new year's resolutions

Every year I contemplate making resolutions, and after the new year arrives, I still haven't put a list together and then it's too late. I recall making a handful of post hoc resolutions based on what I had or hadn't already done (calisthenics) or consumed (dessert, pop--or soda/coke depending on your geographic location) that particular year. Oh, the resolutions of yore!

These days I think realistic resolutions might read something like this:
1. Finish reading a half dozen books I've started.
2. Try to exercise more regularly (key word is "try" here, people).
3. Show up 1-4 minutes late to children's appointments rather than 5-7 minutes late.
4. Try to start and finish laundry on designated laundry days (again, key word is "try.")

To be honest, I have mixed thoughts about New Year's resolutions. On the one hand, I love fresh starts. Each morning holds potential, every new week shows promise. On the other hand, it seems trivial to come up with some ways to improve myself that I might intentionally or unintentionally dismiss as February thaws to March--if I make it that far. What's worse is the false notion that I control my destiny: if I have enough will and muster enough determination, I can accomplish anything.

The truth is I can't do anything apart from my Father, and he knows full well how pathetic my resolve is despite my best intentions. But it doesn't mean I should be satisfied with the status quo, particularly when it comes to my spiritual life.

I've recently been struck by the connection between grace and gratitude. In her book Living into Commmunity, Christine Pohl writes, "If we really understand our lives as redeemed by costly grace, then our primary response can only be gratitude. It's at the center of Christian life." Remembering Christ's sacrifice postures me in humble gratitude and awe.

I want that attitude today. Tomorrow. All year. If I could write and keep one resolution this year, this would be it: ponder God's grace and grow in gratitude. 

replacing my to-do list

My oldest has been asking to "do school" for months. I'm not sure if it's because he has had to field questions from strangers about whether he has started school (he just turned 4, people!), or he recognizes school is the most direct route to adulthood (4 going on 24 as far as he's concerned). I suspect it was heightened when he witnessed me thumping a pair of red scissors, a pack of construction paper, some finger paints, and a few other miscellaneous items in the bottom of the shopping cart a couple months back.

His persistence paid off. Shrugging off the what-the-"h"-am-I-doing and the I'm-gonna'-ruin-my-child-for-life anxieties, we started "school" the Tuesday after Labor Day. Though it took him some time to get over the disappointment that school wasn't all about finger paints and cutting with a scissors, we have settled into a routine. And there's no turning back now. Because once you start letters and sounds, you can't really stop; when you hit the teens in counting, the twenties are right around the corner. Lord, help me.

Though the amount of time we spend doing school is minimal, I've already noticed the floors are a little stickier, the meals not quite as nice. Opening cupboards is a reminder of more to-do's: take out the trash, make a batch of laundry soap, bake more bread.

A friend commented, "I wish some homeschool mom would write a book about all the things she gave up." Though I wouldn't consider myself a homeschool mom (I'm trying that hat on this year), the thought resonated in my heart. It's hard to give up tidy counters and shipshape bathrooms for little ones who enjoy unrolling toilet paper on the floor, smudging windows and fresh paint alike, and squeezing tubes of toothpaste into the bath tub. But if I'm going to thrive in motherhood, let the re-prioritizing begin.

First thing off my list: making laundry soap. Out with grating the Kirk's Natural castile soap; in with the Ecos laundry detergent.

I feel armed to tackle the world already. Okay, maybe just the bathrooms...tomorrow.

write what you know

Much has changed since my last post...over 6 months ago. I marched into a new decade, added another little guy to our troop, we sold our house and are buying a new one.

I like to think that's the reason why I haven't been blogging lately, and it's true. Partially anyway. The bigger reason why is I don't think I have much to write about of value. I stay home full time with my children, and while I realize it is a HUGE responsibility and privilege, it's also a conversation killer. No, seriously.

(Dinner party scene. Moon-shaped clusters of people converse between sips of Pinot Noir and polite bites of crusty French bread topped with smoked gouda.)
Me: (turn to a newcomer) What brings you to the area?
Other: I'm a graduate student at the University.
Me: (food in mouth) What are you studying?
Other: (confidently rehearsed) I finished up my M.D. at Johns Hopkins, and now I'm working on my PhD specializing in pediatric cardiology transplants. How about you? What do you do?
Me: (brushing crumbs from my chest and spot a new red stain next to a faint spit-up one I apparently didn't wipe off well enough) I stay home full time with our children.
Other: (bewildered) Oh.
(Awkward pause. Newcomer turns to talk to someone else, so I do the same.)

