I can see you.

I just came home from a weekend at an amazing parenting conference. A small community of people who are parenting kids with trauma and need a village to walk alongside. To not feel alone. To say, "Hey, I am here in this too. And it is HARD. But we can do this. Because we are all in this together."

Of course I came home overwhelmed, but also kind of feeling like a super hero with awesome powers because I CAN do this. But yes, it is also the most challenging thing that I have ever done. And I have to do it all day, every day. Which makes some days kind of hard to show up for. Really hard to show up for.

I am learning. Growing. Slowly. But there is forward motion. 

Yesterday for the first time in a long time, I can honestly say that I enjoyed being with one of my healing children. If you are parenting neurotypical children, you might not understand this feeling of really really not liking your kid. Bear with me and give those adoptive and foster parents in your community some grace. Because my foster daughter's normal daily behaviors make me believe that it is her goal in life to tear me down enough so she can stomp me into dust beneath her angry feet. 

But I know the truth. 

The truth is that she acts out of fear. Fear that I might not love her. That I might abandon her. That I might not feed her. That I might hurt her. That someday someone might show up and take her away from me. 

And why shouldn't she have these fears? 

All of this actually happened to her before she was even two years old. Before she could even form words to speak.

And suddenly I can see. 

My arms carry bruises from her anger. And often, I find myself crying simply because the burden of the hurt we are living with sometimes feels too much to bear. And then I wonder, if it feels this way to me, what must it feel like to be her? To be so young, so small, and carry around so much pain...

My heart changes then. 

Instead of feeling thoughts of hate towards her or wishful thinking about the trauma free days before her arrival, I find myself truly seeing her for who she is. Accepting her for who she is. Seeing that no, she is not a mean child. Although her actions might be interpreted as that to others. And she is not a bully or a problem child or a case to study. No. I can see now. I can see that she is a just a little girl who is hurting. And there is still so much healing that needs to be done. 

Instead of loathing her presence, I begin to find ways to connect. To ask questions. To play. To understand. To look into her eyes and find who this real girl truly is, this smart, funny, genuine girl who is so oftentimes hidden under the heavy itchy sweater of trauma and neglect. I see that her behavior doesn't define her. That her behavior is telling me what she really needs. Connection. Regulation. Understanding. Unconditional love. Stability. Certainty. 

So every day, I am showing up for her. Most of the time not perfectly. But, even so, here I am. Mistakes and all.

I'm here for you, kiddo. I can see you. And I'm not going anywhere. I'm here.

Grump Thoughts

Warning: I am in a bad mood.

Parenting I think, is easier for some people than others. In fact, after reflecting on my personality type, I realized that had I done some sort of test on it I would make a good parent based soley on my personality, I would have failed.

I love my kids, but good Lord, I have so little joy when I am around them that I fear I have missed the point of having kids completely. All my internet acquaintances are posting pictures every day of all their cute babies and gushing about how much they love being stay at home moms....and here I am, going.... yeah...that's not how I feel. In fact, I would work part time starting tomorrow if my entire income wouldn't be going straight to pay for the childcare for all five kids while I work. I need an outside purpose. Just being a mom isn't enough for me.

I have a few hours each week here while the older four are in school and Oliver is taking a nap. I could paint, I could get creative, but honestly? I feel like I have nothing in me. Like that stuff needs time just to sit and be and reflect before I can even begin to draw or create. And since that "being" time doesn't exist, I don't create.

I DO do laundry though. I know, right? Laundry.  Why oh why, did I have kids....

Despite my feelings at the moment, I do love my children. All of them. Even the ones that I didn't birth that are IMPOSSIBLE at times for me to even want to be around. I still love them. I am fighting for them. I am committed to them. But I still want a life outside of them.

Make sense?

And that life isn't blogging. Because I think our personal life and stories are just that. Personal. Also, no one wants to hear about all the back talk and tantrums and sibling squabbling that happen all day long over here. Really. No one needs to hear about that.

My glass is pretty much almost empty too. No half full for me. It's like, gone. And every day I wake up exhausted, get through the day exhausted, crawl into bed exhausted. Repeat. Again and again and again. So I need some joy. Some spice to get me through. Also it's February, so there's that. Like, we are I-can't-remember-what-green-leaves-look-like deep into winter, and I keep looking at pictures of Florida wishing I would magically wake up there tomorrow. Eric says I'm not going there this year for my birthday, so I bought some Nikki McClure prints instead. Incidentally, the ones that spoke to me the most are mostly winter prints. Oh, the irony. Excited to get them into frames though. I figure if I can't buy a plane ticket I may as well buy some frames.

So here's the dirty.
I'm totally not connecting to my kids, there's too many of them, can someone please make them stop screaming and whining and touching me, and also can winter please be over soon. Oh, and I need a side purpose in life. My main job is obviously child-rearing right now, but come on. I need some part time inspiration here, because all this dirty laundry and child reffing isn't doing it for me.

And if I could somehow magically have all the practical skills inside me to parent kids with trauma, well then by all means, do that too.
Sincerely,
I think I might be burned out

The Weight of Grace

It is a hard balance to maintain a semblance of community, privacy, and express emotions accurately through social media. For those of you who saw my FB status yesterday about our trial date and the outcome, thank you so much for your prayers and support. But unless you are a foster parent on this journey as well, it is hard to understand what actually goes on behind the scenes and all the emotions that we are dealing with. So while we are filled with joy that the girls' case is now moving forward towards adoption, we are also heartbroken. 

I think with international adoption, it might be different. All the legal work happens before you arrive to pick up your child. You never see the parents. It is simply a child who needs love and a home. In foster care, most of the time, it isn't like this. I have a relationship with my girls' mom. I know her. I interact with her. I make photo albums of the girls for her and whisper her name in our bedtime prayers every night. She calls to talk to the girls on my cell phone. And whether she is a good parent or not, like me, she is a mom who loves her kids. A mom who, as of yesterday, was just told by the Judge that she can't be their mom anymore. 

Now imagine yourself in that same situation. 
I've been weeping for two days.
Relief. Deep sorrow. Joy. Unbelievable grief. 

Eric wrote the following after being in court all afternoon. I hope that you read it and understand a little more of what we are going through. We need the community. We need the support and prayers. And we need you to understand. 

Many of you have been journeying with us in this process and we want you to know what is happening. Emotionally, right now, it feels easier to not try to rectify what we are feeling. To say "We did it" and move on with the day to day. But that would not be true faith we profess. It would not be grace. 

Yesterday I sat in a courtroom while a judge explained to our daughters mother why it is not in their best interests for them to live with her. The weight of those words still has not sunk in. As I listened to the judge explain the long list of reasons why I was a more suitable parent, my heart broke.

We received congratulations from states attorneys and case workers and nothing has ever felt more disjointed. I was being congratulated while 5 feet away a broken mother was just told her children are no longer hers. 

I am sure many of you are wondering how to respond. The truth is:

I don't know. 

All I can tell you is where we are at: 

We are grieving right now on behalf of our children, children too young to appreciate the gravity and brokenness of what they were born into. 

We are grieving right now with a mother who has lost the right to her own children, a mother who realized too late the gravity and brokenness of the situation she was in. 

We are grieving for the siblings who will never live under the same roof together again, siblings who have grown up too fast and been dispersed too soon. 

We are grieving for a father who knew his daughters for too little time, a father who may not ever be able to have a meaningful relationship with his girls.  

We are grieving for the innocence lost, innocence that should have given our girls a carefree childhood and instead was torn away by pain.

We are grieving right now for the scars that are left, scars that will heal over time, but that will always be there to remind them of their past.

We are grieving right now for the questions created, Questions of identity, worth, and self.

Most of all, we are grieving right now for the pain of a family being torn apart. 

We are grieving, not because we believe the decision should have been different, we do not, but we are grieving because the only decision that could be made is so painful for so many. We grieving not because the court was unjust but because the situation is so broken. 

