Weary Wednesday

This is what I am doing today:

... as well as beating down three massive loads of laundry, packing, vacuuming and Windexing the Jeep, fielding questions from students, wondering where all the leftover mac and cheese ran off too, eating Snickerdoodles, and trying to convince my two year old to take his nap.

Bag it.

This morning as I was getting my son ready for Mom’s Morning Out, I pulled out some fresh pull-ups and he promptly told me, “No, I want to wear these” - these being his Lightning McQueen and Mater underpants. This was a pretty big moment because ever since the baby was born, Daniel has resisted underwear showing a strong preference for the pull-ups, even preferring them over being naked. I thought all little boys preferred to run around naked, but not this kid.

So I swung into gear getting his backpack ready now with two extra pairs of underwear, pants, and headed into the kitchen for a plastic bag for potential accidents that might occur at school. I reached my hand under the kitchen sink and pulled out a wad of plastic Wal-Mart bags. I paused. I reached back under the sink and pulled out a wad of Target bags.

A Target bag would be classier than a Wal-Mart bag.

Yes, that thought actually cross my mind. In what universe do reused grocery bags and the word "classy" mingle? - Apparently in my head. It makes complete sense to me that a teacher would pull out a Wal-mart bag for my son's urine soaked pants and think, "Tisk, tisk. They are a Wal-mart family. That explains so much", but would think upon pulling out a Target bag, "I knew that mama was hip!" While we are on the subject of the absurd, why did I even care? Last week I had some huge revelation that I should rise above the pettiness of female comparison and wear my (lack of) style with pride, and there I was pondering which brand of bag would make me look less like a hick.

As I came back inside from loading the car, Daniel was standing by Matthew’s car seat trying to pick him up and whining, “Help! Need to take Matthew!” My sweet little boy was worried I was going to forget to load up his brother. I was caught in my moment shameful insecurity by my little boys reminding me of the things that matter – love, family, the excitement of them reaching new milestones as their little lives go whizzing by, and not forgetting the baby.

After dropping Daniel off at school, I reflected on the morning and how fortunate I was to have any grocery bags under my sink. It meant we were fed. I was blessed to be able to take him to a program at all and have a few hours just to lavish love on the baby. I am so thankful for a God that forgives me of my ingratitude and a Savior that offers to take my cold stingy heart and make it generous and warm.

(I should add that he came home dry and no bags were needed!)

Closing Out Summer - Pics

Mutt Amongst Purebreds - Female Insecurity

At Mom's Morning Out drop-off, I am a mutt amongst purebreds. Each morning I pull into a parking space and herd the toddler to the sidewalk while I unload the baby and then clumsily make my way to the door eying all the other moms chatting in their tennis skirts or their designer jeans and blouses. I feel their eyes on me, and I think a million thoughts of how they must perceive me looking like I walked straight out of a session of summer camp.

This morning I arrived wearing this:

It didn’t help that my Target gym shorts were riding up between my thighs rubbing together from the twenty pounds of postpartum fat I have only managed to add to since giving birth. It didn’t help that I felt like my gut was about to bust from the previous night’s dinner at I-Hop where I consumed French toast, pancakes, scrambled eggs, a double order of bacon and my son’s hash browns. It didn’t help that I had yet to shower and my bangs which are now just past my nose were tacked back with bobby pins.

This has nothing to do with parenting or keeping up a house. Honestly, I unfairly assume these women outsource most familial duties while sipping on lattes, feet propped up for a pedicure, boxy designer shopping bags on the floor next to them. This has nothing to do with men. The only men at MMO are the church staff coming in an out of the building. I’d probably feel more comfortable around men. I reflect on if I disappoint my husband for a second, and while I’m sure my husband loves to see me in a dress, I know he loves that I am a little rough around the edges. He likes to kiss me knowing my face won’t melt off onto his lips. He likes that I run through the sprinkler and dig in the dirt and enjoy tromping through streams.

This has everything to do with women comparing themselves to other women on a purely superficial level. It embarrasses me that I do this. If it bothered me enough, I suppose I could change. No, I can’t afford their clothes, but I could put a little time into my hair and at least make sure my clothes match. I could shelve my Chacos for some cute flats. But here’s the deal, I really like cuddling the baby in the morning until I hear the toddler yelling “Maaaamaaaa!” I like dancing with them or watching Curious George on the sofa. I like playing cars on the floor. I like spending a little time writing for my blog and reading news articles. We play up until the minute we have to load up the car for school. And darn it, I really like my Chacos.