Though the scene more commonly occurs in some public place of business or meeting a new person at church (not everyone I meet is working on a PhD), it has essentially the same effect: unless I'm talking to a fellow sister in the trenches, no one asks a follow-up question.

I was reminded of a famous expression to "write what you know" this past week, and I've decided to embrace the experiences God has given me as fodder for my writing. Though I'm not pursuing a PhD in pediatric cardiology transplants, I know sacrifice and sleep deprivation. I know diapers, dishes. I know laundry--piles of it. I know boys. I know messes and mercy. I know fear of failure, fear of man. I know love, loss, worry. I know joy. Hope. And I know Christ--in part, not yet whole.

legalistic Panem

About two months ago I finished The Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins, and it was such an interesting premise for a series, I continued to think about the characters and themes well after I returned the books to a friend.  ***spoiler alert***

One of Katniss Everdeen's most prominent inner struggles is her fear of indebtedness to others--Peeta for the bread which saved her and her family, Thresh for saving her life in the arena, Gale for providing in her absence, Peeta for loving her. Living under the authority of Panem and in the wake of her father's death (who died at the hand of Panem's poor working conditions), Katniss prizes self sufficiency and feels guilty when anyone shows her a measure of kindness she cannot repay. 

Katniss has a classic case of debtor's ethic, conditioned by the legalism Panem promotes by constantly reminding its citizens that they offended the law and must pay via sacrificing their children, their resources, and their happiness. It is a legalism Katniss cannot shake...until she experiences a faithful love.

Enter Peeta. He provides an enduring love for Katniss when she fakes her love for him, uses him for personal gain, and rejects him over and over. Though his character is obviously flawed (and he experiences turbid times under The Capitol's control), he grows into a Christ-like figure in the series as he sacrifices himself for his bride and loves her more than she deserves. 

Panem's legalism reflects the same lie Satan tells us: Christ's sacrifice is not enough. We need to do a little extra to help God along or put ourselves in his good favor; and since we can never repay him, Satan holds us hostage with our guilt and sense of indebtedness. 

It is no surprise Katniss grows to love Peeta again by the end of the third book because he never stops quietly caring for her. She experiences the promise of hope through his steadfast love--a hope legalism can never extend.

"and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us."  -Romans 5:5 (ESV)

summer reflection

I fell off my writing routine this summer, desiccated and shriveled by the heat, my responsibilities, and another little one making his/her presence known a la nausea, exhaustion, etc. Now I'm back, and autumn's colors are a few short weeks from brown drab. Reflecting on summer is a reminder of the blessing of God's good gifts.

Here are a few summer highlights for your viewing:

We picked strawberries when we visited family this summer, lovely juicy strawberries. Large bags of them still greet me when I open the basement chest freezer to remind me the temperatures have probably cooled down enough to make that batch of strawberry jam. Smaller bags will enjoy a much less time-consuming end with pancakes, in smoothies, on ice cream.

 No summer is complete without a batch of pesto...or in my case, a few double batches. We ate some fresh with homemade bread, on sandwiches, with pasta, on grilled pizza, and plain by the spoonful. The other containers are ushered to the freezer to use later for any of the above purposes, or one of our favorites: pesto chicken pizza. A warm reminder in the colder months gardening season will return soon.

A friend gave me the idea for jalapeno poppers this spring, and we grew a jalapeno and an Anaheim pepper plant in our garden this summer. Both peppers were abundant, so we grilled a fair share of jalapeno and Anaheim poppers. Directions: cut pepper in half the long way and remove (or don't remove) seeds depending on your heat preference, fill the cavity with cream cheese, wrap with bacon and grill until done.

These little men keep growing. Per the picture, the older is a serious young man, 3 going on 33. Just this morning he packed a "lunch" (wooden pizza--yum!), put his shoes on and asked for the keys and money to drive to work. To his credit the money was change for washing the car. The younger is playful and independent, our silent little wanderer who still enjoys cuddle time, lots of hugs, and his thumb. (JN - 2, CA - 1)


The Accountant and I enjoyed date nights at home in the summer: put the boys to bed early, grill something delicious (steak is a usual suspect), prepare some greens from our garden, and sit on the deck watching the sunset. It's glorious, and if we ever move, I might stipulate we have a deck with a sunset view. On this particular occasion, we also dined on homemade French bread with a garlic and cracked pepper olive oil for dipping. And a glass of wine.

outsider art

Yesterday evening I enjoyed a conversation with my beloved which piqued some reflection about my identity. I've often considered myself a "jack of all trades but a master of none"; in essence, no one really knew what to do with me: the jocks received me as a left-side hitter and forward only, the intellectuals were suspicious of me until I sat next to them in literature and philosophy classes, and the artists tolerated my non-vibrato alto and amateur photography skills.

