Surviving the Teen Years (Confessions of a Tired Mom)

I was that mom who was going to have the best teens ever; the ones who were obedient and cheerful and faithful. I was convinced that I would be able to mold them into happy, good people by the sheer power of my love and that there would be no arguing in my house ever. There were only two problems:

1) Me
2) Them

My plan was rolling along marvelously before they were teenagers. Those years between 10 and 12 are really deceiving... They have a mom convinced that she has successfully managed to navigate the uncertain transitional period between childhood and big-kidness. Thirteen was actually a pretty great year, too, and then 14 started to make me nervous. I sensed a little bit of stretching and pushing and expanding. And my world started to change. 

It was right and good of course. It's supposed to happen that way. And yet... it wasn't the way I planned it. My primary mistake was that while they were transitioning into autonomous human beings, I forgot to make the transition as well. I still saw them as an extension of myself, and that natural stretching of mind, body, and soul felt more like a painful tearing that I was not prepared for.

Moms of littles, don't let anyone tell you that teenagers are horrible. They certainly don't have to be that! But I've seen enough now in my own and other families to know that teenagers are often stressful on a mom... in new and wild ways that can hurt and startle. You only have a moment for a sharp intake of breath before you begin to frantically search that young-old teen face for a remnant of the 12-year old you think maybe got left behind on the last vacation.

Because seriously, that is not my kid.

I once asked a good friend why there are so many Catholic mom bloggers of young children and so few with teens. She said: Because they are fully engaged in their vocation. They do not have time for blogging. Seriously. Not only do teenagers have a way of sucking your brain and lifeblood from you but you can't post cute stories about their potty training adventures anymore either. And you can't really post their struggles and drama. They're not you anymore. They have a reputation. They are growing, growing, growing... gone.

How do you do it with all these kids? Oh, how many times I gave myself a mental pat on the back and straightened up tall and answered: Oh, well the big kids help a lot. It makes it so much easier. Now, in humility, I must admit that it's harder than it ever was... because a teenager tying a sibling's shoe before Mass in no way offsets the drama of the growing up and out years. Give me a choice and I'll take untied shoes at Mass every time. But there is no choice...

Can't go around it... gotta go through it.

No toddler is capable of doing what a fully aware stretching teen can do on a bad day... None. Give me your hairy screaming fit of a toddler at lunch time and I'll raise you the intense life or death teen drama at 2am. 

My kids are good kids. I love them. I like them. But they are kicking off the old self and trying to fly and it gets a little messy sometimes. You can't write that stuff on a blog. Not really. 

If you don't have teens yet, the best pieces of advice I have to give you are these:

1. Jealously guard and nurture your relationship with your husband.

Because one day, you're going to get kicked around a bit by those kids you poured yourself into... and you're going to turn to your husband and feel a twinge of regret that you didn't give him more. 

Those kids are made to fly. You two are together for keeps. 

There will come a day when you'll call him on the phone (especially if you have multiple teens) and you'll tell him "Honey, these kids don't like me at all and there's nothing I can do about it. I have to be the mom because I love them. But I really need someone to LIKE me today." And you'll see with new eyes how God designed your people to grow... and how he designed your marriage to blossom. 

If I could do it over again, I would still pour the same amount of energy and devotion into my kids. But I would give my husband the same... and more.

2. Remember that your kids are not you. And take care of yourself.

All of that energy and effort of mind, body, and soul that you've poured into your little kids... it's all good and worth it. But you've got a long way to go, mama... and you need to make sure you're prepared for the long haul. Take care of yourself. Not in a selfish way. But in a way that honors the God-given gift of who you are. Twenty years from now, God's going to ask you to keep serving your people, so make sure you've been a good steward of mind, body, and soul.

Make sure you know who you are apart from your children. 

3. Pray without ceasing. 

This is your lifeline. Pray, work, and trust. Lord, have mercy.

I could write for days about those three points but there are a couple more things I want you to know before I close...

I would rather clean a blowout poopy diaper than argue with a teen. I would rather deal with hairy toddler fits than teen meltdowns. I would rather break up arguments over who used whose red crayon than engage in teenage drama. Because on one end of the spectrum, the primary concern is the care of little bodies and emotions. On the other, is the hardcore care of souls. I've got three teens now. Stuff just got real. 

I'll say it again just to be sure you didn't miss it. Teenagers are incredible people. I just don't want you to be surprised or distressed when they start to act a little like you did when you were a teen. You'll see "the look" for the first time and it'll freak you out. AH! I did this to my parents! But it's okay if you remember that because it will help you have empathy when you want to kick them out...

With only the clothes on their backs.
And no dinner.
With a sign that says: "I know everything so it probably won't take me too long to get a job, a house, a car and my next meal."

I often stand in awe of these beautiful maturing people. But I also stand in authority over the not yet flown. And I have never been more grateful for the gift of my spouse. Maybe it's just that I feel so often like punting the kids through the door. Or perhaps it's simply that I have finally learned that my children have an identity. And that it's not me.  

Come, Holy Spirit. 

*Permission received from all of my teens to post this publicly. They understand that it was not written about any one of them specifically and we had a healthy laugh over some memories. :)

Mateo's Story: The Day I Met Jesus (Guest Post)

This story was first shared on Facebook by my friend, Jen. I asked permission to share it here and the words written below are hers. I thank God for the gift of Mateo and his amazing parents. May the testimony of his life and death bring courage, hope, and healing to those reading.

