiently dole out the policy-line and the procedure she needs to know.  Grace to offer a cup of coffee to a stranger and invite her to sit down, rather than turning her away because you can't help her professionally.

... grace to give up your seat, for the man with the cane, struggling to stand on a moving metro, even though your feet are tired, your back hurts, and there are 6 other people who are more able bodied than you who notice but do not respond.  Grace which doesn't bitterly scowl at said able-bodied people or resent them or judge them in their inaction.

... grace to smile at the old woman who scowls at you every day as you pass her on the street.  Grace to smile with your heart, not just your lips.

... grace which sees professionalism as a baseline, not the bar.

... grace to give your neighbor credit for turning the music off at midnight, rather than continuing to play it until wee hours of the morning.  Grace which stops bitter judgmental thoughts at the door and says no, not today.

... grace which gives benefit of the doubt.

Everyday grace.  Not extravagant, rarely beautiful, not worth the space to remark upon.  But daily, hard grace.  The kind that, in daily observation, builds a character of grace, not merely a characterization of grace.  This is the kind of grace that is not desirable to me, but in the long run, that I want to espose.

washing nasty stinky feet

A long long time ago, before Jon and I had even started dating, our relationship almost didn't get off the ground.  Almost tanked before it began...  for a very small, but very undeniably nose-worthy reason:

I have/had ridiculously smelly feet.  True Story:

We had already had a DTR, we knew that the like-age was mutual, but being super long-distance, we wanted to take it slow, and figure out where this all was going before we jumped in feet first... so we talked a lot, planned some intentional hang-outs, and racked up some ridiculously high cell phone minutes.  

And then I came down to visit Jon in VA, in the midst of a long fund-raising trip, and many other travels.  And at the end of the visit, we, wisely or foolishly - we consider it both, decided to road trip up the east coast together - he had to go to his cousin's wedding, I had to go home.   During that 10 hour car ride, which both of us describe as one of the longest and most awkward of our lives - my smelly feet quite literally made Jon cringe, pray, and long for the ending of the voyage.  Likewise, I took his silence and visceral reaction to something (wouldn't know what the something was until months later) as a reaction to me personally, and figured that after I dropped him off - as he jettisoned himself from the car as fast as he could - that I would probably never hear from him again.

When we talked about this the other night, that hadn't been outside of the realm of possibilities (so great was the stench).  Lucky for me, he gave me another chance.  Called me again.  Got to know me, not just my smelly extremities.  Now, three and a half years later, we're happily married, love each other more than ever, and, yes...  despite every best effort, my feet still sometimes smell.  Although I have gotten better at recognizing that YES, other people can smell them too.  Farts too, shockingly.  Yes, this was a life-changing realization.

I was reminded of this the other night, after a long day of tromping around, when I finally got home, finally jettisoned the shoes and socks, and sat down on the couch next to Jon to relax... and Jon wrinkles his nose, yet again, and says, "Wow, your feet really stink!"  True fact.  Yes, duly acknowledged.  And you want me to do something about it?

I was feeling tired, pregnant, somewhat feisty (what else is new), so I replied, "Fine!  If they stink, how about you wash them."

And so he did.

Now, ladies, before we turn this into some hyper-romantic moment, where my husband lovingly, tenderly washes and caresses my feet, let me just clarify - it wasn't.  It was loving, and gentle, but it wasn't one of those super romantic moments - it was a place in which my smelliness was negatively impacting both of us, and Jon was willing to take the initiative to help me de-stink, for the sake of the health of our marriage - and the possibility of our cohabiting the couch together in peace.

But as I've reflected on it afterwards, I think there is actually a symbolic aspect to it - more to marriage that anything else.  In my infant-stage knowledge of marriage, I can say truthfully, marriage is hard - it takes work.  Not always.  Not every day.  But the reality is, it does not fix your issues, and in fact, often times it reveals them.  You cannot hide your stinky-ness in the close proximity and intimacy that is marriage - sharing life, space, time, bodies, and lodging with another person.  Every day.  And by stinky-ness, I don't mean the things about the other that just irritate you.  Or the things that by matter of preference, we wish were different.   I mean the things that are actually sinful.  Bent.  Wrong.  Broken.  Destructive.  Not okay.  

But I think the choice in marriage, on a daily basis, is will I let my spouse's stench drive me away, lead into me into resentment and criticism of them, or will I actively participate in washing their stinky feet?   And I think the reality is, in real life, this isn't always a beautiful, symbolic moment or act.  Sometimes, it a matter of choice.  Reluctance.  Servanthood.  Necessity.  Hard work. Repetition. Choice.

Will I absent myself from the process, giving myself the freedom to criticize and critique without partnering with them in the process?  Will I see their stench as "theirs" and miss the opportunity to love them in the process - whether by washing their feet or pointing them towards Jesus who can actually wash their whole beings, by speaking truth in love, by challenging them to press into those places, walking alongside them, by forgiving them... again, or by naming sin and pressing in rather than pulling further away. 

Each person has responsibility for their own sin.  And no, you and I are not responsible for the sin or brokenness of others - ultimately, if someone is not willing to own and repent of sin, it does not fall on us to fix them, heal them or make them whole, or repent for them.  That is a false burden to bear, and leaves way too much room for abuse.  My stinky feet are my own.  I have to own that and deal with it and maybe invest in some serious odor eaters.  They are not Jon's responsibility.

However, I think we miss the point, if we somehow miss that marriage is a partnership in processing through both the good and the bad.  If we point fingers, rather than join hands.  If we demand changes and fixes, rather than figure it out together.  

Maybe it is actually an invitation to us to wash each others' stinky feet a little more often.