Kids are gross.

Or at least mine are. I am going to describe three different scenarios in which my point is proven. You vote for which one actually happened. Because they certainly couldn't have ALL happened in my house. Within the span of 24 hours. Ahem.

A) Ruby sometimes wears disposable diapers overnight. Since she sometimes... um... moves her bowels (eek, am I my Grandma? Did I just say that?) first thing in the morning, I had changed her when she woke up and DOUBLE-BAGGED the offending dirty diaper before putting in the trash. So, remember that time she went in the trash, tore the TWO bags open, un-rolled the diaper, and proceeded to smear herself and her clothes with... um... excrement?! And then brought it to me and said, "That's gross, Mom, right? Right, mom?" Uh, yeah, Ruby. For sure.

B) Chris and I went to Sharp Shopper last night, and Ruby and Cana came along, where they wandered the aisles dumping boxes of spaghetti on the ground and trying to smuggle bags of candy in their back pockets. At one point, I notice Ruby is eating something. "Ruby, what are you eating?" My one year old had stealthily snatched someone's discarded Already Been Chewed bubble gum that had been stashed underneath a grocery shelf. And was going to town on it. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

C) I gave the little girls a bath yesterday morning, which is somewhat atypical since they usually have baths right before bed. Because of the aforementioned early morning moving of the bowels, I put a cloth swim diaper on Ruby, justincase. Cana looks over. "Mama, do I need a swim diaper?" I reply, "No, Cana-- you don't poop in the bath, silly girl!" "Well, yeah," she responded. "But I pee in it all the time."

I mean, I'd always had my suspicions, but I didn't need a full confession.

Oy.

Faithless heart

One of my favorite albums of all time is Amy Grant's "Lead Me On". I know, I know. Tease all you want. It's totally old-school, with an above average dose of circa 1988 synthesizer. But it is brutally honest.

Some lyrics from the song "Faithless Heart":

"At times the woman deep inside me wanders far from home
And in my mind I live a life that chills me to the bone
A heart running for arms out of reach
But who is the stranger my longing seeks? I don't know.
But it scares me through and through,
Cause I've a man at home, who needs me to be true.
Oh faithless heart, be far away from me
Playing games inside my head that nobody else can see
Oh faithless heart, you tempt me to the core,
But you can't have ahold of me, so don't come around anymore."

Now before you think that this is some kind of a public confession regarding unfaithfulness in my marriage, it's not that. That's not even on my radar.

But here is my public confession:

I struggle every.single.day with the ins and outs, the ho and hum of the life of a stay-at-home-mama. I am all too familiar with that buzz of restlessness, that sigh of dissatisfaction. I want to be sensitive here: I am mindful of the women who desperately long to hold a baby in their empty arms, I am mindful of the mamas whose babies are with Jesus. I am mindful of the single mamas who would love nothing more than to stay home with her children. I conceived three healthy children, carried them mostly to term, and they are bright, robust, amazing children. I have unspeakably more than I deserve. I know this.

But to make myself out to be a Pinterest-y perfect mom who has alphabetized CDs with chronological pictures of each of her children since birth, stored in a weather-proof Sterilite tub in her dust-free attic? The mom who cheerfully makes living room forts and builds snowmen in subzero temperatures? That's not me, folks. Believe what you will based on the highlight reel of my Facebook page, but mommy-hood is a serious struggle for me. Joy is often elusive, lost while I am bogged down in the daily grind of meal preparation, bill paying, and the ineffable pain of stepping on a lego.

We have had sickness in our family for more than a month. I am weary of snotty noses and puke. My kids fight all the time. Over everything. Over nothing. My extended family is far away, and I feel like I am "on" all the time. My baby--who by all accounts is pretty much the sweetest thing ever-- is also a royal terror. She doesn't sleep through the night (not even close), and I-- the firmly attached mama who staunchly believes in baby-led weaning-- am growing resentful of her near-constant demands of "I want more boo-boo! I want nurse!!" Approximately 92483948 times a day. My children might actually have a tape-worm, because all I hear all day long (besides "I want boo-boo!") is "I'm HUUUUNNNNNGGGRRRYYYYY!!!!!!!!" 7 seconds after they finished lunch. Oh wait, there is another thing I hear all day long: (Hit, punch, smack!) "MOMMMMMY, Cana hit me!!!!!" "Mom, Evie took my toy!!" And rounding out the top 40, "Mommy, can you wipe me?!?"

