Ethan’s room is finally almost done! I feel so much better knowing he has a space to call his own, a bed to call his own, a home for his clothes and toys and crafts, and additionally a playroom in which his environment can be conducive to homeschooling/unschooling for “pre-k” next year.

Moving him from an 13′ x 15.5′ room to a 10′ x 10′ room presented many challenges, but finally we scored a loft bed set on craigslist that came with everything we needed, including a small dresser, desk w/ hutch, and even a toddler bed to put under it for the “someday” when Verity joins him. At first he was a bit timid about climbing up and down the bed, but within hours he was a total monkey about it and loves his new pad.

I still have some hopes to make some window curtains with some fabric I bought him, as well as some organizing and tweaking to do with his art desk area, but by and large we have made TONS of progress. (This was a goal of mine before I go into labor, so it feels great to be this far along!)

SEE!

I don’t even know where to begin tonight.

The words are lost to me – an amazing oversight for a talker like me, I know. I will start by explaining my state of mind lately and try to articulate what my heart is being overwhelmed by.

Thoughts have come at me, usually as phrases from my own memory, from a book I’ll be reading, from time in prayer, or from my husband or a friend. Gentle (usually) reminders steering me back on course. My reflection of late has revealed to me characteristics I don’t particularly like. Complaining. Lack of gratitude. Lack of forgiveness. Impatience. Fear of surrender, of pain, of humility, of so many things. Negative reactions and sharp words with an edginess that hints at some deeper turmoil.

There have been flat out miraculous things happening around me this year, and yet I feel hesitant to embrace them. There has been tremendous displays of sacrifice, love, concern, patience, selflessness, creative energy, positive attitudes — but I allow myself to play the role of one who has been too burned to receive it.

The gifts of those around me, even strangers and newly found friends, have been so incredibly generous. I keep getting this image of God breaking through my self-pitiful reality with outstretched arms, utilizing absolute passerby’s in His attempt to show me grace and snap me out of it.

Examples: A beautiful bouquet of flowers given to me, freely, by the florist at New Seasons. “Every one deserves flowers now and then,” she said. Deserves? Not me lady. Not me. My son holding on to my thigh when I leave for the grocery store, telling me how much he loves me and will miss me – after a week of parenting hell in which I failed miserably at nearly every opportunity to show sacrificial, kind love towards him. A husband who tries to hang on to his last drop of patience with me while I stammer on about the ill-designed layout of Ethan’s “new” used loft bed that took us over 6 hours to piece together, who has clearly had it UP TO HERE with my strange bout of o.c.d. that only comes out on him; still he talks with me, loves me, hears me cry and complain, tries to understand and reaffirm me… but isn’t too shy to tell me when I need to leave him alone and stop being a damn nag . Housemates who see my faults, fatigues, immaturity, biting remarks towards those I love the most, rambling off-balanceness of my demeanor – yet I get sympathetic smiles, hot meals, kefir shakes, a backyard shed, and love, love, love. Friends who show up to Verity’s “Celebration” today with amazing gifts – blueberry plants, herbs and edible starters, homemade cloth diapers and time-consuming stitch-work with sweet little tags. A pregnancy that I have such a difficult time being excited about and grateful for- and yet has been completely PERFECT in every way, and has been such a result of collaboration I wouldn’t know where to begin – from friends and elders who helped my marriage start the road to healing to shockingly generous donations towards my efforts to even afford a midwife to birth her.

Oh, that I could possibly be worthy of so much grace. So much attention. So much sweetness. My heart cannot contain the humbling as a result of this. Finally God’s use of my community has chipped away at my week (or more) of self-consumed funk. Feeling I have nothing to offer in return – no poetic string of words feel genuine enough to convey my gratitude and love, nor my humility at my behavior.

If Verity’s life is anything like the grace I have been given during her bearing — and I believe it is significantly linked — then my only adequate posture is one of complete face-on-the-floor worship. What a wild ride I am in for – I am completely unprepared and don’t deserve an ounce of it… which I’m guessing might be just how God works best.

So today marks my “full term” 37th week, and all I have left to say is, Welcome, Verity.
welcome, truth.

GO?
Well, not just yet. Not just yet for baby arrivals, not just yet for fully-fledged Spring. But I can feel it. BOY, can I feel it!

I’ve been getting in whatever hours I can before I close in on the “full term” mark, organizing baskets of “Verity” essentials the midwives will need if I go into labor, so on. That is what this week has been about.