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Mateo's Story

by Jennifer Calabretta

I'll be honest, I am hesitant to share this story this morning. It starts out as a real downer, ha... But it has been TEN years today since we said our goodbyes to this sweet baby and began really walking down this crazy road that we never saw coming. And while many think it sounds like entirely too much, I cannot imagine our life any other way (especially without Mateo & later our daughter Sofia, and the 2 other sweet babies we have miscarried).

But I decided it is important to share for 2 reasons.

ONE, so many people go through the pain of a hard diagnosis, or losing a loved one, or just LIFE, and it remains only their cross. It is lonely. But life is never something you should go through alone. Grief and Anger require people to talk and share and reach out and cry; just to get through it still standing up! So many people reached out to us, and it made every difference.

TWO... It serves as a reminder to me that God is good. All the time. He walks through every single storm with us, and continues to do so. I do not know how Andre and I (& our family) would have survived all of this without Him. He sent us answered prayers, beautiful kids, homemade meals, loving friends, concerned family, well time scripture verses and moving song lyrics... all reminders that even the HARDEST situations can be gotten through.

So again, I apologize for the toughness of this. You don't need to read our story throughout the album if you don't want to. But I just felt compelled to share this today; and to share that God is always present, especially in our hardest moments. And with Him ALL things are possible. So keep on working through whatever life has handed you; you're destined to win:)

Mateo was born at 12:00pm on April 21, 2007. I finally figured out that I was in labor around 6 am that morning. I think I actually started earlier than that, but because I was only 35 weeks along, I didn't really think that it would be labor!! But when Andre came out to our Living Room at 6am and saw me taking giant breaths and squatting in the "Fat-Man" chair, he sort of figured it out right away.... 

So there we were, at 8 o'clock in the morning in the Labor & Delivery ER. No nurse really seemed to believe that I was in labor, despite the fact that I was swearing unholy words under my breath between contractions and shared with anyone who would listen that I had no problem giving birth in the wheelchair I was being escorted in if no one wanted to put me in a bed:)

So obviously - it was quickly concluded that I was in labor. 8cm the whole 30 minute ride on the slow and bumpy highway!!! Then my water broke, and we were sure Mateo would just come shooting out (sorry for the graphic imagery:))... but the weird part was that my labor actually stopped then and there. He just decided to slow it down. It would be another 4 hours before Mateo would come; it was really our calm before the storm.

At 12:00pm, the urge to push came and we went for it. 3 good pushed and Mateo was OUT! This whole labor, all we kept saying was, "How is he coming 6 weeks early? My entire pregnancy has been perfect, what's going on?" 

Nothing seemed to make sense. And then Mateo was born... and we realized we were in for so many more questions. Mateo was 5lbs 6oz when he was born, with a full head of black hair (as you can see in the photos!!). He had all 10 fingers, all 10 toes, and he was beautiful. Yes, I know I am partial because I'm his Mom... but he was perfect:)

But there were so many problems as well. When Mateo was first born, we had the NICU staff nearby as a precaution because he was early. Little did we know that they would be angels in our midst. Mateo wasn't breathing when he came out, and it actually took the NICU doctors and nurses 10 minutes to get a tube in to help him breathe. His fingers and toes were stiff and misshapen. And his arms and legs were not straight. 

We would later learn that the medical term for this is arthrogryposis multiplex congenita. It is a congenital condition that forms in the womb. When muscles aren't exercised during development (as Mateo's apparently were not), they become stiff and contracted. So when Mateo was born, all of his major joints were stuck in this manner. Needless to say, he was flown to the Cleveland Clinic NICU within an hour of his birth... and there we were, left with a whole lot of questions... and NO answers. 

But we love(d) him... and that was really all that mattered.

Over the course of the next 2 weeks, we learned a lot of things about Mateo. We learned that whatever he was "suffering" from was probably a completely random occurrence. However, this randomness left him with very weak and brittle bones (that would fracture very easily), misshappen and underdeveloped external body parts, and no responsiveness to us. At least not externally.

I knew, in my heart, that every song we sang him and every book we read him was heard. I know that he appreciated the Lullaby CD that we played for him all day every day. I know that he hated the girly socks I put on him every time we came to visit. And I knew that he loved us - even at 3 days old - I just knew.

And on the inside...he was perfect. 

His heart, his organs, his blood... Christlike, right? Broken on the outside, but perfect on the inside.

It was amazing that every day we would keep getting these terrible diagnoses from doctors, and our glimmer of hope for a recovery kept moving farther and farther off ... but somehow, Andre and I knew Mateo was bigger than all of this. 

We knew that no matter what happened; that our lives were better having spent it, even a short amount of time, with him.

And a short amount of time it would be.

On a side note - most of my adult Catholic life I have struggled with this image of Mary. Understanding what it is like to be a mother to such a great son; understanding how you just stand by them watching such a great sadness and pain happen to one you love so much... It was always so beyond me... But I will tell you what, my greatest solace - in not only those 2 weeks, but NOW as well - was in Mary. Because it was in those moments that I felt so alone, thinking "who the heck does this stuff happen to?", I knew that there was at least one other person who had... I had a companion. And what greater Mother to learn from...

But May 4, 2007, is not a day we will quickly forget. It is the day we decided to take Mateo off of life support. To some, it might seem impossible to imagine ever making a decision to say good bye to your child. But there was a point, when we realized that the life HE was living was not the one he was meant to live. 

We had spent two weeks with NO answers. No reasons. It seemed that Mateo should have been this perfect baby with this perfect life. But life happened differently.

