Mar 18, 2011 | Baby Photos, The Parenthood
Although it was a clever guess, Baby Brother was not hanging out in the drying rack yesterday.
Let’s be honest. This chunky monkey isn’t fitting in any dish drying racks I’ve seen.
Although we might’ve had some fun on the pool deck, there was a fire on the hills and it was really smokey around here yesterday, so we stayed indoors all afternoon.
And although Hero Hubs might like to suggest that we would hang our second-born son from the rafters…
I’m a little more on the risk-averse end of the mothering spectrum…
so loading our bundle of joy
into a thoroughly tidied fireplace on a towel and blanket
Is about as risky as I’m gonna get!
Well done, Katharine! Here are FIVE virtual high-fives for your cleverness!
ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE!
(Do you have a Jetmaster fireplace, too?)
Thanks for playing, everybody! Did you guys think those were super schweet? (Or am I a gushing newborn-mommy?)
xCC
Mar 17, 2011 | Baby Photos, The Parenthood
Where we got the cutiest patootiest photies of Baby Brother yesterday?
Here’s a hint:
First to guess gets a virtual high five. 🙂 I’ll share the shots tomorrow!
xCC
Mar 15, 2011 | The Good Word, The Parenthood
This morning I woke up (for the third time) around 7:15 am, pretty tired after also being up around 2:30 and around 5:30. Dear sweet little brother is doing well, but his timetable is a bit out of sorts, you see.
I cradled our precious bundle in my arms, my eyes still sleepy and closing on their own, and lifted my head to the Lord to say:
Lord, give me strength for today.
Now here’s the backstory to what a prayer like that means from a girl like me.
If I ask the Lord for strength first thing in the morning, I am asking for the supernatural ability to be a mover and shaker when I don’t feel like it. I’m asking for the strength to be a perfect Mom to the Bear and to Little Brother. I don’t want to step out of bounds or say anything I shouldn’t. I want to be a perfectly supportive wife and continually warm and welcoming to our darling house guest/helper. I want to tackle at least two loads of laundry — including stain treatments that have been awaiting my attention — fix a decent lunch and a delectable dinner, and do it all with a smile on my face. And heck, if I get a chance to bake something tasty, you know that’s on my list, too. {And all of these things must be interspersed in between nursing and help-the-baby-nap sessions, usually every couple hours.}
I was happy to be beginning the morning with prayer, even when I felt so tired. And as I settled in for a moment for Little Brother to enjoy his breakfast, I grabbed the One-Minute Devotional book Morning by Morning by Charles Spurgeon, which was sitting on my bedside table.
These words met me on the page:
Be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus. {2 Timothy 2:1}
I’m asking for strength, and I’m being told to find it in grace.
The Lord met me with these words to say that I am better off finding strength in His grace than asking for strength so that I can use it as my own, to try to be perfect. In His grace, it is okay that I’m tired. I have a newborn, after all. And it’s okay if I’m moving slowly and can’t accomplish everything on my list today. Grace is telling me it’s okay that I’m not perfect. Jesus is the only perfect one, and as Spurgeon explained it, like a reservoir emptying into pipes, His grace is ever-ready to pardon, to cleanse, to preserve, to strengthen, to enlighten, to bring life, or to restore. I imagine I might find an impartation of wisdom in His grace, to clarify what should be on my list today.
“Grace is always available from Him, freely and without price.”
So instead of seeking the strength to make a good performance today, I’m finding the strength that His grace affords me — a human being before a human doing — to rest in His goodness, without anxiousness or a furrowed brow of fret.
Jesus says:
Don’t worry — Each day has enough trouble of its own.
In Him we live and move and have our being.
I am the vine, you are the branches. Apart from me you can do nothing.
If I stick close to the Source, I find it again and again: it is Amazing Grace.