Even though I was welcomed into various circles, I quickly got the sense I didn't belong--and often not on account of its members. Belonging to a group often required an emphasis on certain characteristics and a subsequent reduction of others. At the door of acceptance, I flashed my credentials and with a nod was asked to abandon the undesirables to enter.

I've been contemplating the Creator-creation relationship in conjunction with my outsider status, and I realize that every group or human relationship I entrust my identity to will leave me marred because the holders don't truly know or love me in the way my Maker does. There is a special relationship between an artist and his work that cannot be replicated in even a marriage or close familial bond.

The Artist knows every detail, imperfection, and strength of his work, and the art he makes does not reflect its own glory or take pride in the reviews of critics. The art reflects the creativity, purpose, and love of its Creator; I take comfort in knowing I will never understand the mysteries of others, nor will they ever fully understand mine. They are reserved for the Artist.

"For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well."

-Psalm 139: 13-14 (ESV)

social media alert

I must confess I don't often like how I feel after checking facebook, pinterest, or other social media; it's like awkward junior high, minus the raging hormones.

Right now I am going through Tim Keller's "Fruit of the Spirit" Bible study with several women; last week's lesson focused on walking by the spirit, looking at the following passage:

"If we live by the Spirit, let us also keep in step with the Spirit. Let us not become conceited, provoking one another, envying one another" (Galatians 5: 25-26).

As we were discussing, it occurred to me that much of social media plays on these two forms of conceit: provoking and envying.

Provoking scenario: I enjoy a good life with many blessings from the Lord, so I post about it to boost my pride (because clearly I helped God in providing them), show off my beautiful, happy-without-problems family, and often provoke others in the process.  I am amazing, mind you.

Envying scenario: I feel dissatisfied with my life and struggle with discontentment, so I read about the lives of others to escape and feel like mine isn't quite up to snuff; the posts (or pictures) feed my bitterness and sense of injustice that the Lord gave me a "bad lot in life." I am a victim.

I'm guilty as charged, multiple counts of both forms.

It's easier to associate conceit with provocation; the connection is much more blatant, and the offenders are easily identifiable; however, envy is a silent conceited killer. It lurks deep in the heart, cloaks itself as Humility, and leads to feeling beaten down, not good enough: Satan has his foothold.

Keeping in step with the Spirit should serve as a "heart check" button for Christians using social media. Christ's sacrifice humbles us to recognize our need and secures us in fulfilling our every need. Yeah, we have an app for that: the gospel.

garden ready

An early spring is a welcome blessing in my household. After months of noses pressed to glass panes, brown morphs to green. My soul lifts from winter's dank underbrush as I scoop and spread compost on the garden plot. I move with purpose when the earth warms, and I wonder how I frivolously spent winter hibernating.

It has been one of the warmest springs on record, the earliest I recall of my Midwest decades. Thanks to helping family hands, a third of the garden is planted, all seeds having sprung: peas, carrots, radishes, lettuces, spinach, broccoli. More seeds wait patiently on a shelf in the garage for their turn to be buried in the garden, once April is filed away. Still more seeds lie damp in egg carton bottoms next to a bedroom window, and I water and watch the dormant seeds daily, hoping for a fruitful experiment.

Easter Sunday would be an appropriate sighting of a first green shoot.

 Egg carton bottoms with four kinds of tomatoes, two types of peppers, rosemary, and basil.

A picture of the radishes from March 23; they were the first plants to greet us from our vegetable garden. Now they are three times as big and in desperate need of thinning.

ordinary day

As I age, birthdays are increasingly less glamorous. The days of popping a balloon with a pin taped to a pencil, landing the coveted first spot in the lunch line, and enjoying birthday wishes and treats all day are over.

Those were the good ol' days. Ah, birthday bliss.