In the midst of all of this we celebrate the joy that the girls have brought to our home. We celebrate the changes we have seen in them over the last two years. We celebrate the promise of a strong, healthy home for them.

And we are hopeful. 

We are hopeful that in the midst of the brokenness new life can burst through. 

We are hopeful that a relationship with the birth mom will continue.

We are hopeful that siblings will stay close together.

We are hopeful that one day the girls will understand that the fact that their birth mom could not take care of them does not mean that she did not love them.

We are hopeful that love is stronger than the brokenness.

Thank you for being a part of this journey.

As a side note, while parental rights were terminated, an appeal has been made to take the case to a higher court. This is not uncommon, and is a process that can take up to four months, if all goes smoothly. During these next few months while we wait out the appeal period, we will be working on adoption paperwork and subsidies to keep everything moving forward. Although there are still some legal hoops to go through, we are hopeful that everything will go smoothly and that we will be completing the adoption some time next year. Our girls do not know their legal status, and only know that they have a safe home with us and will continue living with us. Once things become more official and the timing seems appropriate, we will explain to them about adoption more fully. While we have already begun conversations about this, we are very careful to not make any promises until they are legally promises that we can, in fact, make and keep. If you see us and our girls, life is continuing as normal. No congratulations are needed until adoption papers are signed. Then, we will party. 
Thank you so much for walking with us and for your understanding. 

Be Brave

I've been thinking a lot about what it means for me to be brave. Time with a therapist every week will do that. Expose all your weaknesses and then you have to find all your good pieces again. Sara Bareilles has been singing her lyrics in the van to me every time I run an errand lately, and I keep hearing her words in my head. 

"Honestly, I wanna see you be brave." 

But what does my brave look like?

In my head I immediately picture wielding a bow and arrow at a giant attacking grizzly bear who apparently missed his lunch. I have no idea why this image comes into my head, but I must admit, I look pretty. darn. awesome. fending him off (thanks to my healthy obsession with graphic novels to feed my avid imagination and superhero tendencies in my subconscious). 

My real brave, though, is slightly more mundane. But still, it's real. And to me, sometimes in that moment? Maybe it feels just as big as fighting off a hungry bear. 

So what is my brave?

My brave is greeting my children with a smile in the morning, even when the house has already been torn apart, no one has done their morning chores, and I was awoken at 6 AM to the sounds of fighting and screams. 

My brave is answering the phone when the caseworker calls.

My brave is hugging my daughter close when she just spent all of her energy hitting me and screaming in my face in anger.

My brave is buckling and unbuckling five carseats to take my kids to where we need to go. 

My brave is breathing deep when my daughter yells at me that I'm not her mom. I'm not. But I'm trying my best.

My brave is realizing that my daughter who looks just like me is about to go to public school and I'm not ready for that yet. But she is.

My brave is pulling a stuffed bunny out of the toilet with kitchen utensils and not making a big deal out of it. 

My brave is accepting that my life is nothing like I thought it would be. And allowing myself to grieve. It isn't better or worse than I thought. But it is very different. My brave is resting in reality. And learning to enjoy my family just as they are.

My brave is walking into my house and seeing my children instead of the mess.

My brave is telling a friend the truth. That I'm actually not always "fine." That I could use some help.

My brave is listening to our family therapist.

My brave is brushing my teeth with water (again) because my toothpaste seems to have spread itself all over every surface of the bathroom. At least it smells....minty.

My brave is eating quesadillas for dinner again because the park was way to much fun to go home and cook. 

My brave is giving love to someone who is constantly pushing me away. 

My brave is closing my eyes each night, next to my best friend, knowing that tomorrow is going to be hard, just like today. But hoping for some joy too.

My brave is putting paint on that huge canvas. I may not really know what I'm doing, but it brings me joy.

My brave is majoring on the big issues with my kids, and letting the little things go. 

My brave is asking for forgiveness. 

My brave is asking for help.

My brave is going out of my comfort level to do something special with the kids, even if it doesn't go according to expectations. 

My brave is throwing all those expectations out the window, and being OK with reality. 

My brave is smiling at my husband, choosing to laugh instead of cry. 

My brave is being committed to my children for years without knowing the outcome. 

My brave is loving them no matter what happens. 

My brave is accepting that our family is different.

My brave is trusting that God is good. 

My brave is seeing the fear in my daughter's eyes when she is lashing out and drawing her close instead of letting my anger take control.

My brave is reading "just one more story" before bed.  

My brave is watching my husband drive away to work every morning, leaving me and five kids and a whole big day to fill.

My brave is holding my baby close and making him belly laugh, even when there are so many other things to do. 

My brave is watching my boy take his first toddling steps, knowing that they grow up so so fast, and feeling like I've already missed it.

My brave is choosing to love a child in their most unloveable moments. 

My brave is having another night at home instead of spending it with friends. 

My brave is making my kids laugh when I dance silly for them in public.

My brave is sharing my world with them, even on the days I don't feel like it.

Every day, I have to fight for bravery. Fight for joy. Fight for finding the good and the peace in the tough and chaos. I like to look at people (thanks, social media) and think that they have it so much better. That their lives have a lot less "fighting for joy" and it must just come naturally because look at that great selfie she just took! And I know that whether or not that is true, ultimately it doesn't matter. Because my life is full of ups and downs just like everyone else's. But it's in how I choose to view my life and live my life that makes the real difference.

Most days I fall hard and fail often. But even in my failures, I am still choosing my family. I am still choosing to walk the path that God has brought us to, trusting in His goodness and sovereignty. And though I am completely and utterly overwhelmed by the responsibility of nurturing and raising five little humans, I am also thankful that God has found us to be up to the task.

Your brave is going to look different than my brave. Maybe for you, it's finally seeking out that other mom at the park that you keep seeing and going over and saying hello. Maybe it's applying for grad school, or adding another child to your family. Maybe it means renewing the lease on your rental, or uprooting your life and moving somewhere new. Maybe it means hugging your child instead of raising your voice. Or laughing at the toilet paper trail that is running through the entire house and then moving on. Or getting dinner on the table in the middle of everyone melting down.

Maybe your brave today is just being confident being YOU, and not comparing yourself to anyone else. 

Whatever your brave looks like, I hope you are brave today. 

Even if no one else notices. 

Even when He asks the crazy.

This week has been hard.

Maybe it was because the first half of the week was filled with cold and rain. The cold got into my bones and the dampness seemed to suck all the remaining warmth out. I wake up the morning still tired. And food seems to have lost it's flavor.

About every three months or so this happens. And every time it does, it feels just as hard as the first time.

She lashes out. Becomes a whirlwind of quiet destruction. Books and toys and mattresses and dressers and walls are bashed and broken beyond repair. Her heart twists tight and turns to a block of stone. Unyielding. Holding its ground.

She won't meet my eyes.

She can't.

Can't let go. Must stay in control. Must survive.

It always comes on suddenly. Without warning. Without an obvious trigger to point back to and have understanding.

I react poorly.

I am overwhelmed. Arms full of children, four others who need me every minute of the waking day. How to I put four little lives on pause in order to sit with the fifth for as long as she needs? It feels impossible. And in the frustration of knowing that I can't do it perfectly, I lash out. And react and overreact. And overreact again. It isn't me anymore trying to help a scared little girl through life. It's a tired, overwhelmed angry person who just walked into a wall and is angry that the wall won't budge because I have other things to do and I don't have time for this.

I lose perspective. She loses all control. We battle. Long and loud. It lasts hours and then days and I cry into the phone and in my mom's arms and in my bed at night. Eric gives me counsel and I pay out money for practical training because really I wasn't born into this world knowing how to do this. Having a license to be a foster parent doesn't mean that we intuitively know how to parent children with trauma. I know nothing about this. It's been a year and a half and we are still floundering.