My children are my life. I love them more than I can express.

But I (daily?) fantasize about leaving.

There, I said it.

Go ahead and judge me all you want, but there it is.

Sometimes I want to leave.

Let me first make this disclaimer: I never would. I never could.

But dammit, I just want to put a tampon in without 3 kids asking me what I am doing. I want to drink a cup of coffee without having to microwave it six times because I was interrupted to wipe asses or referee fights. I want to sleep all night long, and get up in the morning when I want to, not when little birdy mouths are opening and closing, chirping for nourishment. I want to be appreciated and recognized for the sacrifices I make, instead of constantly being asked to make more.

The greatest blessings of my life-- the ones for whom I have longed with all my being... in the darkest corners of my heart, I sometimes wish them away. I selfishly long for my own time, my own space, my own stuff (that isn't broken, or colored on, or otherwise marred with sticky fingers).

It is into this climate of stress and selfishness that Satan whispers his sweet lies. "Did God really say...?" "If God loved you..." "You know, this is really your husband's fault. If he didn't work so much..." "I know that you are trying to eat healthfully, but that's just a small cookie and it would make you feel so much better..." "What's this about a 'budget'? Just go ahead and buy that purse on Etsy. You deserve it. It will make you happy." "You know, if you followed your heart..."

And oh, it's so easy to listen. It's so easy to justify and to agree and to believe-- "You're right, I DO deserve that!" "Yes, it's not a big deal!" "I SHOULD follow my heart!"

But into this divided, broken being, Jesus reminds me:

"The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?"
(Jeremiah 17v9)

Using my heart as a litmus test for the direction of my actions is despairingly foolish. It will lie to me every time. My heart is desperately sick, and will deceive me at each turn. I don't need its falsehoods and exaggerations.

I need truth.

The Lord my God goes with me.
He goes before me.
He is able to sympathize with my weaknesses, because He has been tempted in every way.
He is mighty to save.
When my heart is overwhelmed, He will lead me to the rock that is higher than I am.
He has not left me without a helper.
I can approach the throne of grace with confidence that I will find mercy.
He knows what I need.
He will strengthen me and help me.
I can come to Him and have rest.
There are new mercies every morning.
All these things that I need will be added to me.
He loves me with an everlasting love.

This is an intense season for me, fraught with difficulties both real and perceived. I have been counseled so many times to enjoy these times, to delight in them. There are moments of that, but can I be honest? I am mostly just trying to get through them.

But emotions aside, today I am taking a stand for truth. Because you see, the promise is only as valuable as the one who makes it. I know that Satan is a liar, and his promises are worthless. I know that he does not want to see me prosper. I know that he does not love me. I know that Jesus loves me more than I can conceive. I know that Jesus has good plans for me, plans to prosper and not to harm me. I know that He has much to teach me in this season, and I want to sit at His feet and listen.

So I will obediently walk on, though sometimes it feels more like trudging. I will lace up snow boots and build a snowman and I will clothespin sheets into the most epic fort ever. I will fold endless piles of laundry, and thank Jesus that we have clothes to wear. I will nurse my baby for the 40th time today, and thank my Heavenly Father for the miracle of her life. I will reread a board book for the 60th time, and thank God for the gift of language. With God's grace, I will choose a gentle answer instead of a harsh reply. I will choose a smile instead of a furrowed brow. I will pray for my children when I want to curse them. I will choose truth instead of a lie. I will choose love. I will choose hope. I will choose joy.

Faithless heart, be far away from me. You can't have ahold of me, so don't come around anymore.

I don't hate my body

I was just chatting with some dear friends about our body issues. One quipped, "Why can't chubby thighs be adorable on adults? I could just EAT my baby's thighs."

It's true. We're born covered with sweet little rolls. We delight in our children's double chins and dimpled elbows, and-- if I am completely candid-- laugh over their quad-ginas. (Don't know what that is? Use some imagination; chubby baby legs + little bitty girl parts all smooshed together. Awesome.)

