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.

spring doings

Spring has been a productive season for our household organizing, planting, celebrating, planning; some might call it "nesting," but either way I enjoyed the extra motivation. Here are some pictures of my most recent endeavors:

My first try at croissants; next time I'll use unsalted butter.


My contribution: picking out the slate, advising on a few tile placements.


Homemade strawberry shortcake with ice cream for my hubby's birthday.


Our first vegetable garden after planting; mulched tomatoes and peppers.


Five bags of rhubarb cut and ready for the freezer.


My suitcase packed for the hospital in anticipation of Baby #2.

mother's day

I was thankful for a day to reflect on my role as a mother and how I've been shaped by Christian mothers and mothers-to-be around me. Yesterday as I listened to a sermon on Acts 9:31-43 at my parents' church, I was reminded of the fact that I am daily engaged in kingdom work caring for and training up my children. It doesn't matter if the house is spotless or dinner is on the table at the same time every night; what weighs heavy is whether my children grow in the fear the Lord. It's a tall order, and I'm humbled daily at my failures to keep it at the center of my mothering.

Serving as a mother has made me appreciate my own mom in new ways. I often wonder how she mothered me, along with 4 other rambunctious tykes, working full time to boot! Grace. My mother always claims her source, and I find myself joining its refrain a generation later.

I brainstormed a small list of tributes yesterday: things I disliked about my mom growing up but I've come to appreciate in my (hopefully) wiser, more mature years.

1.) Buying fruit leather from the coop for snack recess instead of the coveted Handi Snacks.
2.) Baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, though I whined for ones without all the healthful ingredients.
3.) Asking me whether I practiced the piano after school, to which I frequently lied and said "yes" and now wish I hadn't.
4.) Helping me plant, harvest, and weed in the garden--all useful skills now as I tend my own.
5.) Making me pick strawberries at the local patch many summers; I begrudged the work, but now I wish for access to a local pick-your-own strawberry patch.
6.) Correcting my use of vulgarities: "(Fill in the blank) doesn't suck; a vacuum cleaner sucks."
7.) Taking me along to the Rolscreen recreation trail area; it wasn't as fun as going to the pool or park, but it taught me the importance of exercise.
8.) Refusing me when I begged for any of the following: candy, clothes, pop, junk food, the latest fad, etc.
9.) Enforcing rules of modesty in my dress and politeness in my manners.
10.) Shopping sale racks and almost never buying anything at full price; I now find myself heading directly to the sale racks in stores.

spring rain

I hear a gentle rain outside, and it reminds me of a Sunday morning a couple weeks ago when I woke up with a poem in my heart as I listened to one of the first spring rains. I jotted down a few lines on a scratch sheet of paper, thinking I'd finish it that afternoon. Well, it's raining now, and it seems like a good time to fill in the gaps.

spring rain
a scattered patter
to warm the blood
of a frozen field,
and green the ground of a
snow-melted brown.

the drizzle swells
into rivulets and streams,
a downpour of drops
morphs budding emerald verdure
while finches cheep esteem.

mercies brim forth,
gifted from heaven
to purify souls from
Sin's smut and Temptation's muck;
hearts bathed in crimson-cross
sprout Forbearance, Grace--
who blossom in gospel rains
and point contented to the Son.

overcoming fear

It taunts me from the black card table where it's perched, haughty whitish gray and blue, sneering. I approach cautiously, cozy flannel gripped as a comfort blanket in my hand.

"Just dig in," I repeat to myself as I venture close and sit on the matching, padded card table chair. Before I lose my new-found ambition, I fill a gleaming bobbin with royal blue strand, thread the machine, and push the pedal lightly at first, harder as my confidence grows.

I remember techniques my mom uses to make clean edges, keeping the needle down and turning the fabric mid-stitch. I learn my favorite hand positions, calculate how to make consistent top stitches, and find solace in the whirring as my fear bleeds out and stains the fabric blue.

Action is my best remedy for inaction.

Recent Projects:
Above: brown baby blanket with blue trim

Left: red blanket with brown trim; 4 burp cloths with green, orange, blue & red trim

Note: I've met lots of baby boys lately!

fear of art

About a month ago, I purchased a used sewing machine on ebay. I've been thinking about buying a sewing machine seriously for a few years, though I really knew I wanted one when I was just tall enough to peek over the edge of a yellowed wooden table to watch my mom sew beautiful things with her new gleaming Bernina.

I've always been envious of confident artists: poised, self-assured as they make bold strokes across a piece of canvas, voraciously write paragraphs of exquisitely strung-together sentences, or decisively press down the button and hear the shutter close with satisfaction. I watch hopeful their artistic certainty will rub off. Fear paralyzes me.

Fear of art not measuring up to self-imposed standards, of it not being interesting enough, perfect enough, inspired enough. So I think about stories I'd like to write, photographs I'd like to take, and fabric I'd like to sew...and sit on my hands for fear it will not be enough.

"don't cry over spilt milk"

Many a childhood family dinner was spoiled by spilt milk. Despite parental chiding to move our glasses farther away from the edge of the table--and subsequently out of our clumsy reach--, we played a game of milk-spilling four square each week. I swatted my hand across the table to my older sister, who then knocked hers sideways to the foot of the table in the lap of my older brother...and on and on. I think my parents had to buy an extra gallon of milk per week, anticipating the liquid waste on our plates, on our chairs, and on the floor.

I finally understand their frustration--empathize with it, actually. I've lost track of how many milk spills I've been sanctified by these last several months. At first, my gasps of surprise scared my boy to tears; next he cried when I disciplined him for his carelessness; then he sensed my brewing anger and tried to atone for his guilt without putting up a fuss over whatever food graced his plate. Now he says, "No-noh, noh-nah" and pushes the offending cup away from his tray as I cringe at what my responses have manufactured. I reassure him, "It's okay, sweet boy; you just need to pay attention to what you're doing," and I shuffle to the laundry room to fetch another towel for soaking up the white in the carpet.

Spilt milk has brought out my best patience and my worst anger. I recall a recent lunch when I soaked up 3 separate milk spills with as many towels. I almost cried after the second accident; I laughed after the third. Parenting has bolstered my forbearance...and my sense of humor.