This is hard.

You think that you can just love them enough. That you can love them out of the behaviors. That if you provide just what they need then they will be ok.

It's not true.

You can love them with love that they have never experienced before in their entire lives. You can nurture them and guide them, but their past is a part of their story. And while who you start out as doesn't determine your future, it does play a part in shaping it.

A child who has been through trauma doesn't just get over it and move on.
It's more complicated than that. Their story is a part of them. Even all those parts that make you want to scream at the injustice and squirm in discomfort. It's still their story.

Today is Friday. The end of a long week with a lot of struggles. Ironically, it's the eve of my older sister's wedding day as well. I am tired, and taking a pause. Realizing that I need more training and need to do something about it. Need to figure me out in order to truly help her.

I'm reflecting too. Remembering that God loves us even when we are the most unloveable. That He adopts us as His even after we spend hours yelling at Him and blaming Him for everything wrong with our lives. He doesn't love us because of our behavior, good or bad. He loves us because we are HIS.

I understand this more with my biological children. The children that I grew in my body and birthed into this world and nourished with my milk. I love them because they are MINE. They were made from me, a physical manifestation of love made flesh.

It feels different with my foster daughters. They were never mine. They belong to someone else. And yet they arrived on my porch that one cold night and I instantly became their new Mom. Their second mom. I have no legal rights over them. We share no genetics. And when they ask if they are living with me for always I don't have the answer, but hope that what I say turns out to be true. It is true that their case is heading in the adoption direction, but it isn't there yet. And it is also true that should their case get there, we will be adopting them. But all of that remains unknown, because the court is slow and because birth parents matter. They rightfully get every chance the court can give to get up on their feet and do what is right. And so I hope for the children. That whatever happens, it will be in the best interest of the kids. And I pray that it will be.

So I love my foster daughters. I call them my own. But it is a growing love. It isn't that instant effortless, unconditional Mama love that comes upon you the moment you birth your infant and see his face for the first time. It is slower growing. It takes time and work and a lot of energy and whole lot of prayer. It takes connecting and bonding and failing and getting back up again and again and again. It takes asking permission to hug and asking forgiveness in humility and teaching how to look someone in the eyes and use gentle words. It is a love that is learning how to be unconditional. It's learning how to forgive when she yells that I'm a stupid, ugly Mama for two hours straight. It's learning how to deeply understand when she says she doesn't want me, but wants her other mom, even with all the problems and suffering that went with it. It's a love that is learning to love her because of HER, and because she is precious. Not a love based on her behaviors.

I want to love her like Jesus loves her. 
And I am so desperately thankful that I don't have to try and do that alone. Because Jesus IS love. And He already IS all of it's attributes for me. I just have to let Him love her through me.

And while this is the hardest thing that I have ever done, I would never regret taking in these two girls and loving them into our family. Because God has taken us in deeper with Him than I ever imagined we could go. All because He asked us something crazy, and we said Yes.

If this has given you doubts about ever being a foster parent, don't let it. Because God knows what He's doing. And the best thing you can ever do, is say YES to Him. Even when He asks the crazy.

Especially then.

Rising up

Eric and I have recently been really discouraged about not being surrounded by a community of people who are willing to make themselves uncomfortable in order to walk in obedience to Jesus. Being a foster parent, for example, can be truly isolating. Sometimes it feels like literally no one understands you or the heart behind what you are doing. In my experience, people automatically put me up on a pedestal as some sort of saint or super hero mom as soon as they meet me and say that sad little phrase, "Wow, I could never do that."

But the truth is, they probably can. They just would have to forgo some false views of comfort and security to do it. And kick that selfishness goodbye too.
(And, disclaimer: my kids can testify daily to the fact that I am no where CLOSE to being a saint or even remotely saint-like. Didn't all the saints have to be dead before they were even called Saints anyways? So no go on saint. But sometimes, the super hero does get some moments to shine.)

I have been a Christ follower for the majority of my life. I have met a lot of Believers, church goers, do-gooders, you name it. But in my adult life, I haven't often met a lot of people who are willing to give up their comfort in order to truly live out the words that Jesus spoke. Like literally, I probably only know a handful of these people. People who are willing to trade in a relatively easy, comfortable American Christian life in order to "do scary things" for the Gospel. To be brave enough, and take that scary step to serve out of the comfort zone. To serve, not the already blessed, but the least of these. The troubled. The hurting. The underprivileged. The underserved. The poor. The little girl with PTSD who's parent is in jail. The twelve year old boy who keeps running away trying to find a home that he was never lucky enough to have. The three-year-old bully who has an affectionate heart, but has only ever seen hate instead of love. The baby abandoned in the hospital. The middle aged woman on the corner holding up a cardboard sign.

A few days after Eric and I put into words the loneliness that we have been feeling for some time, an interesting thing happened.

Maybe it's my perspective that has changed, but maybe it's also the people. But in these past two weeks, I have seen a community start to rise up around us. People who are tired of the church small group self feed, everything unto themselves. People who actually want to stop talking and are closing their mouths and rising up and doing something. People who truly want to love their neighbors, even the poor ones (especially the poor ones), and love them well. People who's hearts are burning within them to be the voice for the voiceless, to be a Father to the fatherless, to feed the hungry bellies, and to clothe those who have none.

My friends, some near and some far, out of the blue are becoming foster parents. People I love are adopting children, both locally and internationally. My friend and her son regularly make lunches for a homeless shelter and pass them out in person. The women in my moms group go out of their way to provide a monthly meal for a group of teen moms in my neighborhood. Several other women and I have the awesome privilege to walk alongside these young women as mentors and share Jesus and friendship with them as they raise their kids while still navigating high school. Refugee families just arriving to the city are being housed and clothed and befriended by my friends. Parents from my kids park district preschool are coming up to me asking me for information on how to become a foster parent. Couples are sitting at our dining room table late into the night, sharing how God is moving them to make a change and love the undesirable.

I am in awe.
Friends, God is moving.
And I am so honored and overwhelmed and totally amazed that I am right in the thick of it.

So carry on, Saints. Carry on.

Unconditional Love

I have had an amazing week.

I have had an extra surge of energy, amazing amounts of patience, and have been embarrassing my kids with my awesome dance moves. In other words, I've been really happy.

Maybe it's all the christmas cookies.
And the wrapping of presents for my kids.
And the christmas music.
And the fact that it's been in the 50's the last few days.

We decorated the tree. I did the top part and the kids did the bottom. And then at nap time I re-distributed the bottom half onto the rest of the tree to even it up a bit. ;-) This tree is super pokey! We cut it down, like we do every year, but this year we really got a lethal one. One poke from a needle and I've got tears in my eyes! Also, remember the naked tree two years ago that dropped all its needles in the house a full week before christmas? Fortunately, our tree isn't naked yet, but let's just say that we could have a repeat on our hands.

Poor little Oliver rolled unassumingly underneath the tree yesterday and got his arm stuck in one of the branches when he tried to pull down an ornament. Poor kid not only got poked like crazy, but he also got a shower of pine needles in his face! Seriously, christmas trees are the worst. But they look so pretty! But they're so much work and ridiculous besides! Still pretty. An environmental tragedy. And yet still so pretty. 

A trunk of my high school and college belongings arrived in my house last week. This is what happens when you move over ten times in 18 years. Your stuff is all in trunks being stored who knows where. Anyway, this particular trunk was home to about five journals. Yes, I used to do that religiously. Before I had kids, since obviously I have so much time to write for hours and hours about my feelings now. Eric got his hands on them and pretty soon we were both flipping through four years of my personal history. You know what the best part was? In every single journal, from 2005 onward, Eric was the main character. You know what else? I was in love with him by December of my freshman year of college, exactly nine years ago. Eighteen-years-old and completely in love with my new best friend. I'm so thankful to have shared nine years of history with him!