The truth is, I am never going to be a purebred. It’s not how I am built. So I need to quit complaining and quit comparing and be content with who I am. Much of me is who I have chosen to be, and the parts of me that really matter lay beneath the surface anyhow. I am valued and loved, and I am beautiful even though I don’t see it most of the time. In my house, I am a queen amongst kings. Our noble steed - Miles the fish. The lady who is forever in waiting - Nala the kitty. Our castle – a happy little two-story on a third-acre of unmanicured lawn and upturned gardens. And it works for me.

Our Day at Parks in Pics

Leaf boats in the restored stream at Kaplan Park

"It's okay to get your feet we!" - something you shouldn't have to tell a boy

Throwing the back fill of the cross vane into the the pool - AKA throwing rocks!

First time in a swing

"I think I could get used to this"

Weee!

Forgotten

Did you know, that after you said goodbye, I quit sleeping? On the hot summer nights in my bunk I thought of you. I tried to talk to the God who claimed you for himself, but it hurt so deep that my words just came out as silent tears drowning in the nightly chorus of screaming crickets and cicadas.

I watched as she changed. We rarely spoke of you, but you were there. In each circular conversation as her mind grew distant, I knew she was lost because you were gone. Eventually I begged for God to have mercy on her. I asked her to say "hi" to you for me. Tell him I love him and miss him.

After I said goodbye to her one last time, she visited me in my dreams. Sometimes you did too. I would awake with that treasured feeling of having sat in your den, plate of waffles and bacon, little tin pot of butter, hearing the shuffle of your feet go down the hall.

Eventually in my dreams I'd visit your house but you weren't there. I'd look high and low for some piece of furniture, some small trinket that would signify you were still there, that the house was still yours. I moved into the house once for a time, glasses were still in the cabinets, frozen doughnuts in the freezer, but it was lonely. The streets of your neighborhood were scary and dark.

Last night I visited again.

The two of you sit on a shelf in my dining room. You watch me feed my boy. You see me get frustrated and yell, and I look up to you to ask forgiveness for not honoring the person you hoped I'd one day be. Sometimes I kiss my fingers and place them to the glass where you pause together on the bench at my school, indulging me in a photograph. I have always kept you two with me. For a time I had to put the frame away because being watched made me nervous. Before you were framed, you once accidentally hitched a ride taped to the seat of my pants as I went to check the mail.

I fear being forgotten.

So I write. I write to capture the small moments that shape me. I write so that my words will make an impact. I write to change hearts. I write so that I won't be forgotten. Your words changed me - the words you spoke of my father, the words you spoke into my life as I headed off to college, the words you both must have prayed over my life even before I was born.

One day, your names will be forgotten. There will be no memories of you. But these words that have changed me, that have brought the unending love of Jesus into my life will carry on as they change the lives of my children - those same children who have never met you - and their lives and their words will carry on down the line.

In the end, it is not our names that sustain us. It is not memories of us. It is not what we did or didn't do. It is the words spoken from the very beginning, "Let there be light." It is His words that live on in us and through us and after us, breathing life into death, weaving a story so grand and so beautiful that I have no need to fear being forgotten.

Seeing Jesus in the PPD

Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. James 1:2-4

As I let my fingers fall upon the keyboard, I hesitate bringing Jesus into this publicly because I know that a lot of judgment has been passed on women suffering PPD and other forms of depression in the name of religion. There are women, some of my friends even, that have struggled accepting medical help under the belief that somehow it was a sign of weak faith, and that only if they spent more time in prayer and repentance they would be pulled out of the funk. I am not going to deny that Jesus miraculously heals people every day, but to put that type of pressure on a women or to deny God's ability to work through medication and the wisdom of doctors would be foolish. At the same time, to deny there was a spiritual component to depression or any illness for that matter would be to make too little of God. What I do want to discuss is how I have seen Jesus during this process.