And then somewhere around puberty, it starts all going downhill. We get boobs too early, and that's embarrassing. We get boobs too late, and that's even more embarrassing. All of a sudden, we deal with stinky armpits and periods and acne and frizzy hair-- and it's just all wrong. And unfortunately, for many women (most women?), we never really grow out of that awkward-comparing-ourselves-to-other-ladies-stage. We want to raise confident daughters who see their bodies as a beautiful gift from their Creator, but how? How can we tell them that God created them good, when all we see in our own bodies is cellulite, stretch marks, and crow's feet?

I am right there with these self-loathing women. Or, I should say, I was. But two formative things happened in the last couple of years that changed my perspective dramatically.

The first was Ruby's birth. Now, let me first say-- the births of all of my children were amazing experiences. There is nothing like it. But Ruby's was different. It was magical. For Evie and Cana, my births were in the hospital, flat on my back, while a team of nurses and an obstetrician screamed at me to "hold your breath and PUSH!!" I was hooked up to monitors that told me whether my contractions were "sufficient", and someone else told me when my body was ready to have my baby. Because of complications with my pregnancy, I had to have Ruby in a hospital, too. But it was a completely different experience for me. I had chosen a group of like-minded women to assist me, midwives who intrinsically believed in the power of my body, of the rightness of natural birth. No one told me when I was ready to have my baby, no one told me when to push. It was quiet and dark, and for the first time in my life, my body was right. Sure, it was chubby and distended with stretch marks, but it was right. It was strong and capable. A year and a half later, I still haven't lost the euphoria and empowerment of Ruby's birth.

The second thing that changed my perspective was this past November, when my awesome friend Stacey and I ran the Outer Banks Half Marathon. It wasn't what it could have been for me, as a previous injury had sidelined much of my training and preparation. But it was 13.1 sweaty, hard miles of heady "I am woman, hear me roar" power. We finished, sore and completely depleted-- but completely on top of the world. For a woman who, six years ago literally couldn't run A mile (much less many), I felt unstoppable.

Now, don't get me wrong. There are things about my body that I'd kill to change. I am in the process of losing the pounds that have been progressively packed on with each pregnancy. If someone offered me a boob job to shore up the shriveled little sand bags hanging from my chest, I would take it in a heart beat. Microdermabrasion to remove that chicken pock scar from when I was 5? Yes, please.

But the point is-- those things no longer define me. I can rejoice in my body, for while I don't love the extra pounds, I love the fact that my body was a safe haven for each of my babies; they were protected and tenderly grown inside my belly. I can't hate my stretch marks when they foretold the most precious of blessings. My boobs may hang precariously close to my navel, but they have nourished each of my girls; saggy-ness is a small price to pay for the immeasurable joy of being the sole-sustainer for my children's first year of life. My body is not perfect-- but it is the body God designed for me, to complete the tasks that He has given ME to complete. It is strong and it is capable. Next year, I plan to run the 1/2 marathon with a little less chub-rub in the thigh area... but if not, I will simply rejoice that my legs are able to run at all.

Friend-- you are wonderfully and fearfully made. God has plans for you, that only you can complete. He knit you together inside of your mother's womb (and I thought I was crafty!) and His works are wonderful.

When you are tempted to despair at your snug jeans, or at the gray hair that cropped up overnight-- remember that the Savior of the world rejoices over you with singing. He has called you by name, and you are His.

I'd call that beautiful.

Cooking with Aunt Sue

This past weekend, we attended the Memorial Service for my Aunt Susanne. Although I didn't see her as much as I would have liked as an adult, I have sweet memories of her as a quiet, permanent fixture in my childhood. I remember snuggling with her in the old hammock at Nana's house at Two Tulip. On one occasion, in which I felt very grown-up indeed, she took me on a trip to New York City. Having lived there for a large portion of her life, the smells and sounds and busyness were probably just like breathing to her. But to a ten-year-old, (very) sheltered little girl, it was a head-buzzing adventure that left me wide-eyed for two weeks afterward.