That and eating. Always eating.

Here’s some pics for your enjoyment:

Ethan tosses up a little Kenton House gang symbol while giving himself a foot rub

Ethan and Caleb on the tire swing at Kenton Park

Accidentally snapped this one. OH, the mom feet … happens to the best of us, I suppose

I swear, Caleb is Ethan’s long lost male cousin

Ethan’s “I almost forgot Portland had flowers” face

Us on the town last weekend

More lovely signs of early Spring!

Homebirth Preparedness Baskets
Our floor level futon bed and co-sleeper – a cozy way to “lay in” with newborn

I suppose after a weekend of extra of walking (which kicks the cervix pressure, braxton-hicks stuff up a notch like it ain’t nobodeez bidnez), and reading Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth, and watching The Business of Being Born with my housemates, it’s not very surprising that I’ve got, among other things, my upcoming birth on my mind.

I don’t want to think about it too much, because with my last pregnancy, I felt like this just sloooooooowed down when I thought about it. If a watched pot never boils, you could say I had a barstool parked up next to the stove for weeks. Lil’ E was nearly 2 weeks “overdue” and I had tried everything to get him moving, all of which resulted in either frustration, fatigue, diarrhea, and/or a bladder infection, which came a few days after the midwife “stripped the membranes” and was sited for the reason of my eventual Pitocin induction.

The weekend before I went into labor (both synthetically and naturally induced on a Sunday night), my step-mom and I searched high and low for herbs to aid in the start of labor, even asking around the flea market for the “herb lady” to see if we could get our hands on some blue or black cohosh. Ha! At least I can laugh about it now.

Okay, so here I am, 36+ weeks, and my nose would totally grow if I said I don’t care if the “overdue” thing happens again. I care – albiet much, much less. I try so hard not to speculate, to let Verity and my body predict when she’s due to arrive. It’s hard though, because I feel so tired and the last month of pregnancy just drags on and on, it seems. It’s like the last 200 yards of your first 5k run. You just want to sprint it and be DONE!

I’ve read up on ways I can aid in my bodies readiness level, and plan to implement everything from a tea mix containing red raspberry leaves and blue cohosh root, to evening primrose oil, to sex, to walking 30 minutes a day – but I know that while these things might make all those yummy mommy parts of my body soft and strong and ready for labor – ultimately this thing is going down on its own time, and manipulating it is only bound to produce the opposite of the desired result.

Today the midwife and her “team” of two made a house visit, and for the first time we discussed the nitty gritty like – when should I call her? What do I need to have on hand for the homebirth? So on. I ordered my “Homebirth Kit” shortly thereafter, complete with delicious sounding supplies like: maternity briefs, underpads, perineal irrigation bottle, sterile gloves, gauze, and plastic backed sheets. Mmmm. If that doesn’t make ya think about the lovely process of birth, I don’t know what will! As far as the appointment went, we opted for no internal exam because, really, it won’t mean anything anyway. I am measuring small but she said that’s because Verity is already so low. I’ve gained a pound in 2 weeks (so far a total of 25 pounds, nice!). I have consistently “perfect blood pressure” and everything is “perfect perfect perfect”.

Oh, and another nice thing is that I tested negative for Group B Strep- something I was positive for with my last Florida birth and which prevented me from being allowed in the hospital birthing pool, prevented me from anything less than a 48 hour stay once the baby was born, and required me to be hooked up to antibiotics during labor. NOT FUN.

Well I just downed a larger-than-average bowl of shrimp etoufee, followed by some carrot souffle, and I’m beat.

Um, yeah, so… back to work

The 30 day countdown has begun until Verity’s arrival, and with it – ANOTHER sinus cold. I blame it on the Kombucha that I squirted out my nose the other night when I laughed too hard

Oh, life is hard, but it could be a lot worse. These last few week’s have been rough for me emotionally. There are a million factors that play into this, but its been a bit of a downward time for me, and yet I feel I should acknowledge how grateful I am for the support that God has brought my way, esp in the form of our new housemate, Lacey.

There are little things she has done, she may not even be aware of them, that have eased this transition for me a great deal. From her example with her husband and son, to eating her nutritious yummy meals, to a few heartfelt talks where she listened (cried, laughed, you know). And it’s always so timely, too. When I was struggling with what it means to forgive and talking with my counselor about it specifically, I heard her say something about a situation in her life that went something like this: “It’s not okay, but I forgive you.” Ah-hah! I had something to chew on for days, let me tell ya. Beginning to forgive Hubby doesn’t mean I was fine with what happened, it doesn’t mean I am okay with it. I know this seems pretty elementary, but it seriously struck a chord with me.