The evening before, on May 3, Mateo's doctors told us that they had done a biopsy to test his muscle for possible answers, but they, in fact, were not able to find any muscle; ANYWHERE in his body. In essence, while his organs grew, his body stopped growing very early on in the womb. And unfortunately, what you don't grow in the womb, you cannot grow outside of the womb. So we were left with no other choice.

It was such a sad day; the day we made that decision. But we knew that Mateo had a greater Life waiting for him in Heaven.

We made sure that we got our whole family together at least once. Dante, our oldest, got to meet his little brother. We thought it was important, even if it only lasted for a few moments.

Mateo mustered all of his strength to stay with us for a whole 15 minutes on his own. They took Mateo off of all of his machines, they brought him and put him in my arms. It was 12noon on Friday. And I breathed in every bit of him that I could.

This picture here is one of the last we took before taking him off of the machines and saying goodbye - and while it is one of the hardest to relive, it reminds me of the Miracle of Life. It reminds me that God is so much greater than the circumstances He meets us in. 

It reminds me that on THAT DAY - I MET JESUS ...

And I held Him in my arms, and I kissed Him when He died... and I loved Him, the best way I knew how; and I knew that he held together the pieces of my broken heart so that I could remember every piece of love I had for him.

And I will take that memory with me, every day, for the rest of my life.

And that same love, that I had for my son and my God at that moment, is unequivocally the same love that I have today for my husband, for Dante, for Cabrini... and for our other angels, Jeremiah, Sofia & Gabriel. And it is a love that binds and renews and purifies...

He really is our "Gift of God" (Which, in fact, is what Mateo means in Latin... awesome, huh:).

Amen.

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Jennifer Calabretta is a wife, mother, and graphic designer from Northeast Ohio. All photos above are her property and permission must be granted for use.The "Courageous" graphic above is her design and you are welcome to share. 

Raising Strong Daughters in a Dog Eat Dog World

As the mother of four daughters, I have a lot of complicated thoughts about them, about the world, and about them coming into contact with the world. My own experience as an American woman plays into those thoughts heavily and I will not lie... sometimes they terrify me.

This world is dog eat dog and many women get chewed up and spit out right from the beginning. 

But because I cannot keep these girls locked up in the house (I mean, please... we'd drive each other mad eventually), I have had to face those real fears and determine a solid path for raising my little women. 

I was not a confident young woman. I was a "feminist" (because what secular young female isn't?) but it was all bluster and silliness. The truth was that I was just a young girl trying hard to be loved by someone (anyone) and not get kicked around too much by life. My self-confidence could be shattered by a finicky bottle of hairspray or a devastating break up... Sometimes it all seemed mashed up together in a sloppy painful heap. 

Unfortunately, that left me in a difficult blank space where I was neither nurtured fully as a human being nor protected from the predatory "dogs" of the world. I look back on my youth with much sorrow and regret. It wasn't until adulthood that I really learned my worth and discovered a depth of true joy...

So how do we raise our daughters to be the beautiful, sensitive, strong, wonderful women God created them to be... without hardening their hearts or turning them into dog bait? 

I don't have the answers, but I have a few ideas...

1. Stop Knocking Her Down (Be an Encourager)

If we want our girls to rise up straight and tall, we can't keep kicking them down. And moms, I mean we have to stop nitpicking the life breath out of them. I am guilty of this and I do it because I want to fix everything and make it all perfect… so that they are happy forever and ever. 

But oh my... sometimes I'm stomping on those sweet toes when I should be washing their feet. I forget my role as soul-lover and wear the gaudy hat of nagging tyrant. Awful. Fear-based mothering is a drag on the gentle soul and a bludgeon on innocent heads.

As moms, we have to keep them accountable and maintain certain expectations so that our kids can grow healthy and succeed. But we've got to make the balance of our interactions fall on the positive side, so that when they are grown and gone, the "mom voice" in their heads (yes, it will be there), is one that communicates truth, joy, beauty, encouragement, and strength.

2. Don't Let Others Knock Her Down (Rise up, Mama Bear!)

Dear sister mama bears... this is your cue. The common thought is that kids are resilient but let's not forget the dramatic rise in teen depression, suicide, and abuse. Resiliency does not mean that children can't be deeply wounded, simply that they learn coping strategies and have the ability to heal (or hide) their scars. Not every injury heals well but there are many injuries which are preventable. You daughters are vulnerable to predators (emotional, spiritual, and physical) and they need you to be "that mom" who is in the right place to mentor their young souls. 

You don't have to be helicopter mom but you do need to be alert. Do what you can to keep her physically, emotionally, and spiritually safe during her formative years and all the eye rolling will be worth it someday. 

I was a sensitive kid trying to fight my way through a dog eat dog youth culture. That did not go well. I didn't know how to fight. I needed someone to see what was going on and fight for me when I didn't have the skills, courage, or strength. I needed to know that I wasn't on my own. 

3. Teach Her How to Fight (Mentor Her as She Grows)

Okay, I don't mean sharpening her nails before a behind-the-school scratch fest. I mean that mamas have to teach their girls to defend what is good and beautiful about themselves. A feminine heart is one of God's greatest gifts to the world because it thrives on serving the needs of others. It is worth protecting. 

So, define what it means to "fight" and teach her how...

A woman's "fight" should never be an attack on others but only a defense of what is good and true. We are strongest when we lead others to be their best, not when we force them into doing what we want them to do. Our inner lioness is not designed to defend our egos... but to serve and ignite the world. 