Speaking of Eric (urban farmer extraordinaire), he thinks our goat Jane is pregnant. Which means she could be having triplets in February. But we don't actually know for sure, because we messed up a little with the whole breeding thing this year since it's our first time. And we can't feel the babies moving yet...if there are any. Let's just say we are learning a lot. Haaaa.

Two of my kiddos are down with fevers today, accompanied by rattling coughs and fountain noses of green. It's a great excuse to drink hot chocolate and watch movies all afternoon. cough cough **every day** cough cough. Can we be better by Christmas please?

Do you know one of the greatest things about having little kids? I get to read The Jesus Storybook Bible over and over and over. And it never gets old. Best children's Bible EVER. And you know what else is great? It ministers to me every day. In reading it every day, I have been really trying to instill in my kids that God's love is unconditional. That no matter what you do, God will always love you just as much. Because He loves you for who you are, because He created you and He delights in you. I want my kids to know that no matter what choices they make, or their birth parents make, or whatever may happen in the future, that God will always be pursuing them and loving them. Because it is not about being good or even being kind that will win God's favor. We've already won his favor, just by being alive! 

So even if we choose to walk away from God, we can never ever walk away from His love for us. Because He will continue to love us no matter what. 

That is grace.

So as I preach the gospel to my kids, I'm also preaching it to myself. That God delights in me because He made me. And I am enough. Because I am His.

I am thankful that my life is God's. (And that I get to explain to my kids that Jesus isn't actually a tiny person living inside each of their hearts and that no, there are no doors or windows in there...who even told them this anyway?). And whatever my kids decide, whether to walk with God or without Him, may they always know His incredible, unwavering, unconditional love He has for them. Simply because of who they are.

God with us

I've been thinking a lot about Jesus's mother Mary today. About how she was a nobody. Just an average girl. Nothing special. Probably poor. Definitely imperfect. Completely human.

But she was willing.

Willing to let God work in her life in the ways that He chose. Willing to give up her dignity, honor, and cultural acceptance as a woman by saying YES to God and therefore YES to the baby in her womb.

God chose to send his Son and our Rescuer and Savior into the world through a girl who was broken, who had problems, who struggled with life and hard questions, as all humans do.

And God still wanted her to be the one to bring Jesus into this world. In spite of her sin, in spite of her shortcomings. In spite of emotions, or doubts, or whatever she may have been going through.

That is grace.

That God still wants us. Just as we are.

And if we are willing, He will work in us, work through us, and fill us with Himself. All for His glory. For making all things new. Because He loves us that much.

So I hope.

I hope for my daughters who are living in my, perhaps temporary, care. That God would make their brokenness whole. That their sorrow would be changed into laughter. Because he loves them that much.

And I hope for the children from my womb, that they would be willing to allow their Creator to write their stories. And I hope for words of joy, redemption, peace, and grace to be woven into the sentences of their lives.

And I hope for my husband. That his heart would beat in sync with our Father. That he would be clothed in strength for the days ahead.

I hope for myself. Because God can use my broken pieces. And He is, even now, creating something beautiful with them. I just know it. I choose to trust that He is doing a good thing. And perhaps a bit like Mary, I choose to be willing.

One day I will look back on this season of my life and will be able to see God's goodness and faithfulness even more clearly than I can see it now. But even in the darkest moments, I still see His goodness. In Oliver's smile, once open mouthed and gaping, is now a vertical line that squishes out his cheeks and defines his little dimples. In Lyla, slipping into my lap out of nowhere. Fitting perfectly. In the smell of Lexi's hair as she tucks her head against my shoulder while I read aloud. In Joy Girl asking for an extra kiss at nap time. In Kia spreading peanut butter on slices of bread and licking her fingers when she thinks I'm not looking. My children are a blessing.

For my hope is in Christ the Lord, the Risen King. Emmanuel. 

Not Alone

This last week I have noticed that my blog is becoming my external thinking space. So if you don't want to hear what's rumbling around inside my head, stop reading. Otherwise, welcome to my crazy scrambled eggs brain!

I have also noticed something else: I am a happier person when I get the chance to sit and write at some point in the day. Usually it's nap time. But since I'm sleeping better at night, I usually take nap time to sit in my chair and stare into space while sitting in the silence. Or typing madly away on my laptop in an effort to organize the chaos inside my head.

Speaking of being a happier person...

I am a part of a women's group that meets on Monday nights for a Bible study/book study/women's fellowship time. We just started two weeks ago, but we are all friends of at least two years (some longer), we we already have a friendship base formed. Anyway, this past Monday since we didn't all have the book yet that we had ordered, we just went around and shared what is going on in our lives. It wasn't great.

In fact, I affectionately dubbed it, "Wet Blanket Night." Since pretty much everything that was shared was heavy, uncomfortable, and hard. Blankets aren't exactly hard, but you get the point. It was gloomy. And damp. And... never mind.

As these lovely women (myself included) were sharing their struggles and fears and questions, I couldn't help but notice a few things.

First off, I have been completely in the dark. I had NO idea that these ladies had this stuff going on and we actually called ourselves friends. I don't think so, but here's to a fresher start. Secondly, most of the words we were using to describe how we are really doing, included this vocabulary:
Lonely
Unfulfilled
Unhappy
Struggling
Exhausted
Lost identity
Lost purpose
Doubting
Fear
Isolated
Afraid
Hard
Trapped

I know there are a lot of women in the world, but honestly it was so good for me to hear that I wasn't the only person who is incredibly lonely and unhappy and trapped and you get the point. I may be surrounded by five kids who touch me and need me every second of the day, but my husband works twelve hour days. And weekends are usually filled with projects or managing kids or hanging out with other people. It gets lonely during the week. And sometimes I even feel trapped. Well, more than sometimes.

So it was good to see that there are other people in very different seasons and stages of life than me who are actually feeling similar things in very different circumstances. Proof that the grass is not always greener on the other side of that really tall fence.

But it was also really discouraging. And I'm just being honest here. It was discouraging because all of us in that room are professed Believers. And as such, shouldn't our vocabulary look more like this?
Fulfilled
Joyful
Content
Free
Trusting
Confident
Brave
Unshakeable
Because a life in Christ should be filled up with HIM. Consumed by Him. He IS the stairway to God. He IS all that we need. So isn't that first list of words pretty much everything that is NOT of Him?

I can't help but think sometimes that I am missing something. I love the Lord. I would even go so far as to say that He really IS my life. But what if I'm wrong? Because if He really had every part of me, why would I be feeling so unhappy? And is this depression speaking or really a deep longing for something more?

I will never EVER give up my faith. I love the Lord too much for that. But I think sometimes I lose perspective when most of my day-in-and-day-out relationships are with little people who have underdeveloped frontal lobes. And when my best friend tells me that I can just choose to be happy and I will be. But what if I can't just choose? What if I really do have a problem?

Anyway, this was a little more sad than I wanted it to be, but I think that life as an adult is never quite what most of us imagined it would be when we were kids and just wanted to grow up faster. I really do have joy in my life and wonderful little moments with my kids too. But I am tired of the masks. I am tired of thinking that I am friends with a person only to find out in one evening of honesty that I never really knew them at all. I am tired of the social media shameless bragging and idyllic lives that are portrayed every second of every day. Because that's not real. And when I say "Hi, how are you" and you answer "I'm great, how are you" are you telling me the truth? The real truth? And will you still be my friend if I answer with truth? Because my truth right now is that first list of vocabulary words. I don't like that it is. I don't want it to stay that way. And yes, yes, yes, I pray to God that it will change and soon. But this is today. And I am so very thankful for Ann Voskamp's words in The Greatest Gift,

Christ becomes the one step we can never take - and takes us. He comes to us like He comes to Jacob - He comes to us not in spite of our failings - but precisely because of them. Ours is the God who is drawn to those who feel down. Ours is the God who is attracted to those who feel abandoned. Ours is the God who is bound to those who feel broken. ....This is grace.