For me to share my struggles publicly is nothing big to me. So when I shared in community group (our smaller family within the church body) the darkness of my thoughts during nights when I was unable to sleep, I didn't feel vulnerable or embarrassed or even brave. I was just stating a matter of fact. What I didn't expect was the outpouring of love. People that knew us well and those that were fairly new in our lives brought over meals, entertained our kids, shared their similar experiences, and sent me encouragement and have continued to follow up with me. Other friends who have read my blog posts have been faithful in prayer and encouragement. Friends with infants who were also up at night prayed for me while they nursed their own infants.

I step outside myself to observe this time and think, "How blessed am I?" I tend reflect on my time with PPD and think that I've had it pretty easy compared to many women - even questioning if it was simply sleep deprivation. But it terrifies me to think of where I would be had my friends not carried me through this time. My friends have quite literally been the arms of Jesus. As I spend time playing and laughing with my boys and even on the rough days where I feel like a total failure of a mom, once they are tucked in for the night (or at least the next two hours), I am filled with so much joy that they are mine, that God has entrusted me with these precious little lives and given me the gift of motherhood. I look forward to getting another chance the next day. I think it is important to share that joy, to say that yeah, there have been rough patches but I am completely overwhelmed with the beauty in my life.

This time of trial has been a such a blessing in that it has provided a chance for me to lean into my family and rest in the care of my community and learn to trust people again. I also have seen that my voice has been a source of strength to others. I don't take the credit for this, but I think it it just another way that Jesus uses trials when we don't run from them or try to hide them. Finally, as our family has faced not only this but a list of other pretty hard stuff over the past couple years, I feel like we've grown stronger, we've developed perseverance.

To my friends and family, to the strangers who read and comment, to those of you I have just met and hope to grow with, to my sweet husband who works so hard in the office and when he is at home, thank you! Thank you for showing me Jesus by loving me and my family.

Beef and Lamb Tuscan Meatloaf

Jen over at The Harvest recently re-requested my Tuscan Meatloaf recipe, claiming "it was the best EVER". Sadly I can't claim full creation rights behind that one as I concocted it from several different recipes, but I do have to concede that it is pretty yummy, with the secret being I use fresh herbs from the garden. This recipe produces a savory rather than sweet or tomatoey meatloaf. Enjoy!

Serves 8

2.5 lbs ground beef and lamb*
1 onion finely chopped
2-3 cloves crushed garlic
3 eggs
1 tomato petite diced or 1 can
1 tsp salt
black pepper to taste
1/4 cup Italian bread crumbs**
1/4 cup Italian bread crumbs
a sprig or two of fresh rosemary, thyme, and oregano, chopped***

* You can use just beef or a combination. I use 2 parts beef to 1 part lamb.
** I buy the canisters from the grocery store. It is more of a meal.
*** I end up with about 1 tbs of the spices.

Set aside 1/4 of bread crumbs. Mix the rest of the ingredients and form a large loaf. Cover with the remaining Italian bread crumbs. Place in a loaf pan lined with foil. Cook at 425F for 15 min and reduce to 375F and cook for 1 hour and 15 minutes or until internal temperature is safe.

Proving that Overalls ARE and Always will be In Style

This is a shout out to all the fine bloggers from Raleigh I had the pleasure of meeting last night. Don't ever let anyone tell you what you can or can't rock! Can I get a "Bow-chicka-wow-wow"?



Yes, laugh. This is meant to be funny.

For those who are curious (and this is in the comments as well): All of these were likely purchased more than 7 years ago. The long denim ones are Todd Oldham Jeans from Marhalls, the khaki ones are from Old Navy, and the short ones (probably from bought back in the 90s) are Route66 from Kmart. I was about 30lbs lighter when I first wore the short ones, which I mainly wore to square dances at summer camp.

Postpartum Depression and Insomnia - Sorting out the Symptoms

This week I have been reading posts by the courageous women at lives less ordinary on their experiences with postpartum depression. It has been very enlightening and encouraging to a newbie who is just beginning to sort through questions like, "What is caused by the depression, and what is just sleep deprivation?" My PPD hit around week four when I quit being able to fall back asleep after middle of the night feedings. It made absolutely no sense - I was exhausted but could not shut off my brain and constantly heard "Phantom baby" cries echoing in my head.