Teach her to defend those who are weak and oppressed, marginalized and vulnerable. Teach her that she is worth fighting for and defending and give her the specific words and action steps to use when faced with someone who makes themselves her enemy. And teach her to identify an enemy... Because sometimes enemies come disguised as our greatest desires. I'm convinced that behind every angry feminist is a little girl left defenseless in the presence of "dogs"... male and female. 

4. Reveal Her Beauty (Be A Mirror To Show Her the Truth)

How ugly I felt as a young girl and woman! No shower could take away that feeling of disgust that I had for myself. I fell short in every way in my own eyes and it wasn't until I met my future husband (who then introduced me to Jesus), that I could see the truth mirrored for me. It is still difficult to believe! But the gentle love of my man and my God have taught me how to receive love without being afraid of a follow-up kick to the heart. 

The dogs of life had shouted lie after lie at me on a daily basis and I learned to believe them. As a mother, I realize that I have a  duty to show my girls who they really are... because the world will always feed them lies. 

When they are in your home, they should have no doubt that you love them and they should always see their beauty mirrored in your eyes. Tell them, show them, hug them, strengthen them. 

5. Introduce Her to Strong Women (Model Strong Womanhood)

Worldly wisdom says that "strong" women are successful, rich, and bold. True wisdom says that strong women are those who serve with such love and joy that they change the world, one soul at a time. Truly strong women are those women who refuse to become a "dog" in society and who use their feminine gifts to make the world a beautiful place where every soul knows its worth. They don't step on people to get where they want to go... they lift others up and are carried upward in the process. 

You're far more likely to find truly strong women in your own families and communities than you are on a Hollywood screen. I'm talking strong like Grandma... not brash like Beyonce. Big difference!

And be the strong woman you want her to be. Show her what it looks like. 

6. Teach Her That She Has Value Unattached to Her Successes or Failures (Be a Truth-teller)

The measuring stick of our culture is unforgiving and seems to unalterably attach our individual value to our successes. What we do becomes synonymous with who we are and inevitably, young women lose their identity in the midst of their activities. Life is rocky. And when a girl asks herself who she really is, the words that often invade her heart are...

worthless
ugly
failure
unlovable
stupid
miserable

We need to teach our daughters that they are valuable for WHO they are apart from what they do, what mistakes they have made, what victories they have won. Then when life gets a little crazy, they won't lose themselves in it. They will know... I am valuable simply because I exist.

The only way I know how to do that for a girl is to share with her the love of Jesus Christ, Who loves all, knows all, forgives all, and became man so that He could enter into our suffering... and shatter it. They not only need the consolation of such knowledge but they need the truth that accompanies it. We have a purpose. Happiness comes with discovering and acting on that purpose.

Dear Daughter,

You are amazing. Created in love out of love so that you might live in joy for eternity. Ignore the dogs. You are made for more. And when you forget that and need reminding, I'll be right here to tell you. Again and again and again.

7. Be Ready To Catch Her (Be a Healer)

She's going to get hurt. She's going to fall. Be there. 

Be that mom... 

Encourager.
Mama Bear.
Mentor.
Mirror.
Model.
Truth-teller.
Healer.

That's the best you can do. I will be praying for you! 

Miscellany in Pics {Life is Good}

How about a little update inspired by some recent Instagram pics? Our life isn't particularly exciting but we are blessed with the sweet mundane of our domestic church. For example, I'm tapping out this post while sitting next to my toddler. She has pink eye, is holding her stuffed dog (Jehoshaphat), and is eating her probiotic supplement. Exciting stuff. But I wouldn't trade it....

Professor's first trip home from college seminary. I'll just let this pic tell the whole story. Nothing earth shattering happened during his short visit except that we remembered how much we love him aaand he got to see his baby brother's first tooth. We won't talk about how I broke down into tears as I hugged him goodbye again. 

Okay, I lied. We have been doing exciting things. Can you think of anything more exciting than a book sale??? Break out the Ergo carrier... mama has some shopping to do!

Creepy pic, I know. But it's that time of year again in which I pull all nighters prepping for All Saints' Day. That makes it much more fun, right? Because 40-year old mothers of 8 just love all nighters with yarn. If you are looking for a great DIY beard tutorial, check out this one: Dwarven yarn beard. I would have liked to use some fancy yarn to make a super authentic looking beard, but this white stuff? Was FREE. That is what I call easy decision making. 

My princess cowgirl. Oh, how this girl has stretched my understanding of my motherhood! For all of you parents out there struggling to know how to love your little tigers, I understand. I'm there. Lots of us are. Micaela posted about her struggle today and I've posted about our travel challenge HERE. Surviving and working on thriving. 

But I have to tell you in humility that I've been doing a lot wrong up to now with this one. I am a firm believer in attachment but I am not accustomed to a child with such a high need,  so I was pushing away instead of drawing near. I'm changing that, but with this girl, that means that I don't get much done at all. It means that I don't go out very often with or without the kids. It means moving a mattress onto the floor next to her so that when she wakes up every hour, she knows I'm there and we all actually sleep. It means a different way of life.

When I say yes to that strong need of hers, she is calm and happy. It's a worthwhile investment... for all of us. The picture above is an off day, when all the roses and lavender, and pink in the world can't seem to touch her needs. And it teaches me something... that those things are bandaids... because what she really needs is me. 

Behind the scenes, these boys are often accidentally lighting things on fire or debating football. It all comes together pretty beautifully though. Thanks be to God.

Look what we found on a recent trip to a sporting goods store! This boy is content wherever he is. I pray that he is able to sustain that throughout his life.

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In other news not pictured...