So, I’m a little too tired to put together a Travelling Tuesday for you today. But I’m confident that there’s grace for that. You are welcome to travel to Se7en {the life and times of a homeschooling Mom of 7 +1} where I’ve been featured on Se7en’s Missionary Focus. {What an amazing woman, behind that blog!! So inspiring.} I’ll be around, of course, but I’ll be resting in His grace.
xCC
Mar 9, 2011 | Stories, The Parenthood
We bought the Bear these fridge magnets when we were in the Carolinas (they were only $1 or something). I had visions of him standing peacefully in front of the fridge, magnets collected in one tidy corner, me saying words and helping him to spell them out, him searching and finding and lining up letters, entertained and learning at the same time.
But he has other ideas.
He prefers to take each letter, one by one, say the letter aloud, and put it in line. He starts with one colour, and then works his way through, from red to yellow to blue to green and pink and orange, and once his line has made its windy way across the fridge, he begins to go down the side of it so that the work can continue. Twenty-six carefully-placed letters later, he is happy with his creation, and he claps and cheers at his accomplishment.
In big ways and small ways, I’ve seen that life has a way of happening differently from how it would have if I was always in control. And though sometimes the picture isn’t what I had in mind, at the same time, it very often seems, it is just so much better.
Is it possible that my way is not the best way? What beautiful food for thought.
Do you ever relinquish control and feel really glad you did?
xCC
Mar 7, 2011 | Baby Photos, Guest Posts, The Parenthood
Foreword side note: I failed to send you guys off to my friend Amanda’s for a Love Song Extravaganza a few days ago! But since I’d just come home from the hospital with a newborn, you forgive me, right?
Amanda’s Musings at Seriously are as delightful as her sweet and refreshingly matter-of-fact personality. Super delightful. Her “Lerve Songs Extravaganza” started with this explanation here, and Hero Hubs and yours truly kicked off the next day with our Top Ten List right here. You can still enjoy good internet content if it’s a few days past the born-on date, right?
So. I am sure many of you would like to hear a detailed explanation of why our baby boy’s name is not Kiwano, or Nathaniel, or any of the other lovely names that were suggested when we asked for help. {I will here interrupt to admit apologetically to dear Laura Anne that Kiwano was never actually up for consideration. Forgive us. 🙂 }
Several of the names you guys suggested were at the top of the list for us — I especially liked Caleb and Ethan. The hubs wasn’t a huge fan of Caleb, and when he #1 discovered that Ethan was one of the most popular names last year and #2 thought about his feelings toward the only Ethan he knows of (actor Ethan Hawke) that name quickly lost favour. I liked Owen a lot too, but the Hubs thinks Owen Wilson is goofy. Bryson or Bryce was on the list for a while, too, I think.
It seemed that we each liked several suggestions, but we never both loved the same suggestion at the same time. There was just some X factor that we were struggling to find. For a while we fancied Lachlan, but since the meaning is “from the land of lochs” and this little one, unlike the Bear, would not be born in Scotland, it just didn’t seem right. Luke was very high on the list for quite some time, and was pretty close to being the one at a few points.
Then one day (very close to d-day) the Hubs said, “What do you think of the name Blake?” I paused to ponder the name, said it aloud and coupled it with our surname, pondered it some more and decided I loved it. Then it dawned on me: the beautiful thing that the Hubs didn’t realise was that Blake was my maternal grandfather’s name. My grandfather, my Mom’s eldest brother, his son, and his son are all Blakes. When I called my Mom to tell her it was on the list and ask her opinion, she was in tears, so we thought it was probably a keeper.
The name has two opposite meanings: fair/pale/bright or dark. As I’ve taken time to consider the multiple meanings, I’ve thought about the instructions of Jesus to be as wise as serpents and as innocent as doves. I pray that in the years to come this little one will have the wisdom to appropriately navigate whatever might come his way. And may he live as a bright and shining light for Jesus!