At times I am 100% convinced I am just dealing with sleep deprivation until the nights I have the opportunity to sleep but am unable. It is completely unfair, but sleep deprivation can trigger the onset of PPD, and PPD can cause insomnia. Insomnia is one of the nasty symptoms of PPD that snowballs the conflicting feelings of anxiety and apathy that seem common amongst women with PPD. I've read over and over, "I just couldn't pry myself off the couch." Yesterday I had one of those days. Both kiddos were upstairs crying, and I sat downstairs completely immobilized on the couch trying to muster up the energy to go be mom. This was after four consecutive nights of getting less than four hours of sleep.

On really good days, those after reasonable sleep, I begin to think that perhaps I'm in the clear. I think about going off meds, I think about taking on new responsibilities and diving back into time consuming hobbies. Whenever I start to deny what I am dealing with, I head over to WedMD for a quick refresher of the symptoms:

If you have postpartum depression, you have had five or more depressive symptoms (including one of the first two listed below) for most of the past 2 weeks, including:¹

• Depressed mood-tearfulness, hopelessness, and feeling empty inside, with or without severe anxiety.
• Loss of pleasure in either all or almost all of your daily activities.
• Appetite and weight change-usually a drop in appetite and weight, but sometimes the opposite.
• Sleep problems-usually trouble with sleeping, even when your baby is sleeping.
• Noticeable change in how you walk and talk-usually restlessness, but sometimes sluggishness.
• Extreme fatigue or loss of energy.
• Feelings of worthlessness or guilt, with no reasonable cause.
• Difficulty concentrating and making decisions.
• Thoughts about death or suicide. Some women with PPD have fleeting, frightening thoughts of harming their babies: these thoughts tend to be fearful thoughts, rather than urges to harm.

Yes, I can check or have been able to check off five items from that list, and this is going to take time to get in the clear. One good week doesn't negate the bad ones. Perhaps the only reason I've been able to have good weeks is because of the intervention. I'd hate to venture out with guns blazing only to be shot down to the state I was at around six weeks postpartum. Hormone levels are still out of whack and sleep is never a guarantee... and you all know how ugly the really low days can feel, whether or not you suffer from PPD.

The insomnia is something that I am attempting to get a handle on through natural methods. I don't need another bout with Ambien. I have tried Melatonin, which may or may not have been helping. Today I am starting back on Vitamin D supplements, for which I was prescribed a year and a half ago due to Vitamin D deficiency but had to stop taking when pregnant. I have read several posts of people who suffered from insomnia until they got their D deficiency under control. I'm also getting more active during the day, steering clear of caffeine, and making sure I don't go to bed on an empty stomach.

For those of you who have dealt with the insomnia that comes with PPD, what has worked for you? I would love some tips!

To Fall Garden or Not

This is the right time to be planting lettuce and other fall crops and planting garlic for the spring, but I'm torn on whether or not I want to start something. Bulletted list, commence.

• Time is a valuable resource, and I'd like to get back at the wheel and throw some Christmas gifts while the weather is nice. 
• I already have broccoli in the ground and dropping some lettuce seeds is simple enough, 
• We really want to reorganize the boxes and build some new ones, so if I plant, that makes moving boxes difficult. 
• We have some weed control to do. 
• I don't really like lettuce that much.
• We need to put down mulch everywhere and a pre-existing bed of lettuce would prevent that... garlic wouldn't.

I should also be prepping my strawberry bed for the winter soon. I never treated it with fungicide and I'm half tempted to just pull them out of the ground and use that space for something else... daring, I know. It's just that the strawberries are so little and the bugs beat me to them, so their yield for the space requirement is low. Anyhow, I'm a HUGE fan of Driscoll's strawberries, which Trader Joe's carries.

Decisions, decisions...

The Professor of Poop

Let's all do the group groan... yes, you knew it was bound to come at some point - Matthew's first poop story.

My number one job is mom, but my number two job (bahahaha) is Adjunct Assistant Professor of Bio and Ag Engineering. Several weeks back I was approached by one of my students to serve on her graduate committee, and after hesitating and throwing the "I have a baby and toddler" excuse, she told me just to bring them along. Have you ever tried to have a two year old sit still for an hour? HERDING CATS. The first meeting came around and Daniel had school, so it was looking to be a semi-sane meet and greet with the committee to hear all about the project.

