Musings from a New Mom

Exhaustion and Joy

It’s  9 p.m. as I lay with my husband snoring on one side and my daughter snoring in her bassinet on the other side. He is a lot louder than she, but -

That was the end of that thought. I dropped off to sleep before I could finish it. No longer do I need earplugs, no longer do I restlessly bury my head in the pillow. I’m too tired, and the baby’s longest sleep stretch is the first one of the night so I better enjoy it!

I have always wanted to be a mom, but never spent much time around babies. Mothering a newborn is hard. Harder than I ever dreamed. 

I am a milk cow. My child had a tongue tie and a slight reflux issue. She ate every 45 minutes. I love cuddling her and seeing her grow (we said she was a “2 pound a day gain” … a great compliment from the ranch, although a little over an ounce a day was closer to truth). We’ve extended the time between feeds a little now, but breastfeeding certainly strengthens the mother child bond.

She smiles beautifully when she looks up from nursing. 

Sleeping has always been my favorite hobby. I don’t do it much anymore. Or at least not sequentially. Early eating and tummy issues (seriously, until this week she dirtied 10 diapers a day) didn’t help her dislike of sleep. My husband insisted I stop considering the BabyWise scheduling because we weren’t even in the ballpark of their recommendations.

She loves to have mom in the room.

She was so tiny and so delicate for so long. I couldn’t wash dishes or do anything really holding her, but she didn’t nap for long if I wasn’t holding her. I felt I had accomplished much if I brushed my teeth before lunch. Now she’s grown and I can throw her on one arm and do much, but the to-do lists I made for myself each day through the summer are the length of my lists for the month now. 

She snuggles.

And then there’s the drastic changes in my life because of lifestyle and babies. I can’t keep my house running smoothly when I constantly have to stop and feed the baby. The carseat traumatizes her (she can scream the entire 2 hours to town), so my family doesn’t really like me to go to town alone. Ranch life? It’s great and we don’t have a yearly calendar to follow - but when the cattle buyer wants to come, the cows need gathered, or the milk cow needs fed, guess what takes priority over my plans?

I love cows. And - fortunately - I really love to just spend my days at home.

For every struggle, there is a joy. For every “to-do” item left unchecked, there is a moment to savor. 

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I recently was lent a novel by a friend. It has been years since I had time to read a novel, because once I start, it so hard to stop! Jael took several naps in my lap as I, wrapped in the story, devoured the book.

It was a well-written book, lots of detail as events unfolded, but I was not interested in the details. I was caught by the story line. As is my typical practice, I had to jump ahead and read a few pages at the end just to settle my heart, but still I practiced my greatest speed reading techniques as I rushed to find out “what happened.” Oddly enough, I became as worried about those characters as I am at times over my loved ones. I felt a need to fix the problem, to control a situation that wasn’t even reality, much less mine! I was a little sad when I finished the book, because the story was over. I went back and read parts I knew I had skimmed too fast, savoring the details, enjoying those parts of the story over and more.

I realized as I prepared to return the book that sometimes this is my approach to life. want to jump to the end, put the check on the list, fix the problem. When I cannot, I worry over things beyond my control. The story is not enough for me - I am constantly seeking the ending. 

My husband says that is not how you are supposed to read books, that it defeats the purpose and ruins your enjoyment. We may agree to disagree on our approaches to reading, but of one thing I am sure - it is NOT how I am supposed to approach life. While the very end, heaven, is known (just as in a novel, one is almost assured of a happy ending!), putting a check on the to do’s and finding solutions to the problems would leave my days barren. Being in control of every situation would leave boredom (and incompletion). Worst of all, when life is over, I cannot go back and enjoy the parts I missed or savor the details.

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So my lessons in exhaustion and joy come, I suppose. That I, as a mother, cannot overachieve. I have always pushed myself to accomplish much and to do every task with perfection. I can’t be the perfect mom. I don’t have a perfect child. I can’t even implement parenting techniques perfectly because for every technique there is an equal and opposite technique that seems just as fitting. 