These days I wake up forgetting it's a special day until the Accountant leans over my shoulder in bed, kisses me on the cheek, and whispers, "Happy birthday." And just in case my memory lapses again, buried in my mothering duties and household tasks, I can count on a mid-morning reminder from my nieces and nephew, belting out their high-pitched "Happ-y birth-day, Tan-te Or-pah...." Or I click on an e-mail sipping my coffee, enjoy a phone call or maybe a card in the mail if the sender timed it right.

But generally speaking, my birthdays are pretty ordinary: normal routines, everyday responsibilities. Maybe it's a sign of aging, but I'm beginning to appreciate the ordinary. I'll take the mundane laundry, dirty diapers, and soapy hands plunged deep in the sink. There's something comforting about the ordinary.

stretch marks

This morning I baked a batch of wheat bread--nothing special, just the usual household restocking. When I glanced at the loaves before sliding them in freezer bags for the coming week, I noticed something on their surface I hadn't paid much attention to before: stretch marks.

The bread's scarring matches the way I've been feeling lately: stretched thin. Taken by the arm of a two-and-a-half-year-old, pulled by the leg of an army-crawling eight-month-old, and tugged on the heart by a servant-husband. The everyday pulls.

The everyday and the extra yanks leave me burning, burdened, burned out. I know my tasks are kingdom work--relentless work--, but it doesn't prevent me from wondering how much more elasticity I have in me before I break.
 

Like the bread on the counter, I wear the scars of a work-in-progress, uneven and battered. But those flaws give the bread its character, its beauty; they are marks of the Artist, re-purposing the brokenness for his glory.

A bed-headed boy wakes hungry from his nap. Points to the scarred bread. I cut two slices, slather on crunchy peanut butter and homemade blueberry jam, and we commune together, feasting on the broken bread in the quiet afternoon.

transparency

I've been reflecting on transparency lately in the context of Christian community: how I cloak my filth in righteous clothing, hide my shadows in the light.

If I acknowledge I am fallen, why is it painful when sin seeps through my facade? When others notice that sigh of impatience, the tinge of anger in my voice. I joke, justify, or smile jovially, hoping it will mask the dirt emerged.

What I really need is a good righteous soak--let the holy water wash over Self-Sufficiency's scrapes and Pride's open sores. Allow the see-through liquid to seep through callouses, steep in my soul, stirring up love.

I was reminded of God's righteous clothes for his children last week. The boys tucked away for naps, I slipped outside in winter boots and scraped metal across driveway gray, until my shovel parted the white sea. Snow covered dreary nakedness, billowed high on dead bushes, righting all sin's wrongs.

Isaiah 1:18 - "[T]hough your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow [...]"

christmas tradition

My beloved and I had a conversation last week trading ideas about family Christmas traditions. We haven't started any of our own yet--just continuing on our childhood ones since we still visit both families over the holidays. But with two little ones, we're starting to think seriously about what we'd like to do to celebrate Christmas with our family.

What partially spurred the discussion was watching a YouTube video of children reacting poorly to fake Christmas gifts (thanks, Leah!); however, the lion's share of the reflecting came from reading a blog post in conjunction with the video. Ann Voskamp describes a challenging tradition of gifting Christ in honor of his birthday: give to the least of these, and you give to me.

Challenging because it exposes commercialized celebrations; challenging because it mocks my selfishness; challenging because it requires personal sacrifice--a small version of the anguish Christ suffered for my sake.

Giving to the least of these is an option to celebrate a humble stable birth looking up to the blood-stained cross.

wrong question

This morning I read an op-ed article by David Brooks in the New York Times about the alleged Penn State scandal; in it Brooks unearths the hypocrisy of the public's disgust. Brooks is a thoughtful writer, but he missed the mark on his conclusion. Here's the end of his op-ed piece:

But we’re not Puritans anymore. We live in a society oriented around our inner wonderfulness. So when something atrocious happens, people look for some artificial, outside force that must have caused it—like the culture of college football, or some other favorite bogey. People look for laws that can be changed so it never happens again. 

Commentators ruthlessly vilify all involved from the island of their own innocence. Everyone gets to proudly ask: “How could they have let this happen?”

The proper question is: How can we ourselves overcome our natural tendency to evade and self-deceive. That was the proper question after Abu Ghraib, Madoff, the Wall Street follies and a thousand other scandals. But it’s a question this society has a hard time asking because the most seductive evasion is the one that leads us to deny the underside of our own nature. 