Babies never ever poop during that ten minute window where you are not distracted and can tend to their business. They do, however, always wait until ten minutes in to get things going. I sat listening and nodding to the chair of the committee who was explaining the background details of the research, when I felt the vibrations in my lap. Never mind that it was hardly audible, there was plenty visual evidence of Matthew's undertakings when I lifted him to scope out minor leaks. HIS SIDE WAS ORANGE.

At this point, I spread his blanket on the carpet next to the trash can as I tried to maintain modesty in my knee length split denim skirt. As I begin to unbutton his jumper, I debate back and forth "Do I wipe his side and leg before removing the diaper or after? What do I do with the clothes? Nope the blanket now isn't salvageable either." I pull out a spare trash bag from the bottom of the can, all the while smiling and nodding as the chair continues to talk. I stripped Matthew down peeling the jumper down rather than over the head, wiping him as I go, dumped the jumper in the trash bag, dumped the diaper and wipes in the can, and got him a fresh diaper before dumping the blanket in the bag and stuffing the bag in the bottom of the stroller, where PRAISE THE LORD there was an extra onesie (probably dirty and used to wipe spit-up two weeks ago).

Ya'll, I pulled off a major diaper blowout with grace and dignity I didn't know I was capable of. I resisted the urge to yell "HOLY CRAP!" and swivel Matthew around in the air to show off the mess. Granted, my student who could see it all maintained wonderful composure as well, because if she had even hinted at a smile I might have cracked up, thus derailing the meeting. In the words of Lightning McQueen, "KA-CHOW!"

JC Raulston Arboretum

The insane headache from fall pollen was worth the morning I had with the boys yesterday at the Arboretum. Despite a very last minute text rally of my friends, the three of us were alone for our little picnic but still had a lovely time.

Countdown to Thirty and Healthy

If you know me at all, you know I love cheese, butter and potatoes, often drink milkshakes, and almost never exercise. You have probably also heard me quip that I will start eating healthy foods and exercising when I turn thirty. My logic in this is that by the age of forty habits of health are pretty firmly set, so making changes at thirty gives me a decade to get myself together.

Guess what ... by the end of this year I will be thirty.

Around my mid twenties I discovered that good genetics were no longer allowing me to down a pepperoni pizza before doing flips off the diving board, and my high consumption of cheese was ousting my thighs from my size 6 jeans. Two babies later and I no longer have a pant size. So thirty, here I come.

It's really not about a number on the scale or clothing size, but I definitely have some goals in mind. Here's the deal. I don't want to starve myself. I still want to eat pizza. I still have a baby to breast feed. I don't like weird foods. I'm a southern girl with southern tastes, and that's not going to change. What I do plan on changing is lowering my salt intake, increasing my water vs chocolate milk/juice/soda/alcohol consumption, incorporating more fresh veggies into meals, and eating healthier snacks. We may have a conversation about sugar at some point as well.

And yes, I am going to start getting more exercise, but I don't want to go to a gym or run or do yoga. I want exercise to be a natural part of our day. As a family we are going to start walking a lot more. This Saturday we went walking and played at the park, and then on Sunday we walked 1.2 miles to church and back. I want to take the boys to more parks with open areas where we can run around and play soccer or tag.

These three months 'till thirty will be my warm up lap of sorts. Feel free to drop tips, recipes, successes and failures! And if you are in town, let's make a play date!

He Said, She Said

Me: I love my babies! I have two babies.
Daniel: Mommy has TWO babies!
Me: Matthew is my baby, and Daniel is my baby.
Daniel: Noooo...
Me: Are you not my baby?
Daniel. No. I'm Scooby Man!

New KICKS

A true testament to my dorkiness... or rather my lack of hipness (hippitude?) is that in trying to come up with the post title, I had to look up the trendy word for shoes. At first I thought maybe it was "diggs" so where did I look? - at none other than Urban Dictionary.

diggs: home;place of residence;place of busines.
my bro just moved into new diggs across town.

So, it wasn't diggs. Oops. I decided to just look up "shoes", and Oh yes! KICKS is the word I am looking for. Wow, using kicks in the title will be much cooler than using "shoes".

kicks: 1. shoes 2. Doing something for fun
hey bro nice kicks u got there

OH! and just so you know I wasn't totally off base, do you remember the Little Old Lady that Lived in a Shoe? Her DIGGS were her KICKS. Eat that, hipsters. Paige: 1, Hipsters: 0.