The details of her Memorial Service were thoughtfully and personally planned, just how I would like my eventual send-off to be. Her niece and nephew sang an old family song, her relatives and friends remembered her quiet gentleness that often belied an amazingly sharp mind. Her grandchildren crafted dozens and dozens of peace cranes, reflecting on how Grammy Sue had an earnest and long-standing hope for peace on earth. A larger crane, on which we all penned a single word in remembrance of Aunt Sue, was set sail on the river beside the church... a river that Sue had explored with her grandchildren, whose rhythmic cadence could be heard as she rested in the backyard hammock in the months that she was sick. Sue's crane slowly and gently circled for a few minutes before disembarking. Her son Max was beside me, and remarked something like, "How just like my mom. Gentle and un-rushed even in the end."

After the service, we descended on Max and Denise's house. It's worth mentioning that the way that Denise served her mother-in-law in her illness was a thing of beauty. She slept for months with a baby monitor beside her bed, and snuck over to Sue's adjoining apartment if there was any sign of trouble in the night. Max and Denise graciously opened Aunt Sue's home, and invited guests to pick a few books from her vast library. Admittedly, most of the literature was beyond my college-dropout intellect, but it was stunning to see the vast array of topics that interested Sue... everything from politics to Buddha to oil drilling to Jesus. It was calming to walk through her little domain, and the great loves of her life were obvious as I did so: books...and her family. Paintings by her grandchildren and candid photos of them laughing in the woods papered the walls and were wedged in among her stacks of books.

I was delighted to find Moosewood Cookbook among the stacks, a recipe collection that I had long coveted but could never justify buying. I am not sure if it was one of her favorites, or if it was a gift given just before she got ill... maybe she had hopeful culinary aspirations as she leafed through it, only to become so sick that she depended on charity casseroles and cans of Campbell's soup. There were no tell-tale grease spatterings or finger smudges that are so prevalent in my own cookbooks. But as I cooked my first recipe from the book last night, an (amazing!) Swiss and Mushroom Quiche, I liked to imagine Aunt Sue in her little kitchen.

I could see her chopping the onions, pausing and removing her glasses for a moment as she wiped her tearing eyes. She would lean back to the fridge, so close she probably didn't have to leave her spot at the stove, and grab the butter, and plop a bit into the pan. It would sizzle and foam. She would stand at the counter and grate the cheese, possibly with a small grandchild at her side, begging for a sample. She would cut the butter into the flour with two forks crisscrossing each other, and add a little more water so it would stick together. As she rolled it out on the floured counter, maybe she would upset her glass of water and it would run down the side of the sink and onto her skirt. Possibly she cursed under her breath softly, before catching herself and quickly glancing over to see if her small grandson, who was busy creating animals out of colored duct tape at the table, had noticed. He hadn't (or didn't care), so she would mop up the spill with the corner of her sleeve and refill her glass. After sliding the glass pie plate into the oven, perhaps she would sit with Stephen and read a book. Or, as she was by all accounts a "play-slave", maybe they would mold something out of clay or create a fort on the living room floor.

Of course I don't know all these things. As I mentioned, I didn't often see Aunt Sue after I became an adult. Was she a cook? I don't know. Possibly her busy metropolitan life had left her more apt to phone in a take-out order or stop by the local delicatessen on her way home from work. But I had fun imagining. And as my hands rolled out the dough on the counter, I felt a kinship with her... really, with all the women in my family who have gone before me. An age old-ritual... flour, butter, a little water... we women have been doing it for centuries-- the rote, mechanical, mundane chores-- all with the end purpose of nourishing our families and creating a home. We are a calvary of mothers, of aunts, of Nanas, of sisters, of daughters (and daughters-in-law)... with flour smudged on our cheeks and a sink full of dishes. And though Aunt Sue has set sail down the river... across the Jordan, really... we carry on the rhythm of her days. Cooking, reading, learning, loving, playing.

My Moosewood Cookbook sits wedged among a stack of others on the counter in my kitchen. And I have a feeling that every time I reach for it (which will be often), I will pause and think of Aunt Sue, with her quiet and gentle presence, and invite her memory to come and cook with me.

giving God good advice

"Giving God good advice and abusing the devil isn't praying."- L.M. Montgomery.

My prayers of yesteryear were a lot more eloquent and verbose than they are now. Years ago, my prayers might have sounded something like this:

"Jesus, You know this election is coming up soon. May you slay those liberal, self-seeking Democrats [tongue firmly in cheek] and uphold the Holy Agenda of the Chosen, Righteous Republican Party and may they ever lead our country back to You. This is our only hope."

or perhaps this:

"Righteous and omnipotent Heavenly Father, make my home function with Holy Spirit Power and the blessed Shekinah glory of the Almighty Lord. Give us what we want need [insert exhaustive list of material goods] so that we can serve You better and make a difference in this world. We name it and claim it in the name of Jesus Christ! World without end, amen and amen."