A friend of mine told me yesterday that she is praying for God to make my life into stained glass. Broken up, messy pieces put back together by the master Artist. Created into something intricately more beautiful than I could ever have imagined or thought possible. 

I wonder what that will look like. 

Cutting Trees and Mending Hearts

Yesterday we went out and got our christmas tree. And by "got" I mean that we drove an hour outside of the city to a tree farm and cut one down. We cut a tree down every year. Is anyone else bothered by this? While I enjoy the tradition, and the fact that Eric loves hunting down "The Perfect Tree" with the shivering, teeth chattering kids, I can't help but cringe whenever the saw hits the trunk. Cutting down a tree and bringing it inside the house and putting lights and ornaments on it and then throwing it out three weeks later seems like something a crazy person would do.

Hello, United States of America.

Oh well. At least my house smells good now.

Also, I forgot the camera and my phone battery died. So we have no proof that we even went all that way to cut down that tree. I DID remember diapers though. And snacks. Both of which are more important to immediate survival than a camera is. So there's that.

And a guy dressed up like Santa Claus was there. Kia went right up to him and said to his face, "You're NOT Santa. You don't even look like him!" Ha!

After killing a perfectly good tree and strapping it onto the roof of our van, we drove to my parent's house and Eric made duck pho for all of us. Which is another name for an extremely delicious noodle soup that is cooked with the broth from one of our smoked ducks. So good.

Eric cooked in the kitchen and had a blast, my kids were entertained by the grandparents and aunties, my dad was laughing and singing silly songs, and my sister (who is currently in massage school) gave me a massage. On a heated massage table. It was glorious. And, who knew? She's actually getting really good!

I love being with my family. It always feels right and good and so so safe. Being with them is like having a warm fluffy blanket wrapped around me. Like nothing can go wrong. And if it does, it will be ok. Because we are all together. A family.

This morning, back at home, Kia was having a rough moment because it was Lexi's turn for me to color with her (yes, I set a timer and have to rotate my way through four little girls who all want me to color in their Dora coloring books with them...like three times a day. We need some more exciting coloring books before Mama starts pulling her brains out through her nose.). Anyway, Kia was angry and among other things said that she was leaving the house and going to go live with her Mom. I said, "Ok, have fun, but you can't open the door and leave the house without permission." And so it went.

But when she was calm, I gently explained to her again that it is not my decision if and when she can return to live with her mom. That the decision is up to the judge. I also assured her that the adults will make the decision about what is best for her, and that she just needs to be a kid and not worry about it. Because either way, she will still get to see her mom. And either way, she will be in a safe home (I may have been stretching a bit on this one).

And then something strange happened. She started crying and grabbed my arm and told me that she doesn't want to live with her mom and she wants to stay here. That she doesn't want to leave here, ever.

And here I am, still feeling all warm and snuggly from my time with my family, listening to a four-year-old tell me that her family isn't working. That her family has been broken apart. Wounded and bleeding. That some wounds might be too deep to heal.

How is this fair? Why should a four-year-old have to be dealing with so much confusion and grief and pain? And she is sitting there choosing me over her own birth mother because she was forced to, in a way, due to the circumstances. While I treasure the fact that she loves me, that she tells me she wants to live here, that she is thriving with us, my heart is also so broken over the 'whys' of how she even joined our family in the first place.

It didn't have to happen this way.

I know God can write a new story for her. And even for the rest of her family. But the pain and cold hard truth of what brought these girls to our doorstep can never be erased.

Sometimes this is hard for me to accept.

And I want our family, my family, to be enough. To wrap her up tight in our love and hold her there, safe.

And I am scared for her. Not knowing what's coming. Not knowing if her life will be happy or safe. Not knowing what choices will be made for her and what choices she will make herself.

So I hold her close. Tell her I love her no matter what happens. And I pray. Pray that God will mend her little broken heart.

Bad Karma

Let me start out by saying that I don't want to live from crisis to crisis. And for the most part, I don't. But lately, things are getting a little out of hand. In Eric's words, "We can't catch a break around here!"

I'll fill you in so you can laugh at our problems and also understand why we are currently a bit low on the extra bucks.

A month ago, our neighbor ran into our garage door with her car. I really don't know how she managed to do that. Unless she just was really not paying attention. Anyway, about a quarter of the garage door was missing. It was old and made of wood panels, so you can imagine the wreckage. Of course this happened on a very cold, dark evening when Eric was still at work and I was home alone with the kids. Our garage had a lot of Eric's power tools in it, and our neighborhood can be kind of seedy. So I SOS-ed a friend, locked the kids in the house with Curious George playing, and emptied out the garage.

Everyone has asked why we didn't ask the neighbor to pay for the damage. We could have, but their dad just unexpectedly died from cancer last month. And their family is already struggling financially to cover the bills that came along with his diagnosis and final treatments.

Then Eric and I took off for a long weekend in Florida. It was great. Except for the fact that our hotel bed was infested with bugs (and they wanted us to continue staying in the room!), so we switched hotels at 11:30 at night. It was chilly and rainy weather, and on the one gorgeous day the tire blew out on our way to the beach. We lost four hours of the day with that ordeal. And then our plane was delayed on the way home. And Oliver pooped through every outfit that I brought for him. It was gross. Other than that, we had a great time. We really did. But this post is all about the bad things, so obviously I can't tell you all the good stuff (and really, there was so much good stuff, I can't wait to go back!).

A few days later Eric was pulling into our alley on the way home from work and the tire exploded on OUR van. We ended up needing to replace all four.

The next week, our dishwasher broke. When the guy finally came last week to look at it, he said the motor was completely burned out. It's only three months old. Yeah.

Yesterday, one of the kids (I won't tell you who) used an entire roll of toilet paper to wipe her poopy bum. Said toilet is still very very clogged. It's getting gross. And slightly (more than slightly?) unsanitary in there. Thank goodness we have use of the bathroom in the basement since my sister recently moved out.

And the mouse. The mouse! We can't catch it! It's everywhere and nowhere, and just when we think it's gone, I find yet another turd and another bag of nuts that has been chewed through.

So today all the kids are wearing these crazy mixed matched, ill fitting clothes because it was laundry day about four days ago and I still hadn't washed anything four days later. Today I was determined to wash it all! No more digging through dirty clothes to pick out even more dirty socks to wear! I was in the middle of the wash cycle when a city worker came to the door and informed me that they are turning off the water for the afternoon.

I mean, my toilet already won't flush and my dishwasher is broken too, so we might as well just slit the throat of the washing machine as well.

I guess I haven't mentioned yet that I have been without a vehicle for a while now. We were going to get Eric's car fixed so I could have the van during the week with the kids, but then all of the above happened. So, as my friends like to tell me (they're so nice), I'm kind of under house arrest.

And since this post is only about bad things happening, I'll keep going. Lexi is still sick. But apparently she is well enough to come out of her room, throw markers at my head because she's mad, and then yell at all the kids to shut their mouths and leave her alone. I made her go back to bed.

It's actually pretty amazing the change in family dynamic when Lexi is sick. All of the sudden Kia is the angel child who has all of my attention and absolutely no one to fight with. Don't get me wrong, it's sad when Lexi is sick, but at the same time, yesterday and today have been really great relationship building days with Kia. My affection for her (which was reaching dangerously low levels due to the two worst months of our lives with her in October and November) is rising again and we are having so many positive interactions that I am catching myself smiling a lot and laughing WITH her instead of cringing while I wait for the next bomb to explode. She really is a delightful child. Funny how we so quickly lose perspective when we are forced to wade through shit for days on end. There might not be flowers yet, but at least the road has been clean this week. It makes a big difference.

Oliver is sick too and has taken to rubbing his gooey, snotty face all over my shirt whenever I pick him up. Yep. Can't wait for that water to be turned back on.