Really, I should have just titled this "New Crocs" because that is what they are. Anyhow, a mom that has her kid wear Crocs with socks (which I fully intend to do) probably isn't cool enough to be saying "Kicks" to begin with.

We Have a Truce

 This is the other female in our house. Isn't she pretty? She is the sweetest and most gentle cat I have ever met. After she suffered the wrath of my pregnancy and postpartum disgust (yes I found another PPD, and no I did not abuse her), we have now made amends and are on friendly terms again, the truce being that in return for quality lap time, she pukes in her bowl to make disposal easier on me, otherwise she cleans up the mess herself.

Under the Waterfall - Postpartum Drowning

Husum Falls, Joe is front left, I am middle left.

This is our raft, and I am fully submerged at this point.

In the summer of 2006, Joe and I took a rafting trip down the White Salmon River in Washington. Two-thirds of the way down the river, we took a dive off a 14 ft waterfall,  Husum Falls, a class 4+ rapid. The raft stood on edge and was close to flipping just before I rolled over the side into the 38 deg F water. I was trapped at the bottom of the falls several moments before I pulled my legs into my chest and balled up with my eyes closed waiting to be spit out. They say it cycled me through three times before releasing me, during which I had the thought, "If I don't get some air soon, I am going to pass out and not be able to grab the rescue rope." Soon, I heard "Rope! Rope!" and opened my eyes to see the rope in arms length from me. Nothing felt as good as being draped over the cold wet rocks as I was pulled in to safety.

This postpartum season has not been too unlike that time I spent under Husum Falls. It seems that as I try to fight it with arms and legs flailing, I'm only met with more resistance. If I just ball up and take the ride, there's a chance I might wash through to the other side in one piece. What is balling up for me? Letting Matthew sleep in bed with me so I don't have to get up as much or worry about not being able to hear him. Balling up is letting the house go, relying on frozen pizza, and never ever wearing a bra unless I have to leave the house. Balling up is taking my medication for postpartum depression, even though it makes me uncomfortable or feel needy.

A friend recently sought help for anxiety and I encouraged her that sometimes God uses medicine to get us physically to a place where we can begin to deal with the spiritual and emotional problems that got us to where we are. So what got me here?

Most days, I don't think about postpartum depression. I feel fine. However, there is the daily reminder of popping that little pill that reminds me something is askew. While I am grateful that it seems to be helping me cope with less than ideal sleep, there are fears brewing inside. What if this isn't just PPD and I really am and always will be a funny but tired, cranky, short-tempered, person with hermit-like tendencies who will always feel a little undesired as a friend and a tad bit lonely? Oh, that just sounds entirely too depressing! However, I have always felt like a misfit... even in preschool. I didn't play the normal games that the other girls played. I didn't let the boys chase me. I tended to watch and assess long before I would join in. Pills don't fix peculiar.

Before there was postpartum depression, there was another PPD - postpartum denial. The day I got home from the hospital, I put Matthew on the couch with Joe and headed out the back door to work in the garden. I was on hands and knees pulling weeds, watering, etc. That first week, we took several trips to Target as a family. I even ventured out with just me and the boys when Joe went back to work the following week. The fourth and fifth week I logged twenty-nine hours of work from home. It is no wonder I rapidly went from "tough as nails" to "dead as a doornail". I didn't slow down enough, and so I was forced to slow down later.

Before there was postpartum depression, there was also postpartum disappointment. I was disappointed that we'd had to use savings because I didn't work for a month. I was disappointed that I got an epidural. I was disappointed that Daniel was watching so much television. I was disappointed that I had to miss my brother's wedding. I was disappointed that my garden was failing miserably. I was disappointed that I'd eased up so much on potty training. I was disappointed that Daniel went for a whole week with an infected blister before I had a doctor look at it. I was disappointed that I'd taken in my postpartum jeans after I lost the weight from my last pregnancy. I was disappointed that we couldn't go play at the pool. Yeah, it sounds incredibly whiny as I type it.

But here I am now - working when I can, doing chores when I can, but mainly trying to focus on just enjoying this time of life. I was struck at the beach at how quickly Daniel is growing up. I am doing my darndest to get in all the kisses and snuggles and laughter that I can. I don't even think I am still balled up under that waterfall anymore. I'm probably holding onto the rescue rope and maybe even grabbing hold of those rocks trying to find my footing.