Last night we were up knitting or puttering around on our laptops with the tv on in the background, and I took a small leap in vulnerability and verbalized how I feel every time I read or hear a wife praise her husband. There was this blog I happened on where the bio of the author said something about her “amazing husband” and I just felt myself writhe a bit. With an internal eye roll, I often cynically write off these types of proclamations because in my own limited experience, the thought that one’s husband is “amazing” really means that you don’t know what his secrets are. And if you really do have an amazing husband, well then, I’m just plain ol’ covetous of your situation

I know, I know: it’s a subjective and relative statement, after all. It’s just that to me, being able to praise my husband on such a level would feel extremely vulnerable. Despite that my husband, as he is now, is about as wonderful as they come, I still find myself weighing it against the previous 5 years of betrayal. I don’t know many husband’s who take hours out of their life each week to go to dedicate themselves to a recovery program, who ride their bikes to/from work 9 miles a day to save money for the family, who would walk out of their job if I needed his help at home, who does equal -if not more- share of the household chores and parenting time when he gets home after a full work week. Hubby prays with me out loud every night, holding his breath for the day when I will feel ready to pray out loud with him as well. He patiently endures my expressions of distrust, pain, immaturity, outbursts, fear and long list of shortcomings. Not only does he listen, he responds with how sorry he is and how much he loves me, even when he has to state a boundary for me to respect, he reminds me of his love. I can’t tell you how miraculous it is, the behavior I have seen in the last 9 months. And yet, I have such a hard time expressing my gratitude towards him or anyone else for his efforts towards health.

So what this post is ultimately about is to take a step towards acknowledging my husband, who is handsome, loving, helpful, and patient. While I feel like a blanket statement that “my husband is amazing” is reserved for those lucky woman who have all of the above PLUS a seamless track record of fidelity and honesty, I want to say that … gosh darn it … I’m lucky too, despite our painful past, which maybe one day I will be able to see as a blessing that brought us closer and more deeply intimate with Christ, others, and even each other.

I love you, Chris.

Enjoy the week in pictures:

This morning welcomed us as most do: a preschooler ready to up and at’um while I toss pillows at him to go back to sleep (ooooorrrrrrrr chase him to his room, endure his upset crying, raise my voice, wake up the whole house, try miserably to get back to sleep, etc etc etc).

Finally we rolled out of bed (after we gave up and invited him into ours) and found a tad burst of energy (okay, maybe it was the coffee) to make pancakes, pick up the house, watch a little news, and get through a few more small boxes. We all had long-awaited appointments with “Mama the Beautician”, too. Lil’ E was first in line for a short haircut, followed by Mama (me, in case that wasn’t obvious) who treated herself to a warm shower and subsequent lathering of lavender almond oil with freshly painted toenails. Last came Hubby; haircut as well.

I’m looking at those dark red little toenails now and assuming this day will be the last I can reach them until my hiccuping Verity vacates the premises. I can hardly believe I’ve got about a month to go- it seems only a month ago I found out I was expecting again.

Though the beginning of this journey (pregnancy) was very difficult, and still is in a number of ways, I am slowly getting used to the idea– (I even purchased my first item for her this weekend- a sweet little homemade vintage-style jumper dress for 8 bucks at Vintage on Hawthorne — I smile every time I see it and can’t bring myself to fold it up and put it in her drawers yet). I am also so grateful for a healthy body that strongly carries babies to fruition. Maybe that sounds weird, but its true. Even when things are difficult otherwise, I do have much thankfulness and confidence in my body’s abilities when it comes to things like this. I feel, on the whole, capable, well-nourished, and balanced — despite fatigue, hormonal and emotional ups and downs, life stressors and spiritual dryness. Maybe the hot shower, lavender oil, and fresh home-brewed Kombucha has set me into the “my body ROCKS” mentality, but I really am grateful for all it has given me, and of course to God for the blessing. I love how the less I mess with my body, the better it is. For example, I’ve seen a clinic/hospital medical doctor probably less than 5 times in 20 years (I assume I went more in my early years for shots and stuff, but since then it’s been almost nil). I believe in listening to my body and giving it the time and nourishment to heal itself from ailments I have grown a lot stronger. I used to think I was so odd because my dad never took me “in” for antibiotics or check-ups like most of my friends did several times a year. Now I am SO grateful, because that gave me the opportunity to learn to deal with the causes rather than the symptoms, allowing me to heal from the inside out. Though I fail all the time with regards to nutritional and physical neglect, time and again my body responds to gentle aids and preventative lifestyle changes so well, and I feel more healthy this year than any year prior in my life.