His middle name, for those of you who might not know, is my maiden name, and this choice was also Hero Hubs’ suggestion. The Bear carries his grandfather’s name and of course the paternal surname, so HH liked the idea of connecting this little one to the maternal side of the family. The most common meaning I’ve found for Darrow has been wielder of the spear. We pray that this little one would indeed fight the good fight of faith for the kingdom of God.
But more than just focusing on the specific meaning of the name, as I have felt a tendency to do in these forty-plus weeks, I’ve also been stirred to consider the bigger picture, the greater story. A grandfather I never had the privilege of meeting, another I knew very little of — they are both a part of the story of this child. His Dad who looked up on a sunny afternoon with a name in his heart, my Mom who wept over Skype as I whispered the possibility — this little Blake is part of a story that goes back and back and back, and will hopefully stretch forward and forward and forward. The lives we are given are an invitation to be a part of the life that has already been happening, since the Creator of the Universe first said Let there be and there was.
And into this family, this place, this time, in God’s perfect timing, this stanza in the symphony of life has begun to play its notes. With crescendo and decrescendo, pauses and rests and refrains, this one’s opportunity, this one’s moment, this one’s song has begun. Overjoyed to be on this side of the prelude, we hear the soft and sweet first notes and rejoice.
A Blake by any other name would probably be as sweet…but we find joy in welcoming him into our song and our story.
xCC
Mar 5, 2011 | The Parenthood
It was six days past due date and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not the Bear or a mouse.
The hospital bags were packed tidy and near, in hopes that Baby Brother soon would be here.
I awoke with discomfort at ten minutes to three, with cramping contractions and a strong urge to wee…
Do you really want me to keep this up? I think that’s enough.
As the story continues, at a few minutes before 3 am, on the 24th of February to be precise, Hero Hubs came to join me in the bathroom, and we started timing contractions. They were all over the show and inconsistent, so we thought we probably had a decent amount of time and didn’t need to be in a rush.
Based on how long and laborious the Bear’s labour was, we’d planned on showering and slowly making our way to the hospital. {Big mistake.} I decided to skip the shower because it felt like things were beginning to pick up, so I washed my face and started to put on make up and HH shaved and showered. I attempted to time contractions with the stop watch and lap function on his phone, but I was a little too frantic to do so when they arrived… another ten minutes, and they were suddenly coming hard and fast.
My dear husband returned from the shower to find me stressed and in the middle of a contraction. I’d only managed to put on foundation. He encouraged me to count to thirty (a technique which seems to help with the passing of each contraction because the pain usually peaks and won’t get worse after thirty seconds) and I promptly replied by telling him I couldn’t count to thirty. I may have interjected an expletive at this point, but we can’t be sure.
I think there is a special dispensation of grace for the things that might come out of ladies’ mouths whilst in labour. But the use of the expletive, along with the end of makeup application, confirmed for HH that this was actually labour and not a false alarm.
As the contractions continued, things began to get serious. I couldn’t walk around to go and get things together — they were coming so close together and so strong, I constantly felt the urge to go back to the bathroom and sit down. HH alerted Agnes that I was in labour and, being instructed to get dressed, I pulled on a black dress for some reason.
I made my way downstairs and suddenly the waters of life were a-flowing — I hurried to the loo again and by this time was beginning to feel back pain and lots of pressure. I felt like I’d soon be wanting to push, which made me panicky. Everything was happening way faster than we expected and I was not sure what to do. The contractions were so strong I was crying out in pain, even though I really wanted to be quiet and not wake the Bear.
Having gathered everything up, HH came downstairs to find me in a frantic state:
“This baby is coming!”
I heard myself exclaim, and in the back of my mind I heard my Mom saying the same thing to the nurses a little less than three decades ago as she arrived at the hospital. {I was born seven minutes later.}
I interject here to say I am not a feminist. I am very thankful when men choose to take charge in hectic situations, like they did when the Titanic was sinking and mostly women and children survived. (James Cameron got it all wrong.) Let’s resume.