We decided to do our christmas shopping for the kids at the thrift shop this year. This means that Eric hangs out in thrift stores in the suburbs during his lunch break at work, and I get to be surprised and happy about what ends up under the tree for the kids. It's actually kind of fun, since the pressure is off. And there's always Amazon Prime in a pinch. We don't have a tree yet, but we will. I got out all the christmas books and stockings and the kids have been forcing me to read aloud Charlie Brown's Christmas at least ten times every. single. day. At least it's not about Santa. That guy seriously bugs me.

Despite me writing about all the bad karma we attract, I am actually in a really good mood today. I spent some great time with kids this morning, and even though it took three and a half centuries for 12 o'clock to roll around, it finally did. And we ate lunch and now everyone except for me is napping peacefully. I should be too, but I would rather write. It fills me up more than sleep these days. Plus, you needed to know about my bad karma so you could stay far away.

Eric and I have a bet concerning which costly appliance is going to blow this winter. I think the refrigerator, he is guessing the boiler. Stay tuned. It will probably happen right when we are about to get the car fixed.

Dancing

I have this nifty little speaker that connects to my smart phone via bluetooth that Eric got me for my birthday a few years ago. I have a few favorite Pandora stations and like to blast them while I get my cooking or dishwashing on. Speaking of dishwashing, our dishwasher broke last week so we are back to the extremely time consuming hands-on approach. And the paper plates. Let's not forget about those handy little guys.

Lexi is sick today, so I used the morning to make a new batch of granola with Kia. I had music going as usual and was dancing along as we whip-whip-stirred (Star Wars Christmas Special reference. Don't ask.).

I took my lanky four-year-old Kia in my arms and spun her around to the beat, her giggles filling up the room and my heart. My love for her is still new, still tender and raw in places, but it's there. And it's growing.

"Look into my eyes," I said, "and remember This. When you are an adult, and you're feeling sad, just turn on some music and dance in the kitchen."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because it makes you feel better. Dancing in the kitchen makes everything feel better. Trust me. I know."

We kept dancing. And laughing. And spinning. Granola flying everywhere.

These are the moments I want to remember.

Not the tantrums, the screaming, the whining, the endless poop and clogged toilet, piles of laundry and food going bad in the refrigerator. I don't want my kids to remember me yelling at them or crying in frustration, or locking myself in my bedroom to just. get. away.

I want them to remember me acting like a happy fool, and dancing in the kitchen with them.

Oliver boy

My Oliver boy is the best.
Call me a biased mom, but he is.

Yes. He wakes me up at least three times a night to eat. Yes. He naps erratically. Yes. He cried non-stop for the first nine weeks of life. And yes. He must be held constantly to remain happy.

But seriously, this boy.

He smiles these huge open mouth smiles at me every time he catches my eye. My sister and I like to joke that he looks like a Peanut's character with his bald little potato head and huge eyes and big vertical open mouth grins. And he ADORES me. I'm his hero. His drink machine. His greatest love and biggest fan. His milky breath is sweet like strawberries and his chubby fingers are always trying to find my hands, face, hair, anything that he can grab and stuff in his mouth.

It is hard to believe that this boy that I am so smitten with was causing me so much anxiety and distress one year ago. If only I could have seen into the future a bit, maybe it would have been different. Felt different. I don't really know. But I do know that a year ago, I was struggling to accept the baby that was gifted to my womb unexpectedly. And today, I can't even imagine one single day without him.

Funny how God (and those wonderful little bonding hormones) does that. He takes something that we think we don't want, that we didn't think we asked for, didn't think we could handle, and turns it into something beautiful. A treasure. A son.

I'm not ashamed of the fact that I was upset when I found out I was pregnant. It makes me sad to think back on my emotional state at the time, though. But don't forget that pregnancy hormones wreak a lot of havoc on my body, both physically and emotionally. Eric can testify to this. So while it makes me sad to remember how I felt, I understand too, and give myself grace.

Since we have pretty much decided that my Oliver boy is the last baby that my body will grow, I am soaking up every minute of his baby life. I can't even believe that he is almost six months old already. Wasn't it just yesterday that I birthed him in this very room?

His giggles slay me. And he has these little flecks of brown in his big blue eyes that you can see when the sun shines in. A dimple on the side of his button chin when he grins. A forehead wrinkled in surprise. Soft soft skin and thigh rolls that delight me to no end. He catches my eyes and his whole body reacts. Mouth wide open in joy, legs kicking and arms waving erratically. Round rosy cheeks that invite multiple kisses, soft peach fuzz hair.

If only they could stay this little for just a while longer.

Naptime woes

I'm pretty sure I'm going a little crazy.
I don't think it is necessarily normal for a person to narrate her life in her head as it happens. It's a strange third person experience happening live. Anyway, it's been happening a lot. And since I'm already writing about my life in my head, I thought it would probably make more sense just to write about it for real. Probably.

Also, I'm not going to beat myself up over the fact that I'm not filling this blog with pictures all the time. I need to write. So write, I will.

I started reading this book written by a woman who is journaling through her life. At the time of writing, she's my age, has three little kids all in a row, is an artist, and seems to be emotionally and personality-wise very similar to me. She also has a beautiful relationship with God and doesn't know what she's doing as a parent to three littles. And sometimes feels trapped. And depressed. And victimized by said Littles.

I love her.

Finally! Someone who isn't afraid to say that motherhood is hard. That it's not always fun and not always enjoyable. That sometimes, there are other things we would rather be doing and other places that we would rather be.

I'm going to come out and say it too. I don't always like being a mom. I love love LOVE my kids. ALL of them. But there is a difference between deep, unconditional love and daily like. Call it sin, call me depressed. I don't even know what's wrong with me. But there it is. I love my kids. I can't say that I always like them though. And I can't say that I love parenting them, either. Maybe it's different when you only have your own biological kids. I guess I'll never know. But either way, in my personal experience, parenting has certainly not been enjoyable lately.

Yesterday, after the epic trek to church and back again (we should be on a reward system for getting all seven of us to church every week), we arrived home with starving, un-napped kids, and two exhausted parents. Eric made soup for everyone (which was outstanding), but it took a while to get on the table. And then the kids, after begging him for the soup for the past twenty minutes, all decided that they didn't like it and didn't want to eat it. I tried to bribe them with dessert afterwards if they finished, but this only ended in multiple meltdowns...all at the same time. If you think one kid having a meltdown is annoying, try listening to four kids having meltdowns simultaneously. And then add a sick baby crying in the background.

We finally got all the kids in their beds for naps. But that's when the real fun started. Joy Girl (3) and Kia (4) (yes, I finally decided on blog names for them at 2:30 AM this morning as I was, yet again, writing in my head) were messing around in their room so Joy Girl got moved into a room by herself. Kia was mad, so she decided to stand in her doorway and lick the entire mirror that is built into her bedroom door. I don't even want to think about the germs she picked up. Why would anyone lick mirror?
When I caught her licking the mirror and told her to knock it off and that she had to wash it, she promptly peed on herself and the floor. I seriously don't understand this child.

Meanwhile Lexi (4) and Lyla (2) are screaming and shouting in their bedroom and despite numerous threats and corrections and fruitless statements that I made referring to myself in the third person such as "Mama is SO TIRED. PLEASE please PLEASE GO TO SLEEP," naps were not to be had. At one point Lexi came out of her room (for only the fifth time) naked and asked for a drink of water. I don't know about you, but I remember nap time as a kid vividly. I laid on my bed and WENT TO SLEEP. I was perfect. I did no wrong. Obviously they don't get their bad behavior from me.

I finally removed Lyla from her room in a last ditch effort to get Lexi to take her nap. She didn't, but Lyla curled herself up onto my chest and fell asleep within a matter of minutes. Out of that whole exhausting, rotten afternoon, Lyla falling asleep in my arms turned out to be the single golden sunbeam. My heart almost burst with love for her. (And over the fact that she was sleeping.)