What I’m getting at is this: I trust my body with this pregnancy, and with the upcoming labor. I know that God has His hands on me, bringing life into the world in the most miraculous way (not only in the astounding universal physical way, but in our own unique story as a recovering couple and my journey during this pregnancy- with depression, anger, fear, acceptance, forgiveness, boundaries, rest, simplicity, humility, homesickness, helplessness, miracles, surrender, on and on and on! Phew- it’s been a pretty darn exhausting detox!).

Right now, my vision for this birth is one of acceptance. I accept the timing of labor, calling it neither “early” “on time” or “late”. I accept the labor experience, whether an ideal homebirth or not – even a c-section. I just accept it. My natural tendency is to control my situations, to dread the possible outcomes and anticipate my disappointment – all pretty prideful, actually. While I have a hope for the birth, I remember that I am not the scriptwriter for my life, or anyone elses — including my children or husband. 7 years ago, my hopes and ideals for my marriage were so very far from the reality of the experience I have had — and yet, all is well. My hopes and ideals for my son’s life and myself as a mother have also proved to be an experience I was completely unprepared to handle – but all is well there too.

It’s fairly accurate to say that I used to think as through I was the artist of my life, painting out what the finished work should look like (while carefully protecting myself from mistakes). My “masterpiece” was quite a mess, wasn’t it? All those colors kinda became that brownish-gray that comes from the frantic pursuit to correct the “wrongs” and the canvas was soaked and overworked. How much more delightful it is to sit back and watch the real Master at work and accept the patterns and movements as part of His plan.

I have so enjoyed some sweet conversations with friends – fellow mothers – these last few days, and some great laughter too. My heart is filled with gratitude for being able to release through story-telling, confessions, and concern for others as well. I hope to enter the week ahead with a wiser head on my shoulders, with less victim-thinking and more surrender. I hope to step out of my self-condemnation and into true repentance; to get a bit further passed the hang ups of my failures and allow myself to receive the grace of a loving Father.

Sure, I also hope to get some days to sleep in – some mornings to wake up to peace rather than annoyance. But what I really desire is to wake up to ANYTHING and still be able to say, it is well.

My mother-in-law recently shared with me this artilce by Peggy Noonan called There’s No Pill For This Kind of Depression. She believes it sums up the feeling of people her age with regards to our current economic state in America and asked me to reflect on the article a bit and speak for my generation on whether or not this article resonates with us as well.

After some thought, I rambled a bit (you know me!) and then decided to share with you all as well since it’s already in the forefront of my mind.

While I can’t speak for all 20-somethings, I think I’ve got a handle on how many, or even most, folks my age are “adjusting” to the crash of Wall Street, of varying degrees I’m sure. I’d love to hear your thoughts too — all ages welcome to chime in!

I think that what people my age are feeling is almost the opposite of what people your age are feeling.

This part of the article struck me: “We are worried, he said, ‘about a way of life, about the loss of upward trajectory.’” You see, we had not yet the opportunity to grasp at the “upward trajectory” you had. We didn’t have jobs for 25 years, savings accounts and investments. We were used to being “poor”, and had little desire for a bigger home, or even to own a home at all. We didn’t have much to lose: no wills or life insurance or car payments or mortgages- most people in their twenties don’t even know what exactly is the difference between a CD or a Roth IRA, lol. They never had enough money to utilize America’s prosperous years anyway!

Most of the people I know had already assumed that the values of the last 10-20 years of American prosperity were overrated and on their way out. It didn’t take the economic decline to tell us this. We could see our older generations clinging to their American Dream and we weren’t sure we wanted that.

This is in many ways what I have been studying for several years – this postmodern, millennial generation that tends towards a kind of intangible life where meaning and mystical experiences replace the security of their trust fund. For example, young Christians didn’t want large mega churches void of religious symbolism, or as some coin them “seeker friendly”- but the older generations really, really thought these “campus-model” churches were THE answer for attracting youth. After all, they had grown accustom to affluence and wanted ever more of it – why wouldn’t we follow suit?