Hero Hubs took charge. He instructed Agnes to help me back upstairs so that I could lay down on our bed. I got there and he was right behind me. He checked to see if the baby was crowning. He’d thought through the amount of time it would take an ambulance to arrive to deliver the baby or get me to the hospital, and decided that it would be faster to get in the car and go. I thought about the distance to Mr. Potato Head, our oddly-shaped car sitting in the parking garage downstairs.
The baby wasn’t crowning. “Let’s go to the hospital. I can get you there fast honey. If you feel the urge to push, just don’t. Let’s go now.”
The next thing I remember we were back downstairs, HH and Agnes having gathered up the hospital bags, my purse, our camera, etc., and me standing by the door with a towel to catch the water. By this point contractions were predictable: coming fast, enduring, painful.
I looked at Agnes and said, “This is like a TV birth. This is just crazy.”
We rushed to the elevator — well, HH and Agnes rushed and I got there as quickly as I could. I remember feeling badly that Agnes was carrying so much and I wasn’t carrying anything. In a moment we were in the parking garage and the bags were in. I stared at the car because I was leaking and didn’t want to get in. HH hurried me into the passenger seat and we were out of the gate and on our way.
I was sitting on a couple of towels, but I could still feel the waters moving — baptizing Mr. Potato Head’s floor in front of the passenger seat. Fortunately it was more of a christening.
We were on the road, and I was in prayer. The last contractions before we left home were so strong I wanted to push at the end of them, so I began to pray that the next contraction would pass me by, without me feeling that incredibly strong urge to push and having to simultaneously somehow stop myself. I was thinking about the Passover and the Israelites in Egypt and praying “Lord please let this pass me by. Lord, please let this pass me by.” ad infinitum.
God met me in the passenger seat of Mr. Potato Head, and the first contraction I should’ve had, based on how far apart they were coming, passed me by. I was quiet and at peace and kept praying as we turned onto the N2.
A few minutes later we neared our exit and the next contraction came. HH counted to thirty as we rounded the off ramp — Potato’s tires squealed with excitement. The contraction was painful but I didn’t feel the need to push. I was thankful.
We left home at 4:04 am, and the twenty kilometre trip should’ve taken about as many minutes, but we arrived in the parking lot at 4:12. Average speed: 150 kilometres (100 miles) per hour.
We screeched into a closed reception area and circled around to the Emergency Room entrance. The gentleman standing guard outside immediately knew what was happening and coded something into a keypad, and suddenly four people were there to help me out of the car and into a wheelchair. I didn’t want to sit in the wheelchair because I was so wet and leaky but someone had brought a blanket and so I sat down.
While HH backed into a parking space and grabbed our bags, I was wheeled through to the labour ward as fast as the orderly could go. Another contraction came and I asked him to count to thirty for me. He laughed and obliged me by gently counting as we sped through the halls. While I grimaced under the pressure, I worried about my dear Hubs being able to find me.
A moment later, I was wheeled into the delivery room and I remember looking around as I crossed the threshold, taking a deep breath and thinking, “This is where I’m going to have this baby.” I was happy about that.
Another moment passed and I was up on the bed with two midwives in attendance when HH rushed in and dropped our bags. My black dress was a convenient choice: there was no time for pain medicine or changing clothes or anything else. The baby was crowning and there was only time to push.
I don’t remember another contraction. I don’t remember having a moment to breathe. I just remember giving three good pushes. With the first, Blake’s head was out, and the umbilical cord needed to be loosed from around his neck. With the second, the shoulders were stuck for a moment. With the third, the shoulders followed, and in an indescribable feeling — familiar from the Bear’s delivery and like no other — pain and joy meet, life flows and you suddenly know: This is a beginning. This is life. This is amazing. Ouch, hallelujah.
At 4:21 am — nine minutes after Mr. Potato Head pulled into the hospital parking lot — Blake’s life on the outside began.
For a million reasons which I hope to share on another day, six days past his due date at four in the morning was absolutely perfect timing.
xCC
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