• Sign ups for the November group training session with Fit Catholic Mom are ending this weekend. I know you will be blessed. Please consider investing in your health and wellness. Check it out here: W.I.S.E Gals

You don't need to be perfect or in shape already to start... you just have to have the small flame of desire. I had a huge flare up of health symptoms recently and I was still able to hobble through with Rebecca's encouragement. It's not about physical perfection... it's about giving all to God. In gratitude. In joy. I do hope to see you there.

• There are some tickets left for the 2017 Arise Retreat with Fr. Nathan Cromly. I attended last year and my soul was just blown up. That sounds bad but it was all good. Read about it here. Pray about attending? It is not free but is worth every penny. More info here: Arise 2017

A Mother's Secret Moment {surrendering to life}

I sit in the darkness and count my blessings. Over and over I count them... and then add one more. It is that profound moment in a mother's life. That isolated, heavy, light, surreal moment when no one in the whole world knows except mother of the biggest thing that really ever happens. A new soul... a new soul. The whole world swirls around me in the dark. And I sway and count rhythmically and slowly. Buying a little time, catching  my breath. Measuring time so that I won't miss the breathtaking moment when the soul chooses surrender... and joy.

It takes two days to find that surrender. It isn't that I'm not willing or that I don't know it will come... but that the world is noisy and fast and I need time - time to be alone with this seedling - and to allow the unfolding to occur. 

It never feels like a yesat first but rather a moment of sheer stark terror when mortality and heaven collide with tremendous force. And the first and only thing I want to do in that moment... is to set down my cross. May I, Lord? May I set it down? Just for a moment?

Just for a moment, He says. I will take it. Lean in, Melody... lean in. I will carry your cross until you are ready to pick it up.

Am I ever really ready to pick it up again? From the very first moment two decades ago when I learned I was a mother, I was ready to run. That first time I only feared the unknown. After that, I knew very well why I was afraid; and it is for that reason that I need this precious moment in the silent isolated darkness... to face it and surrender over and over again. Nine times now I have done it. And nine times I have watched my capacity for life expand beyond reasonable bounds. I know the truth about joy. But I just need a moment.

I used to have to wait for the little plus sign... but now I just know the signs of my body. I've done this enough to know the drill. My body changes. My emotions change. My cravings change. My very soul begins to change. Another weak fiat is clasped in my nervous hands - two pink lines -and I slowly uncurl those stubborn fingers. 

What will the world think, Lord?
What do youthink, daughter?

I am overwhelmed by the injustice of the dampening of pure joy by the hardness of worldly hearts... and my temper flares. This child is too beautiful for the world! Too glorious for their eyes and judgments! But I am tainted like the world... and I am tired. And... I just need a moment.

So the darkness remains and my eyes are squeezed shut, wishing the cross to be lighter. But I will my hands to rise up with my fiat. My fingers splay outward and surrender rolls off the tips and also off my tongue and out of my very soul...

Yes. I surrender. With joy.

A tremendous wave of grace crashes upon me, reminding me that He is powerful. That love is not a sentiment but a wild sea. It is a raging storm that draws in the heart and raises it higher... higher... higher. But it takes crazy courage to invite it in and let it reign. 

This child is more than my fear. An immortal soul. Imago Dei.I surrender to awe. I surrender to love. I speak my fears one more time but it is only a ceremonial act. I throw them out fiercely one by one and watch my mighty God strike them down...

Sickness.
Weakness.
Failure.
Discomfort.
Loss of control.
Ridicule.
Miscarriage.
Loss of freedom.
The pains of birth.
Loss of time.

I shout them out and He slays them as dragons and binds the lies which grip my heart. And He replaces them with a song...

You are enough. Your baby is enough. You are free to love. You are free to know joy. Dance in the Presence of your heavenly Father and make an offering of your very life. It is beautiful and good and you know it is. You look into the eyes of your children and you know that you have already embraced this little one... that this moment is the beginning of surrender to joy. Let the blossoming begin. 

It used to be that I was eager to share our news immediately. As the years have gone by and our numbers increased, I am less and less eager. It seems the moment the word is spoken, the mystery is diminished under blithe speech and gossip. The sacred treasure is exposed to harsh light. The talk turns to names and dates and nausea and numbers. And really... all I want to do is breathe in the unspeakable beauty of the sacred dignity of the newly created soul. Eventually, I will get to those other details... but for now, I just rest in the moment. Thanks be to God.

Dancing Among the Graves for All Souls Day

I love going to a Catholic cemetery. And I believe it is important to take the children. Unfortunately, the first experience many kids have of tombstones involves frightening Halloween decorations -- bloody limbs reaching out of the dirt and webs and spiders everywhere -- encouraging an association between burial and horror. I'd like to teach mine instead that death is the place where God greets souls and welcomes the pure of heart into His kingdom. And to encourage them to pray for those in purgatory. Sin is real. Hell is real. But there is no fear of it rising materially in the grassy rows of headstones. 

A cemetery is a place of sorrow and goodbyes. But it is also a place of deepest prayer, serenity, and hope. As they grow, my little ones will learn soon enough how quickly the soul can turn from Christ. And how terrifying that can be. So I hope to give them the gift of Truth and Beauty and clear the cobwebs from places that should be hallowed.

I encourage you to take your children to visit a Christian cemetery. Teach them about holy death. Read the names together and touch the engravings. Pray for the living and the dead.