I cannot DO everything I think I should, or everything I want to. Trying to check the lists, to control the situations, to jump past the struggles is a loss. Would I choose to miss the joy or the moments to savor? Would I choose control over the story of life, written and unfolded by the Author Himself?

I can rest in the assurance of Psalm 139:16, that in His book all my members were written, and I choose to obey Galatians 6:14 - God forbid that I should glory, save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by whom the world is crucified unto me, and I unto the world. In the exhaustion and discouragement of motherhood, I know that Jesus is enough. In my loss of control and accomplishment, I will glory in what Jesus has done. And I will rest in God’s unfolding story.

Competing with the Cousins

A few weeks before Jael was due, a cousin I hadn’t seen in a while came to Claunch. We began to visit, and, with a baby on the way, it was only natural she and her husband share a story we had not heard - that of the birth of their oldest son. Suffice it to say, we laughed until we cried, and I so very much envied her short labor (and the accompanying good story). 

So I had one. Granted, their story is funnier and her labor was shorter, but let me tell you our good story...

Seth had guessed Jael’s arrival for the 17th (due date the 27th) and I had a few scattered cramps that afternoon, but it was 4:00 the morning of the 18th before I was convinced that these were contractions, and infrequent at that. At that point I was terrified by a gush of blood. Not enough to meet the “danger” requirements listed in the birth center instructions, but far more than the spotting I was told to expect. I held off calling the midwife until 6 a.m., and she was totally calm. Oh, yes, the blood was normal, and I should just call back when the contractions were closer together.

Starving, I made and ate breakfast tacos before calling Mom, who was on her way to Moriarty. She was excited, but asked how close the contractions were. Time them, she said. It’ll be a while, she said. Remember, they said to head to Albuquerque when they were every ten minutes or so, she said. 

Seth disagreed. “We can go to Tim and Margaret’s and wait.” I dug my heels in. I needed a nap and I knew I wouldn’t sleep away from home. I told him I would nap and time contractions - that I did. And after an hour or so, they had were averaging ten minutes apart, so I called him. All those breakfast tacos came right back up…. I unpacked the peppermint oil, hoping to fend off another nausea attack. We called Mom and arranged to stop and pick her up.

About half an hour down the road, Dad called. He thought he’d locked the keys in the car and wondered if we could bring his spares when we came to get Mom. Seth looked at me. I didn’t think much had changed, so I thought we could turn around and get keys. We’d only backtracked about 5 minutes when Dad called back - he’d broken into his own car only to learn Mom had the keys. At least we hadn’t gone the whole way. By the time we got to Willard (halfway to Albuquerque for us), the contractions were coming often enough I couldn’t do much but pay attention to them. 20 minutes later, the peppermint whiffs lost their power. Or maybe it’s because I tried drinking water. Anyway, Seth had to pull over so I could throw up.

By the time we stopped for Mom in Moriarty, we needed her and her doula training. “Call the birth center and tell them we’re coming,” I told her. 

She asked, “Didn’t they say they should be 3 minutes apart for an hour?”

“I don’t care! We are going there.”

Seth inserted, “They almost have been….” Mom called.

You know all those different positions and techniques for labor they teach in birthing classes? Yeah, we didn’t use those. I hung on to the handle above my seat, Mom tried some stretch/push/squeeze support from behind me, and Seth drove progressively faster, intermittently patting my leg and telling me to breathe. I didn’t have enough breath to say what kind of music I wanted or to respond to Seth’s bad jokes, so I demanded no music and ignored the jokes ;-). Somewhere between Edgewood and Tijeras, Seth passed me a bag so I could throw up again. At the edge of Albuquerque, my water broke. Seth tried to get around the 80 mph traffic flow, but a truck changed lanes in front of him every time. Finally, we exited at Paseo. 5 minutes to the birth center.

I wanted to quit. I really just wanted to sleep. To breathe. It was like hard physical work, some intense exercise or flanking calves, but no one would give me a break. I wondered why anyone would choose to do that. And the pushing began. Seth drove over the speed bumps faster than normal, but it didn't help.