While Brooks identifies the sins of vanity and pride, and even our total depravity--yay!--, he stops short with the wrong question: "How can we ourselves overcome our natural tendency to evade and self-deceive."

We ourselves can't do diddly squat.

A better query might read: How can we be rescued from our natural tendency to evade and self-deceive." Note the passive voice. I know it's a faux pas in English grammar circles, but it sure is fitting in theological ones. We need rescuing by the Savior.

I suppose it's a little greedy of me to expect a columnist to complete the thought. I should be thankful Brooks at least exposes our sin. His assessment of human nature reminds me of a sermon I listened to yesterday by Ligon Duncan from The Gospel Coalition website. In preaching about contentment, Duncan states, "You are more likely to seek real contentment and find it than someone who is content in his/her circumstances." Hopefully Brooks' article struck a cord of discontentment with his readers; then we will be a step closer to searching for the source of true peace.

shutter fancy

I took a photography course my senior year of undergrad. It was a black and white film photography class, and I was so intimidated by an art course and its art majors that I took it pass/fail--embarrassing, I know.

It turned out to be one of my favorite non-literature courses. I enjoyed the reprieve from pending deadlines; the calming dark room process; the never-ending search to find the best angle, the best lighting, the best timing. It was a way to push myself artistically, and I've been missing that particular outlet lately.

In the last month, I've had a few opportunities to rekindle my hobby. The most recent occurred last week as a trial for cutting portrait session costs from our budget and to personalize our boys’ photos. It also served as a challenge to successfully shoot a stalwart 2-year-old who barely sits through 1 Dr. Seuss book and a tipsy 5-month-old working on trunk control.

So after nap time I schlepped both boys to the backyard with my gear and snapped away. Here are a few highlights from our “session” (Note there are no pictures of them together; I need a little help from my beloved for that task):

 J.N. - 2 yrs., 3 mos.

C. A. - 5 1/2 mos.

autumn entry

I've been in denial that summer is coming to a close--a la the present progressive tense. This last week's unusually warm temperatures didn't help my seasonal confusion either. I think I've been a season behind since June and July were a blur of mid-night feedings and early morning wakings. According to my clock, it's the middle of August.

Meanwhile the leaves on our front trees are half fallen and all but our tomatoes, peas, broccoli, lettuce, and spinach are piled in the corner of our garden in a heap, awaiting the tiller. I don't have the heart to pull the spindly tomato plants yet, and the others are thriving in the cooler weather.

I fear by the time I admit summer is over, I will have completely missed autumn's warm colors and be stuck inside the gray winter. I think I'd like having a winter baby; I wouldn't protest missing February and March too much.

grief's presence

I am presently inept in the presence of Grief. I've had a few run-ins with her lately, and an awkward conversation fumbles back and forth full of starts, interruptions, and red-in-the-face restarts.

She is confident, beautiful, and powerful. Unsure of myself around her, I feel a cowardly inclination to fill the pauses and end up mutely devising appropriate platitudes. What I'd really like to do is create white noise, so the silences don't feel so dead, so cold...so final.

Grief lays me bare, cuts to my marrow. I want to blanket my depravity, but she seeks me out and exposes my hypocrisy. I don't want to be another Eliphaz, Bildad, or Zophar, so I walk alongside her, wondering if my clumsiness will smooth with practice.

cleaning house

Last Thursday my oldest was trying to lure me from my pile of laundry on the floor with a Dr. Seuss book when I spotted a small furry creature make a bolt from our cracked front storm door to the couch. I shrieked (I won't deny it) and called for backup: my beloved with a broom. He propped our front door open and poked the broom under the couch in the direction of our prepared exit. My son's finger pointed toward the door and his verbal "uh-oh" made me confident the mouse exited our home.

Or so I thought.

Except I kept finding mouse droppings behind the couch, then the love seat, by a vent, inside the stove drawer, and then along the back of our kitchen counter top! Tired of cleaning like a mad woman for fear the mouse was a harbinger of my slovenliness, it was time to step it up a notch. In addition to the poison packets (Not to worry, Mom; they were out of reach of little hands), we (read: my dear husband) strategically placed sticky traps behind the stove and love seat and went to sleep disgusted that our house was hospitable to a mouse.

One sleep later, no success, more mouse droppings in the stove drawer, disinfecting. Two more sticky traps under the stove in far superior locations, more cleaning, paranoia. One sleep later, still no success, questioning whether the mouse ventured elsewhere, frenzied cleaning. A little shuffle under the stove this afternoon, success at last.