Sweet Little Vacation

All summer long I've been battling some serious vacation envy, and by battling, I mean to say I've been whining about how I wish I could go to the beach every time I see pictures posted on Facebook. My sweet husband had mentioned that maybe we could go around Labor Day, and sure enough, Friday after lunch he asked if I wanted to leave when he got off work.When he got home, we rushed around the house in a mad fury to packed up the Jeep floorboards to top with chairs, clothes, toys, groceries and HUNDREDS OF POUNDS of baby and toddler stuff.

It was such a sweet little vacation. Joe found a great room on a golf resort that was sound side, and we split our time between the ocean, pools and the villa. Although we thought it would be impossible with a toddler and baby, we did actually relax! I just couldn't stop smiling as I watched Daniel and Joe play in the sand as I walked in the water, flipping over sea shells with my toes while I sang to Matthew. We lost our umbrella and forgot the sunscreen, but there was a pier right at the beach access... and we were on toddler time, so we were never out when the sun was high.

There was a wonderful cool September breeze and the water was still warm enough to swim in, so we took turns playing "booties" with Daniel, where we'd dip his booty in the water and let the big waves crash all around him. The last morning, Joe held Matthew while I dove in the waves and then took Daniel out in the water for a final dip. The sun was up but barely poking through the clouds, and the breeze chilled us when we got out of the water, but it was so refreshing!

I loved everything about the trip - how Joe called with mischief in his voice to ask if I wanted to go, how we played musical beds those three nights, how Matthew slept in the carrier as I walked on the shore, how Daniel got mad at the birds for taking his crackers, and how we just felt good together.

Red Harvest

School!

Mom's Morning Out started today for Daniel. I tried getting a better picture, but my camera was acting up and Daniel will only say cheese and look at the camera once, so I have to nail that moment perfectly. I didn't nail it. At least this captures his on-the-go nature and his tentative observation of the other kids being walked into school by their parents... and his apparent love of shrubbery. He was in a new class with new kids and was very nervous about going into the class room. Kissing his brother and kissing me didn't seem to take the edge off, but I hung around a minute or two out of site to make sure he was okay.

Motherhood: The Measuring Stick - Part 2

Yesterday after reading my post, my sweet and thoughtful friend Eileen questioned me on my use of Jesus as a measuring stick - her concern being not only I was setting impossible standards but was attempting to attain the same position as God, something that got the Archangel Lucifer booted from Heaven. I don't believe that godliness (a term often used in Christian circles) means deeming oneself to be like God or on the same level as God. I believe it has more to do with taking on the attributes of God as we spend more time in His presence and are changed by Him - for His glory, not ours.

As for impossible standards, yes they are, but that is exactly the point. We are to aim for the nature of Christ - humility. (Philippians 2) The love of God pushes us towards glad obedience. The reason I say Christ is the measuring stick is so that we do come to humility. If we compare ourselves to others, we might actually measure up okay here and there, but next to Jesus we are put in our place and have to either wither away in our failure (not the intent) or fall deeply into his arms of grace and begin to live in freedom - freedom from comparison, freedom from shame. The life of Christ brings humility not because it makes us feel bad or haunts us but because it shows us how much we are loved. When I talk about measuring myself to Christ, I mean to imply there is no measurement. He is infinitely great and and I am so tiny, so I am humbled that He in his greatness would love and pursue me.

And if He is not measuring me, then why am I measuring myself to others?

There is obviously a difference between humility and feeling like a failure. If Jesus who failed at nothing made himself humble, then I can't help but think there is great strength in humility as well. Humility leads us to sets aside entitlement, judgment, comparisons, and allows us to embrace the roles we have been called to. I love the passage in Job where God lays him out and puts him in his place asking where was Job when God created the earth. Reminding myself of God's position reminds me of the significance and singularity of His words of love over me.

The more secure we are in God's love for us, the less inclined we are to measure ourselves up against his other children. We delight in Him for His endless creativity in how he designed each of us as unique individuals. And as my friend Eileen says, we learn to support our friends rather than compete (like the silly tweens in a pool that my friend Andrea observed)