I was mad at Seth when we entered the birth center parking lot because he didn’t park by the door. He didn’t want to leave the car in the road for the day. He and Mom dragged me in, and yes, I had to stop and push in the parking lot. As we walked in, the midwives and nurses on call were chatting as they changed shifts. I wanted the water, the nitrous oxide, the bed in the birthing room - SOMETHING for relief. They said, “Oh, we’re getting it ready…..” The midwife paused, “You’re pushing, aren’t you?!”

Through my head came all kinds of not nice thoughts. Of course I am! We called you! Help me. Do something! All I said was, “Yes.”

We walked into the birthing room at 1:20 p.m. They asked if I wanted to try the water, birthing in the tub. YES! 

Dad feeds his heifers at night so they’ll calve in the mornings, but he said human babies are always born at night. It wasn’t night. We didn’t bring in the birth bag. Not the essential oils or the snacks.

I flopped down on the bed, thankful to rest, only to be interrupted with a push. The midwife encouraged me to get on my hands and knees on the floor while they were still filling the tub. As Mom supported my arms, I cried, “I can’t do this.”

“You can,” the midwife said. “You are. I see her!” 

“Well then, get her out of there!”

Seth got to see her. Head. Shoulders. Body. And then they were handing me this slick, purple mess even as they dried her off and lifted me to the bed. It was 1:41 p.m. 

I didn’t cry. I smiled. I think. I was in shock and awe. And isn’t it funny how the pain fades and you forget how awful labor was? It was my precious, tiny baby - with a perfect head because she’d come so fast.

Until they said, “Now the placenta has to come.”

I almost wailed in protest. But it wasn’t nearly as bad. Nevertheless, I was still so very thankful that my Jael Alexandria weighed only 6 pounds, 11 ounces (19 inches long). 

I was thankful she nursed well immediately,  and thankful we had those precious hours after birth together as a family. And thankful for the a labor fast enough that my husband feared a roadside birth. (The 8 hours they recorded doesn’t sound that short, but the brevity of the active labor/pushing was fabulous!)

I wonder if my grandmother had good fast birth stories?

Seasons of Life - and Home

I have been longing to write for months… Probably three months. About everything. About religion and politics and faith and how one interacts with the other. About human failures and fallacies and my own strong opinions. About life.

But life is more than what we write or think, and certainly takes priority over social sharing, so even now, as I write, I begin with that: life. And life’s changes in the last three months. Bear with me if I ramble a bit, for there is much to put into a small space.

Life changes! (32 weeks toward one BIG change!)

As I look back over life, I see the truth of Ecclesiastes more and more, “For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.” I was Daddy’s girl, the tough ranch girl when I first began to “grow up.” Then I became a college student and wished someone would pay ME to continue. I taught school - and loved it! I worked summer camp and moved to the city. Colombia became my second home and took a piece of my heart. And most recently, I became a Santa Rosan, where even the well educated use Spanish phrasing in their English. I’m so thankful for each and every experience, the shaping, the lessons, and the friends.

We saw the changes on the horizon at the beginning of this year 2018. We learned we were expecting our little girl. We learned we could move to Claunch. We learned that maybe long-term investment for “retirement” was not so intimidating as it seemed at our “advanced age.” The months since have whirled, truly feeling like the NM wind accompanying every season.

Good-bye Classroom ;-/

I said I had been “tired” from teaching every May and now I am “re-tired,” from that! :-) It was a great year to end on - sweet kids, supportive parents, a staff of friends, and a wise principal. As August rolls in, I wonder what I will do without that challenge and joy, but I look back with a smile. Seth ended his Santa Rosa mechanic-ing business on a similar note, with April and May the best months of our time in Santa Rosa and a sincere appreciation for both customers and fellow shops.  In June, we left. Leaving Santa Rosa was sad in a way - I loved my house, I had some of the best friendships I’ve ever experienced, I enjoyed my lifestyle. But for me, it was leaving to come - home.