Out of the three other kids, Joy Girl was the only other one who slept yesterday. It's a good thing she did, too, because that little one is anything BUT joy when it comes to missing sleep. Eric had a mushroom growing workshop that he went to during said nap time, so when the kids woke up I was fully in charge. I made them clean their bedrooms as punishment. Again, I don't ever remember having to clean my bedroom as a kid. It was never messy. Ever. I ALWAYS picked up my toys. Seriously, these kids.

After they cleaned their rooms (and cried buckets of tears while doing it), I rehydrated them with some water and we got out all the craft supplies and made some pretty epic birthday cards for Eric's birthday. And when I say epic, I mean stickers EVERYWHERE. They were awesome. Lexi and Kia even wrote "Happy Birthday Daddy" all by themselves. I just told them the letters in the proper order.

Bedtime was less eventful since everyone was so exhausted from missing their naps. And this morning, can you even believe it? I was the FIRST one up! Miracle. Lexi actually stayed in her room until she heard me rustling around the kitchen at 6:30 to whip up some birthday pancakes for Eric. Sometimes the fact that it's still dark out at wake up is great. The kids still think it's nighttime and stay in bed longer.

Eric is back to work today after an entire week of being off. He took a few vacation days in addition to the Thanksgiving holiday so he could spend more time with us. I love that about him. He loves to be home. Even with all the crazy that is home, he still prefers to be here with us. Sometimes I would rather leave, but I don't have much of a say in the matter at this point. Right now financially it makes a lot more sense for me to be taking care of the kids. The cost of five kids in daycare would pretty much devour my teaching salary. That and I'm not so sure I want to teach kids all day and then come home to a house full of them every night. So I'm home for now. And I like it mostly. And some days I love it. Other days, well... We all have those days when we would rather run and hide somewhere than do what needs to be done. It's probably just one of those things that is part of the human experience.

Today, nap time went a little better. I only had to deal with one obstinate kid instead of four. And I even took a shower while poor sick little Oliver rolled around and cried on the bathroom floor. Poor kid. I have to drag him around everywhere with me whether he likes it or not. Sleep probably wouldn't be such a big deal around here if I got more of it. I'm just so tired all the time. And I definitely don't drink coffee. It's a lose lose situation.

Maybe one day I will be able to look back at this post and laugh instead of cringe. That's what I'm hoping for, anyway. That by chronicling my days, I can somehow validate them. And maybe eventually, be able to laugh at the absurdity of my life in the present instead of just in the looking back.

New internet space and life update

I haven't written in a while over here at Lifetime of Spring because I've been busy posting over at our new urban farming blog. Check it out at www.citykidsfarm.com.

In the meantime, I do have good intentions for keeping our family life internet space updated, but I'm giving myself some grace since I am, after all, trying to parent five very dependent little kids right now. I know that a lot of you are probably wondering where we are in our foster care process and what the status is of the girls who have been a part of our family since last October. A lot has happened and changed in a year. The foster parents who are loving on two of the brothers of our girls also have a blog. I asked her permission to share the link to her latest post, which describes not only where we are at in the process, but also where we all are emotionally as foster parents. Please read and continue to pray for our family and all the families involved in this case.

http://ourjourneyhome-thestonefamilyblog.blogspot.com/2014/10/in-christ-alone_1.html

While we did not enter into foster care with the sole intention of adoption, we always were open to that as an option. As it stands today, if the termination of rights goes through, we will be the adoptive home for our girls. While this feels so daunting and overwhelming, and at times downright crazy, we know that what we are doing is for the glory of the Father. And as He loves us and adopts us into our family, even as our most unloveable selves, so we should do as well. That's a lot of hard, powerful, sacrificial love. We love these girls as our own. And pray every day that the Lord will grant us the wisdom and grace and love to parent all of the children that have been entrusted to us.

My perfect life. Unveiled.

I find it rather ironic that my last real post was all about my idyllic home birth. Yes, it was perfect. I couldn't have asked for better. But before you start thinking that just because a few hours of my life went according to plan and therefore my everyday life is full of peaches and flowers and sparkly clean floors, let me enlighten you. IT'S NOT.

My kids.
They fight. ALL.THE.TIME. No matter how consistent our discipline is, my two four-year-olds have made very loud tantrums and hitting each other their hobby. Which they practice multiple times daily. I've been potty training one of my two-year-olds since January and she still likes to grace me with bulging panties when she gets mad at me. Yes. She poops out of spite. My other two-year-old is sweet, but good gracious, she is a walking talking TORNADO! Her current favorite past time includes rubbing bars of soap all over her body and then flooding the bathroom floor in an effort to wash it off. Apparently she really likes being clean.
And my baby, God love him. My sweet nine-week-old son. He's adorable, really. But so crabby. SO cranky, when he's not in my arms 24/7. This might work out sweetly if he was my one and only. But let's not forget that I have four other (very dependent and needy) children to take care of. Yes, my days are anything but pretty.

My garden.
"How do you do it all?" They ask. My answer? I don't. Hence why there are no pictures on this post.
Back in February, I did all the preliminary planning. I ordered the seeds, planted the seeds, and watered them for weeks every day while they grew indoors. Once it was warm enough, I transplanted everything into the beds and started a watering routine.
And then my son was born.
Fast forward nine weeks.
I haven't touched the garden. Who are we kidding? I don't have a spare second! Even when my babysitter is here, I end up using all of that time for laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning, endlessly nursing, and writing this whiny blog post. Eric is the man behind the amazing garden, friends. He has faithfully watered, weeded, harvested and reseeded ALL SUMMER. He's amazing, I know. He even made all those jars of pickles with me the entire month of July. If it wasn't for him, I would probably have given up on the garden this year and be back to eating squishy Aldi produce. Just sayin'.

My animals.
Again, Eric's territory. I only step in when he is out of town on business, which only happens a few days each month. Otherwise, I love the animals, but he is their man.

Our real food diet.
While Eric and I are in it together, I do most of the day to day cooking. Eric cooks breakfast for the kids each morning (usually whole grain oatmeal or eggs), and I am in charge of lunch, dinner, and snacks. I do the meal planning and shopping as well. Honestly, I've been cooking from scratch (aka, no tv dinners or pre-boxed meals) for so long that it isn't hard for me to whip up a healthy something for dinner. But if I don't plan well, we end up eating quesadillas or rice and beans a little more often than necessary. Which lately, has been a little wee bit more often than necessary! Aldi's take and bake pizzas are a little too tempting as well....

Eric and I have just recently decided that we would like to get away from commercialized food even more, which means that grocery store meat (which we hardly eat anyway) and my survival organic cheerios, need to go, among a few other things (Like, ahem, those take and bake pizzas...). It's a process, but it's been wonderful to eat all of our vegetables exclusively from our garden this summer. It's also nice to be raising non-picky eaters who say things like, "Mama, I LOVE this eggplant!" and "YAY! Lentils for dinner!" and "Tomato cucumber salad is my favorite!" Granted, my two-year-olds are not quite as enthusiastic about this (and usually one ends up throwing her plate on the floor and the other chooses to not eat at all), but they'll learn!

My marriage.
We're normal. We have problems. Some days are better than others. Most days are just plain exhausting with long work hours for both of us. Do we go out enough alone together? No. Do we wish we did? Yes. Do we get more than five minutes a day to chat without interruption? Not usually. Are we still best friends? Yes. Are we still figuring this whole marriage thing out? Yes, absolutely.