Instead, we flocked to small, intimate places of worship where we sensed something sacred – and there were major growths towards religions which are known for simplistic living, such as Buddhism and monastic communities. This all PRIOR to the “great crash”. The great crash, then, had less effect on us. Basically, all it means is that it’s harder to find jobs, and those of us with credit card debt are learning a hard lesson, that’s for sure. But we still have hopes for America, ideals that span beyond being the strongest empire of the West. (We are secretly HAPPY that the foundation of affluence has been shaken. Now you’re all in the same boat as us! LOL)

Another example: I keep seeing on the news this feature story that the older generations are wondering how to keep up the “green” trend as cost of such products don’t fit the paychecks of the economic recession. We keep hearing reports that families of, say, 35-55 year old adults who are eating more fast food and cheap, mass-produced ingredients. But I look around and those of us in our 20’s are doing just the opposite. And we aren’t buying Seventh Generation All-Purpose Cleaner and eco-diapers either – we’re doing what our grandparents did and returning to traditional, gentle cleaners like baking soda, or simple, healthy meals from local sources, or cloth diapers. We don’t want to buy cheaper shoes or cook wear that we’ll have to replace each year, we’d rather buy wooden toys or USA made high quality shoes, or cast iron skillets – things that we can rely on for 25 years! We’re apt to learn to sew up the holes in our socks rather than perpetuate our previously wasteful attitude about possessions. Again, the economic “crash” of Wall-street is far removed from us- if anything it only proved our thoughts of scaling BACK were right on!

The depression, if any, that we suffer is very short term. It’s easier to let go of that (false) vision of unending prosperity when you haven’t had it — or have only had it for a short time. Most folks in their 20’s, young families like mine, can come away rather unscathed- and not the least bit surprised!

And we don’t want Obama to come in and take us back the Clinton era. (God, that would be awful!) We want to work on the long-haul, deeper issues of America and create a country that is balanced and sustainable for the long run – so our children can grow up in a place where people care about each other and the land flourishes, where people are idealistic and educated at the same time, so they can lead the nation into a future that doesn’t look like the 30’s — but doesn’t look like the 90’s either!

It’s passed the point of cuteness, for real.

There’s one of my favorite lines from A Christmas Story, when the neighborhood bully is pulling (Swartz’?) arm and he screams uncle. If you listen closely, he is already murmuring it under his breath while the bully walks over!

Well, this is me, metaphorically speaking. Labor is several weeks away but I’m murmuring “uncle, uncle, uncle” – preemptively peeing my pants in surrender.

I’m exhausted. Even with lots of sleep and a comfy bed, I’m still on a razor’s edge of annoyance until about 3pm every day. I don’t want to be climbed on, talked to, asked of, or anything otherwise resembling putting my brain to work with regards to my darling 3 year old. I wake up and then hold my breath all day for the moment when he’s in bed again. Terrible, I know! He is a constant talker, constant eater, and otherwise constant NEEDER of my devoted motherhood and I just wish there was a toddler-ready book I could read him to explain that there ain’t nuthin more to give, kid!

Verity seems to be making her way into the world with much the same personality. Active little go-getters (I have no idea where they get it from!). She was up exploring ALL ASPECTS of her womby cave from, and I kid you not, 4 am – 6 am last night. I was so tired, all I could do was whimper in my fatigue and surrender to the punches and kicks until at last she tuckered out.

“uncle…”

I’m only 34.5 weeks right now, in case you’re wonderin. I could have as much as 7.5 weeks left. Now is not the time to fall over in defeat, men! Pray for my sanity, patience, energy, and general with-it-ness, people!

Things move all the time. All around; within, without.

Anger to forgiveness, hurt to reconciliation, control to surrender, concern to trust, fear to freedom, isolation to being known, judgment to compassion, idealism to practice, sickness to healing, fatigue to rest, false security to reckless abandon. All towards — and often back again at some point.

And so I have moved …

Moved from one residency to another.

Moved from privacy and independence towards community.

Moved from “pregnant” to “oh-my-god-I’m-dilating-so-now-this-sh*ts-for-realz”.

Moved from traditional bed to a cotton futon on the floor which hurt like a mother until I added a 3″ natural latex topper with a 1″ sheepskin on top. Mucho mejor!

Moved from an aunt of two nieces to an aunt of 3 (congrats Rachel!)

Moved inside out by life. Wearing soft flesh outside of raw skin, puzzling and pondering the hours that pass, the changes that occur, the paradigm shifts… very distracting, all this moving.