We picked a recent sunny day and visited our Matthew's grave site. I didn't want to leave. Not because I think he lives there. No. I know that his soul has departed and his body decayed. But because it is beautiful to think of him and to be in that place of peaceful silence. He was born to new life in 2009. My tears are for me, not for him. Because I know the truth about holy death.

We cleared the earth from around the edges and wiped the grave stone where debris and dirt had gathered. Then we circled around his memorial and my husband led us in prayer. The children were reminded that they had a brother. And that this world is not the only place where siblings dance. 

When you take your children to the cemetery for the first time, choose a cheerful day and let them run in the grass and explore the names. Let them dance and play respectfully. Let them laugh and wonder out loud. I remember the time that one of our sons discovered a tombstone bearing his full name. And he marveled and wondered about that man. What had he looked like? Where was his soul now? It did not frighten him... it drew him in. Not to death, but to the life of the soul.

Our Matthew is in the baby section where the Catholic cemeteries bury all ages of babies without charge. The little stones are covered with flowers and stuffed animals and birthday cards. On this October day, there were little pumpkins and scarecrows and pretty mums. There was an inflatable green dinosaur and a few hot wheels for the boy who left his parents at 5 years old. 

I cried. I always do a little. But my children didn't. They ran and marveled and prayed with us.

Dear Parents... please teach your children that when the soul is right with God, that death is good and holy. And to walk among the headstones is a walk of solidarity with the love of the saints for their heavenly Father. There are no monsters there. No souls remain to walk and terrify. They have been judged and moved on. There is only the sorrow of the living, the love and hope and prayer that we bring when we come... 

... And the peace of Christ which passes all understanding. 

My children know the cemetery as a place of tearful goodbyes but also afternoon sunshine, and prayer. Their brother's body is buried there. And he is beautiful.

May your feast of All Souls' be filled with joy, hope and may you enter deeply into the mystery of what it means to give all for Jesus Christ.

Thanks be to God!

For an excellent November activity to help children remember to pray and sacrifice for those who have died, check out the Ora Pro Nobis candy boxes at Shower of Roses.

Our Birth Story: He Carried Me Gently (7th Baby)

I watched the sun rise from my living room love seat while I dozed between contractions, knowing that I would be meeting my daughter before the day was out. There were several moments I thought I should get up and wake my husband. Then I would think of the poking, prodding hospital scene and just close my eyes, wishing I could just press the fast forward button. Just tell me when to go, Jesus. I'm going to sleep.

I spent the last weeks of my pregnancy dreaming of a home birth. The idea of rushing to the hospital at the last moment and possibly ending up with a highway (or elevator or hallway) delivery filled me with tremendous anxiety. I rememberedlast timeand all I really wanted was to labor (if labor I must) in the calm and comfort and silence of home.

We have never had a home birth and likely never will. My husband is a first responder. A fire chief. He knows how precious a single minute can be when someone's life hangs in the balance and we have needed neonatal intervention on more than one occasion. He could easily deliver a baby under normal conditions but also has a great regard for what emergency medical staff can do when they are needed. And I concur.

Four Days Before Delivery…
So I waited a little anxiously through those weeks, balking a bit at the weight of the responsibility of being the only one who knows when to say "It's time" and knowing that it is more of an art than a science, which is why pregnant women seem to give birth in awkward places with some frequency.

We had spoken with the midwife earlier in pregnancy about the possibility of breaking my water to induce as we neared the due date. My body does not seem willing to deliver a baby without my water breaking, but once it does, the baby arrives very rapidly.If we know you're close, she said,I think it is something to consider. Get you settled in and then let the baby come as fast as she likes. I wasn't comfortable with the close margin last time.Yeah. I was pretty uncomfortable with that too. We went from 6cm dilated to baby in about 5 minutes which was physically and emotionally difficult. We all expressed our hopes for a slightly slower and calmer experience for the good of baby and mother.

As a result of odd body signals and an itchy trigger finger, I had three incidents of "false" labor in two weeks this time, during which I was 99% sure that it was time to go. I was wrong... and grateful for the strong hospital aversion that kept me dragging my heels long enough to discover that I was wrong before leaving home. Hospitals make me anxious. Highway deliveries make me anxious. All right, Jesus, it's time to lay it at your feet...

Whatever needs to happen, Lord, just let me know in time. I'll follow your lead. I'll pay attention, you call the shots. If we need to stay home, please make it clear. If we need to go, get me out the door in time.

As our due date grew nearer, I felt an incredible and increasing confidence that the Lord would indeed lead me well. My anxiety stemmed solely from not knowing what that would look like and the loss of personal control (as if I could handle anything better than the good Lord). By the time I started experiencing early signs of labor the day before delivery, I was simply anxious to see what was in store and what my role in the whole thing would need to be.

As I lay in that Thursday morning sunlight, I knew it was almost time. But Wednesday came first... and that's when the sticky art of labor discernment began in earnest. A full day to know and wait and make a conscious effort to meet my daughter with deliberate joy.

On Wednesday, I awakened to contractions. That was nothing new but I was also feeling extremely ill. My body started to clean out (all you labor-experienced moms know what I mean). Pressure increased. These are definitely labor signs. The question is whether they stick this time.My labors do not follow the textbook directions. I do not have regular contractions of any regular duration or any bloody show until my water breaks. By that time... well... by that time, it's TIME. So I just spent the day contracting irregularly and waiting. My appetite was poor. My irritation level was high. I just wanted to lay down in bed and stay there until the baby was born.

Jesus, please just let me stay home in the calm and quiet.The next minute I would remember the wishes of my husband and the medical emergencies of past deliveries...Jesus, please just let me know when it's time to go.