Wish I were as fastidious about sin in my heart as I was about having a mouse in my house. Vacuuming, sweeping, and deep cleaning the sin out of my life? More like ignoring, hiding, and excuse-making for my heart's filth, the stuff I hide in the back of dark, stove drawers.

good fences make good neighbors

When we planted our garden this spring, the plot wove organically into our backyard. But the probability of little critters feasting and toddler feet trampling prompted a fence weeks after it was planted. Set apart from the lawn with its strategically placed wood stakes and galvanized steel grids, the encompassed garden soon assumed an ostentatious manner; the only society allowed were long-legged benefactors.


Currently the garden is thriving--and sprawling, thanks to the cucumber and butternut squash vines. Instead of insulating the garden bounty, the fence now acts as a defense for the commoner blades of grass, ensuring the lawn has equal access to the sun. On a less Marxist note, the fence also prevents the vines from wandering into the neighbor's yard.

relaxation woes

Cicadas roar. The birds dart around our deck, and the creek babbles lazily through our backyard. Relaxation should drift over me any second as I watch the sun dip below the horizon and take a sip of my half glass of red wine. I look at the wandering potato vine in the flower pot, thinking how next year I should plant one in a larger pot, so it has more room to grow.
Relax.

I try to glide into a calm feeling and lean my head back on the adirondack as I glance over at Olasky's The Tragedy of American Compassion on the small cedar end table.
When is that due again? I should probably get moving on that if I'm going to finish it by the due date...I was going to sew up that pink blanket this week, too. Maybe I'll do that tomorrow during nap time. Wait, I was planning to set aside nap time to catch up on my reading list.

The fog on my wine glass finally dissipates from the thick humidity, and I gather my hair in a ponytail, though it's not long enough and I don't have a holder. Uselessly, I loosen my grip and extend my arm for another sip as our air conditioning unit kicks on, breaking the silence.
I have to remember to drink a glass of water after I finish this--wouldn't want C.A. getting anything second hand during his "dream feed." I shouldn't get dehydrated either.

I wave off the fruit flies before I lift the glass to my mouth, and as the fermented drink washes over my tongue, I come face to face with a housefly--presumably drunk or dead--at the bottom of my glass.
So much for relaxing.

natural induction

It would have been appropriate for me to hang out a proverbial "Gone Fishing" sign over my blog a couple months ago. Since the birth of my second child, I feel like I fell out of the fishing boat and floundered since. I'm coming up for air and hoping to resurface altogether soon. Here's a deep first breath.

I've always wanted a natural labor and birth, and minus the dose of IV antibiotics to temper my Group B Strep, I experienced one almost 2 months ago. Long story short: my water broke at 9:30 P.M. 5 days before my due date, and C.A. was born just under 5 hours later at 2:20 A.M.
Was the pain horrible? Yes.
Did I consider medication? Yep, but by the time I thought seriously about it, it was too late.
Was it worth it? Absolutely!

Having time to reflect, I realize the glaring differences between my labors. I had to be induced with my first because I was 11 days overdue. Though I labored at home some before my scheduled induction, I didn't progress quickly enough after the doctor broke my water at the hospital, so she ordered pitocin. After 2 1/2 hours of vomiting and bed confinement on account of my IV and monitors, I shamelessly begged for an epidural despite my natural labor plan. After resting up, J.N. was born at 5:40 P.M. after 18 1/2 hours of labor and 40 min. of pushing.

My first labor was forced, pushed, and monitored at every step. I was hooked up to machines that measured, poked, and interfered with my body. The pitocin manufactured relentless contractions, and when the doctor informed I was ready to push, she set up a mirror, so I could see the baby's progress. It was an invitation to my delivery, a preview to my body's labor.

My second labor was spontaneous, unforced, and unrehearsed. I was free to walk around and labor in the tub. My contractions were autonomous, varied; after especially deep contractions when I thought I couldn't handle the pain anymore, the next couple subsided in severity and timing. I told the midwife when I was ready to push and knew my progress without a mirror, let alone my glasses. I didn't need an invitation to my delivery because I was hosting the experience.

Though I prefer my second labor experience to my first, the outcome was the same: both gave me an unspoken closeness to my love; both gifted me a sweet boy I cuddled and loved; and both rendered me thankful to the Creator of all things...natural and induced.