A season past

Home. 10 miles from the little town which I lived near all of my childhood. 17 miles from my parents. In a house that belonged to two elderly maiden ladies whom I loved to visit when I was little because they’d give me a coke while my dad discussed ranch business with them. They were amazing ladies, one having trained fighter pilots for WWII, the other a scientist who helped discover penicillin. As I grew older I cleaned for them, pulled weeds, and learned to enjoy their bookshelf and knick knacks from all over the world. And they made me feel like the best cowgirl in the world because I could work on their ranch alongside all the men.

Home

Home. In a place where Seth has said, since the first time we visited, “That is one of the prettiest spots I’ve ever seen.” And it is, especially with God’s housewarming gifts of weekly rains leading to green grass, fat cows, and full dirt tanks. Home, where my child can visit her great-grandmother regularly and grow with the joy of extended family and rural community. Never has that baby gotten excited in the womb like she did on my uncle’s porch eating homemade ice cream one hot afternoon :-)!

Home. Where each project we do is something we wonder if we will keep for the rest of our lives. Home, where Seth can apply his wide range of skills - from mechanic to electric -  to ranching, while learning the parts of ranching he doesn’t know (I might like riding around talking cows with my Dad, too!). Home, where a shop built to Seth’s specs will allow our Santa Rosa business, and all the resources God provided there, to be continue. 

Home. A home provided by God with not only what we need, but all we could want. Our house was built in 1917, finished in the 1940s, yet the last people to live here did an incredible amount of work to fix it up - so we can enjoy little projects (well, redoing the hardwood floors was a big one!) instead of trying to survive while we make it livable! Even to the tiniest detail, like allowing us to use my grandparents’ almost brand new dining set to replace our worn out chairs, God has gifted us.

Throughout this moving adventure, we’ve come to wonder, “Why are we so blessed?” I, especially, look back on my life and wonder how it has come to be that I am God’s favorite. For I am. Of course, my dad says he’s God’s favorite, and I have a friend who says she’s God’s favorite. And God doesn’t fit in a box, for really He calls all those in Jesus His “chosen people” (I Peter 2:9), so we are all His favorites.

Being God’s favorite doesn’t mean a trouble free life, even though my blessed feeling right now might seem so.  Actually, Jesus said “Blessed are the poor, blessed are those who hunger, blessed are those who weep….” (Luke 6:20 - onward). That doesn’t sound like feelings I want. My heart hurt this summer as we wept with extended family for a precious 17 year old killed in a car accident. Jesus said I would have troubles, but He said the poor and hungry and weeping are blessed for having the kingdom of God, blessed for that which is coming. I am His favorite because He has chosen me for something bigger than the seasons of this life. I am God’s favorite, so in hard times, I know “this, too, shall pass.”

Right now, in the good times, I see the blessing. I am thankful and I wonder  - how I can deserve to be God’s favorite? Why do I have the privileges and pleasures I wake to every day? This morning I continued reading the book of Ezekiel (this has been a months long endeavor because somehow the prophecies of destruction and their fulfillment just do not captivate my wandering mind well) and was struck by truth. God chose Israel, disciplined Israel, and and promised to bring Israel home “for His great name’s sake.” And so He has done with me. There’s nothing exceptional about me. I am selfish and weak and human and yes, very sinful when I think about that which I know to be right and wrong. I will probably never make national news, and I’ll certainly never save a drowning child (I can’t swim). God chose me to be His favorite for His pleasure, and He made me His favorite by Jesus’s work, not by me being good.

I will end, then, my post with this thought. My God is a good, good Father. He knows every detail of my life, what has been, what is, and what will be. And it is my job to thank Him. That is the sameness in every season. That is the sun changing the horizon. That is why I am home.

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(P.S. I just finished reading Lucky: How the Kingdom Comes to Unlikely People by Glenn Packiam, which is probably why the blessedness of the troubled is fresh on my mind. I highly recommend it if you are interested in the topic of blessing and troubles seeming incompatible).