Almost all of my deliveries have happened in the morning and I suspect it is because of the natural hormone surge that happens at that time of day. I thought that I'd go to bed, get some sleep, and likely have a baby by the afternoon. It turns out that this is precisely what happened.

Thursday... Birth Day.
As I lay in the stillness of the early morning, I felt fear settling in and my typical fight or flight response amp up. Escape. Sleep. Ignore. I seem to prefer a semi-conscious state when dealing with stress. I knew it was time to get ready to go but my body screamed STAY.

I began to slowly make plans. Wake up the Chief. Wake up Cookie, my 13-year old daughter who would be there for the birth. I had packed everything the night before. All that was left was to call our midwife and leave.

And then I fell asleep for another couple of hours.

When I woke up, I quickly recalled the situation and also that I had decided to laugh when I went into labor because I wanted to meet my daughter with joy. In fact, I posted it on Facebook to help with accountability. So I laughed. A stage laugh. And I plastic smiled. And then I really giggled at how foolish my fears were, placed it all in God's hands, and grinned with genuine delight. I was going to ignore my inclinations and weak temperament and let God light up the day. Come, Holy Spirit! My real smile came and went but I figured a plastic smile still trumps a frown.

Before leaving the house, I posted a prayer request on Facebook and checked my blog feed to look for updates of Sarah and her twin boys. An update showed that she was in labor so I offered a prayer for her and gave myself a pep talk:She's delivering TWO... I think you can handle one! Pressin' on.

The Ride.
The ride to the hospital was very different from last time. No transitioning in the car, thank God. I was definitely in labor but my water hadn't broken yet so I had the comfort of time. And the discomfort of time. I had time to relax and breathe and time to fret. I also had time to think about the fact that I actually had time for an epidural if I wanted one. Oh, temptation!!

I decided to ignore the thought and press on. If I engaged with that emotional issue, I would lose the decision I felt was best to a decision made in a spirit of fear. I'm ignoring you, epidural. You don't exist for me today. Soon. Soon it will be over.

Cookie was quiet as a mouse in the car. She is not a very verbally expressive person so I am accustomed to her silences during significant moments. But I know she was nervous and also that she was wonderful as she geared up for the great unknown. As we drove along, I thought that I could have prepared her better but knew she would be fine... and shortly, I was too consumed with labor to have time to worry.

The Hospital.
Our little one decided to come into the world on one of the hottest days of the Summer. And my husband decided that we didn't need the services of the complimentary hospital valet. Perhaps he thought it would encourage the labor process to walk in the blistering heat. At any rate, we took a long, slow walk across the black top. I waddled slowly and nervously and my two sidekicks carried our bags.

Aren't we supposed to go in through the ER entrance?
I don't know.
I think we are. That's what we've done every other time.
Let's just go straight up to maternity.
But I don't think we're supposed to.
We'll be fine.

I'm the rule follower. He is the rule breaker. We've both travelled a little closer to the middle over the years but our inclinations still reveal themselves regularly.

We went directly up to maternity while my heart raced and my muscles contracted. I hate this place, I thought. Plastic smile. Plastic smile. We were buzzed into the maternity ward and our midwife was sitting right at the desk, beaming from ear to ear. 

“We've been waiting for you! Let's have a baby!” My blood pressure settled down and I smiled a real smile. Thank you, God, for this woman.

We were ushered in to our room and a nurse asked if I would like to be examined. NO. I'll wait for the midwife. Thank you though. Plastic smile. The birthing tub was set up on one side of the room, already filled and warm. The two nurses attending were cheerful and quiet.

Blood pressure taken. Baby monitored. As soon as we get a few contractions, you are free to do what you like. You can get in the tub, use the exercise ball, walk around, whatever. I was so grateful for the offers but all I could think was: I would like to go to sleep. I would like to just lay here. I said, "Thank you so much" and lay back to wait, feeling slightly guilty for not using the lovely tub they had prepared.

In the meantime, my husband was changing into his superhero costume. It's invisible but he definitely has one that he uses on such occasions. He stationed himself at my side and his presence in that room grew and grew. I could sense his movements and confidence at every moment even during the hard contractions. I knew that he would allow nothing harmful into that room and nothing good out... and that I could rest and focus on the baby and birthing process without another care.

On the other side of the room was my sweet Cookie, who was about to get the surprise of her life I think by witnessing the birth of her little sister. I had prepared her a little but was reluctant to get into any major detail. Not that I oppose detail, but I know that no birth is the same and that this one would go the way it would go no matter what she was expecting. She knows basic biology and the scientific outline of the process... what I could not really prepare her for was the reality or my actions. Because I didn't know myself what that would be. I did not doubt that she would be mature enough to handle it well. I did wonder if it would scare her off motherhood... or whether it would just motivate her to become a midwife. At that moment, however, she sat quietly. I was aware of her presence and prayed that she would witness a smooth and happy delivery.

When the midwife walked in, I looked at Cookie and thought Here we go. She's in for it now. And then I forced myself to ignore the worry.

We had talked about the midwife breaking my water before. Normally, she is reluctant to do it because it brings on a fast and heavy labor but this is a non-issue with me because I have fast and intense labors regardless of what anyone does. Her exam found me to be at 5cm dilated with increasing intensity of contractions so we knew that everything was ready. There was no point in waiting and tiring out. Let's have a baby.

My water broke at about 10:30am and we had a brief period of calm (about 2 contractions) while my body processed the idea of change. I was encouraged to get up and move around to "facilitate" labor but interiorly and in action, I heartily rejected this proposal. I did not want to facilitate labor. I wanted slow and steady. The babies come quickly without my help. I'm just going to lie here and wait for her.