My personal life.
Um, do I have one right now? Sometimes I get to take a shower. That's always nice. Usually I'm paying a babysitter so I can revel in that little five minute treat before the baby starts screaming again. Let's just say there is rarely a few minutes in my day that I am not caring for someone else. If there are a few free minutes, I'm sleeping. Even now, my baby is laying on my lap while I type this. I know this is just a season, and babies don't keep and all, but friends, this season is just plain hard. Also, I just had a baby. So my wardrobe is difficult because nothing really fits yet. Let's just say that without frequent showers, no time for sleep or makeup (luxury!), and only gym shorts that fit, (not to mention the spit up!) I'm not much to look at. The good news is that my kids don't care. And probably Eric is too exhausted to notice much either. So we're good. I don't really go out in public anyway. And my art endeavors? I spent nine months making my latest creation, so I'm currently on sabbatical. ;-)

Disclaimer.
This kind of sounds whiny. It's not. I'm not unhappy at all. I love my kids, ALL of them. I don't dread waking up in the mornings and usually we have pretty good days, all things considered. But before anyone jumps to unrealistic conclusions about my life, sometimes we just need a reality check. Even me. And someday, when I am sitting around bored to death with my too clean house and manicured lawn, I will want to remember these days....(or not?).

When you hear moms say that they are "in the trenches" with all their littles, it's true. Parenting little ones is hard. Whether you have one or five.

So there you have it. I'm normal. Very imperfect. Very human.
Speaking of imperfect, I'm reading an awesome book right now called No More Perfect Moms, by Jill Savage. Give it a read. It's worth it.

If you're curious about how we plan to spend the weekend, we had this lovely GIANT branch break off from our resident tree last night... Let's just say we have our work cut out for us over here!

And now back to my fairy tale life of too many children who simultaneously burst into song and choreographed dances when going to bed every night. Maybe I'll even re-purpose those old curtains while they're sleeping! (totally kidding...)

Fall again

If you hadn't noticed, I took the summer off of writing. I didn't really plan it, but I had a baby. And after a rather idyllic birth, said baby decided to cry all the time....ALL THE TIME...for weeks....and WEEKS. Finally, at ten weeks (three weeks ago), Oliver woke up one morning, and was HAPPY. Smiles and giggles all around. Not only that, he began sleeping 6-8 hours straight. EVERY NIGHT. And he goes to sleep for the night at 8:30 or 9. He definitely still likes to be held most of the time during the day, but our crazy crying days and nights are (hopefully) over. More sleep = happier mom. And perhaps more productive mom (if you don't count the laundry that I am seriously avoiding).

Finally I feel more rested and physically recovered. And now it is September. I love my baby, I really do, but how did I miss the whole summer?! I'm finally back on my feet and ready to play and everyone is back in school and ordering pumpkin lattes and I am NOT happy about this.

I am not excited about Fall because Autumn means winter. And winter means freezing cold and always one lost mitten and leaky boots and being inside, always inside. And depression. Winter means depression.
At least it did last winter.
And I'm not ready for that. I don't want it and it's not welcome here. But somehow it always comes. I am dreading it.

So to get back to happy things...
This summer we didn't do any traveling, due to the baby's arrival, and, well, we have five kids four and under. So traveling is not necessarily fun or easy, and any sort of vacation is big bucks with all of us and probably more work than it's worth at this point in time. We spent our days playing at playgrounds and splash pads and in a little turtle sandbox-turned-pool in our yard. We grew vegetables and ate them, made jars and jars of pickles and fresh salsa, milked goats and made cheese, improved our animal's living areas, and day dreamed about moving to the country.

And that's pretty much it! The baby is getting chubbier by the day and the girls are growing out of their clothes and shoes faster than I can replace them. Preschool has started up again and we have entered back into a more structured routine. Although I'm not sure if you can ever call parenting five kids under five "structured," but we manage somehow!

Oliver Michael

Oliver Michael came into this world on Wednesday morning, June 18, 2014, at 7:21 AM.

7 lbs 10 oz, 19 1/2 inches

He was born exactly three weeks before his due date of July 9, which happens to be today.

After a very (very) short and intense four hour and thirty minute labor, Oliver was born in the comfort of our own home, surrounded by a wonderful team of midwives, my mom, my sister, and Eric.

I delivered in a birth pool, and eased him out of my body with my own two hands, pulling him up to my chest upon his arrival. It was nothing short of miraculous and quite possibly one of the most beautiful moments of my life.

No tubes, no IVs, no beeping machines and matter of fact nurses. Just a very skilled team of women caring for me in my own home as my body did its work naturally.

On Monday night, June 16, just shy of midnight, my waters spontaneously ruptured. I was genuinely frightened, since I was still not quite 37 weeks yet and was concerned I would be sent to the hospital due to having a premature baby. Fortunately, although my waters were leaking, I had not gone into labor yet. My midwife assured me that normally when this happens, the body will naturally go into labor within 24-48 hours, but usually within 24. And since I was at this point only one day shy of being 37 weeks, they were still comfortable delivering the baby in my home. The next morning, I was having some contractions, though not regular. Knowing the baby was coming soon, we had my dad come to pick up the girls and my mom came to stay. While I paced the house, my mom and Eric got the house and bedroom ready for the delivery. My midwife came over to check on me and drop off the birthing pool (I was supposed to pick it up the next day at my 37 week appointment), and Eric promptly filled it with air, put in the liner and got it set to go. To go along with our wonderful timing, we also discovered a major plumbing issue that morning in the kitchen and had two plumbers making a giant mess in the kitchen for several hours trying to resolve the issue. They were probably a little more than confused about the pregnant lady wandering around the house aimlessly and everyone else bustling around like crazy people.

I took a nap that afternoon and by 5 PM, all contractions had stopped. My midwife called and told me to go to bed and if labor didn't start on it's own in the night, they would try some of their fail proof natural inductions in the morning (aka Castor oil....YUCK!). I went to bed, slept well, and naturally, dreamed that I was in labor. I woke up around 2:45 AM to discover that as a matter of fact, I was. When I started timing my contractions shortly after waking up, they were already 2-4 minutes apart and increasing in intensity. I called the midwife who was on call, Tera, and she arrived shortly after with her assistant, Annie. Funny story about Annie. When my first born Lexi was born at Swedish Covenant hospital, I was in the care of the midwife practice there. During my labor, they called in a volunteer doula to assist me. Annie. Four years later, at my second prenatal appointment with Gentle Birth Care (the home birth midwife group I delivered Oliver with), Annie and I realized that we knew each other and that she had already been to one of my births! It was wonderful having her assist me again, especially now that I had a relationship with her.

A few hours later, my midwife I had most of my prenatal appointments with, Amy, came over to relieve Tera, who had to catch a flight somewhere. I was so happy it worked out for Amy to be there! At this point, I was now in the warm pool and ready to push. With the encouragement and assistance of my birthing team, Oliver was born soon after, emerging out of my body and into my hands. The most beautiful moment of my life. Laughing and crying, I gently pulled him up out of the water onto my chest and discovered that I had just given birth to a son.

Miracle.

While I realize that not everyone can safely have a home birth and many need much more medical assistance that can only be provided in a hospital, I personally couldn't have asked for a better labor and delivery. Eric and I couldn't have asked for a better experience. We are forever thankful that I was able to deliver in the comfort of our own home, with people that we know and trust. My midwives don't treat me like a patient. They treat me like a person. A woman who they want to get to know and respect and care for naturally to the best of their abilities. This is why I have been in the care of midwives for all three of our children. My only regret is that we didn't have home births with the other two as well!

The Lord is good. Our baby is healthy, I am healthy. Our four girls love the baby, but are adjusting to the new pace and tempo around here. Five kids under five is a lot. We even have to get a special waiver from our foster agency in order to continue caring for our foster daughters (who are in the very beginning stages of the adoption process with us)! If we can do it with four, we can do it with five. I just have to get my strength back first. In the meantime, we're welcoming any assistance we can get. :-)

Welcome to our family, baby Oliver. 

Everything from your conception to your birth 

has been a surprise and a daily practice of joy and giving thanks in all things.

We are so incredibly thankful for you.