My prayers are simpler now, borne out of tiredness and busyness and (hopefully) a bit more humility-- the kind of humility that can only come from being a wife and mom and realizing that I fail 3483984 times every.single.day and that I have no business instructing the Maker of the universe on what He should or shouldn't do for me. Out of the knowledge that I have no knowledge, and I am most often winging it from moment to moment.

Most often, it is just this:

"Father-- in all this mess we have created, Your will be done."

or

"Oh, Jesus. Help me. Help me to love these children when I'd so much rather scream at them. Help me to love my husband when I'd so much rather be throw a boot at him." (This is, for the record, an indication of my own failures and my sinful heart, not a reflection on my husband-- whom I typically adore, and just occasionally want to throw a boot at.)

How smug I must sound to God, when I pray to Him about what He must do. Or even what He should do. How self-important I must sound when I tell Him what is best for our country, or even what is best for my family. I see dimly, in part. He sees the whole.

May my prayers be sincere, humble, and come from a heart that desires the glory of God, not merely ease of circumstances.

My pantry is having an identity crisis

See all these "righteous" foods??

Joy in the morning

Last night, Chris and I totally broke the law.
Or, at least one of the rules typed on the sheet of paper hanging on the hospital bathroom door:

"Only one parent/guardian may spend the night."

We're usually pretty decent, upstanding citizens. But Chris and I went all rogue up in here and both spent the night. We're rebels like that. He let me have the cot, the blankets and the pillows, and insisted that he could sleep just fine on the non-reclining vinyl chair. He's dreamy like that.

Speaking of the law, we called them last night. Or, Chris did, around 11 pm... when I was home for a few hours with the kids. I texted him because I was fairly certain that someone was trying to break into the front door. I kept hearing these weird noises and bangs... I was freaking out.

He texted me back:
Chris: Do you want me to call the police and have them come check it out?
Me: No.
(a second later.)
Me: I don't know.
(another second later.)
Me: Yeah, maybe.

The valiant Lititz Borough police officers arrived in record time, parked at the street and crept stealthily through the shadows... and wrestled to the ground and finally apprehended...

My WREATH!

My homemade, Pinterest inspired, ruffly burlap bandit of a wreath!

Banging on the door in the wind.

(He's serving 2-4 for criminal mischief.)

Seriously. Can you imagine my mortification??

Although now that I consider it, I would rather be mortified than DEAD at the hands of some creepy door-banging serial killer.

After that drama, Evie took a turn for the worse and I headed back to join Chris at the hospital, with a serious RULES-BE-DAMNED! attitude; I was ready to lay into the first person who questioned my right to be with my girl overnight. (Incidentally, no one did. All the better for them.)

A couple of minutes after I got here, Evie woke up in intense pain. She was screaming and crying and sweating and her whole body was convulsing. I have been through natural childbirth, and I can confidently say that what she was feeling was akin to those sensations, at least insomuch as those pains translate to a five year old. I had a moment where I considered telling her to "moooooo" like a cow, a la Ina May Gaskin, but in the end, decided she would probably give me the stink-eye and clock me over the head with her board-and-IV clad arm.

After those pains passed, she went back to sleep and the nurse came in to give her some kind of anti-cramping medicine. I am not sure if it was the meds, or prayers, or the sickness running its course, or what. But Evie has been sleeping peacefully for the last SEVEN+ hours (unheard of since she's been sick!) and only woke up once to pee. I am hoping and praying that this trend continues and my girl is back to her crazy, fun self soon. We are meeting with the specialist at 11, I guess to see how we move forward from here.

I am confident that Jesus has been very close to us in all of this. I am confident that there is a purpose in this. I am confident that He chose this specific set of circumstances because it is the very best for our souls, and because He loves us. I am confident that He will be glorified in this.

I am confident that my friends are waaaay better cooks than I am. I could write a book about how kind and generous and thoughtful people have been with us over the course of Evie's illness.

Maybe I will.

Or you know, at least a blog post.