Our midwife led the nurses out of the room and the three of us were left in silence. I stayed on my side  with my eyes closed and Mr. Wonderful periodically pushed me to drink ice water which I did my best to do. Then they prayed...

Merciful Jesus.
My husband was on one side and Cookie on the other, a few feet away. They took turns leading a quiet and gentle Rosary. Gentle as a breeze and powerful as the ocean, those prayers led me deeper into labor and closer to the arms of Jesus...

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, I give you my heart and my soul... Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us... breathe, breathe, Jesus, Jesus... O Blood and Water, which gushed forth from the Heart of Jesus, as a fount of mercy for us, I trust in You...

It was an experience of a steady increase of waves of grace and pain. My conscious focus was keeping every muscle as relaxed as possible through each contraction. I have read a lot about the effect of tension on pain during childbirth and wanted to give my body the advantage of having me work with it instead of against it. Keeping that focus and calm came easier with the rhythm and lifeline of prayer.

At the beginning, I was able to offer up the struggle for the intentions of my friends, family, and all who had asked for prayers. As things progressed, I began to beg Jesus to hear the prayers offered by others on my behalf.

Closing my eyes helped me focus. If I opened them, the busyness of the visible room, the curtains, machines, and wallpaper, distracted me from focus and I would start to feel a surge of panic. Start to think of how I could get out of this situation. The primary mental obstacle was the constant urge to let my fear get control and look ahead to the larger pain that I knew was coming.

The Rosary concluded and my own prayers increased in frequency and decreased in complexity. Keep me here, Jesus. Keep me right here. Mercy, Lord. Have mercy... keep me here. I fell into praying that prayer over and over again because I knew that anticipating fearfully was a problem. If I could only stay focused on him and calm in the present moment. Keep me right here.

Focus on the Baby.
One great advantage to having birthed so many children naturally is that I can feel the process of labor with some degree of clarity. For my first children, I just felt like a huge ball of pain. It just happened to me and I didn't know what was going to happen next or when it was going to happen. That kind of experience lends itself to panic and I do understand how so many labors degenerate into frantic interventions. As an older mother, I now understand the process. I know when transition is imminent. I understand what it means to be in transition. When it feels like you're going to die, you're almost done. I can feel the descent of the baby and am able to tell my support team to be ready because birth is happening.

You're doing great, honey. She's almost here. My husband's love and confidence has a way of flooding over me and I believe him when he speaks.

I reached a point in this delivery when I could feel the baby descending and her head beginning to make significant work of the cervix. I told my superhero to go get the midwife because it was just about time. He took his time and walked around the bed so that he was standing and looking at my face. I admit I got a little grumpy. What are you doing? I told you to go get her.He told me that he was observing me to see if it was really time. I understood what he meant because he is really, really good at being a birth partner. He is an expert actually. But when mama says it's time... please go. He did go. He was perfect... not too soon, not too late.

Humor.
One of the oddest, most surreal moments during my labors is during transition. It is the point at which I am focusing and feel like I'm going to die with each contraction and the rest of crowd in the room is... well... they're waiting and chatting. Chit chat. As in, so you won't believe what my dog did yesterday kind of chit chat. And I'm in my own little world but still conscious of these waiting, cheerful people gathered around quietly talking about other things.

During this particular labor, the discussion turned to the suffering of expectant fathers. My guy made a comment about how difficult it is to watch someone you love in pain and not be able to physically help them. The midwife returned with a very passionate tribute to the terrific suffering of fathers in that position and how under-appreciated that suffering is. I had a lucid moment in between contractions and could not help myself: Yes, I am definitely under-appreciating his role right now.

The room paused and then laughed and someone commented that I must be doing all right because I still had my sense of humor. And I thought that the statement was funny in an ironic (not a ha ha) kind of way and added to the surreal quality of the whole thing. Surreal but sweet. A calm and happy peace descended upon everyone, like the 2 minutes at a surprise party before the guest of honor arrives. A little whispering, a little laughing, a reverent hush. An expectant joy.

Delivery.
I had only three full transitional contractions that were each separated by two very mild ones. I have never had such a beautiful breather before. With the second one, I knew that she would be out with the next contraction. I could feel her moving and pressing and I gave notice: HEAD!

One push and they told me to stop. Little breaths, Mel.That is when they clear out the breathing passages of baby and whatever else they do. It is also that moment when you think the world has gone crazy... telling you to stop. As if you can. As if you can without exploding and dying.

Second push and she was all out and I am shaking and wishing that I could feel my fingers. I could hear her little cries and could think nothing other than Thank God for minutes on end.

I apologized for yelling so much and the midwife told me that she loves to hear good hearty yelling because she believes it helps with the pushing. Cookie made sure to tell me that I didn't just yell... but that I also screamed and squeaked. Thank you, darling. I don't remember squeaking but I guess she was probably paying better attention than I!


Baby.
Because I have a wonderful husband and midwife, no one took the baby away. She nursed within 5 minutes and stayed and stayed. We didn't know her weight for another two hours because they just let me love her. Nobody poked her or put in eye medicine so that she couldn't see me. She nursed and looked at me with big eyes and then slept the sleep of pure contented happiness.

They didn't cut the cord right away so that the baby could benefit from the final minutes of cord blood. The midwife offered to let Cookie cut the cord but she declined. I would have declined as well. Give that job to Daddy! But Cookie did get the opportunity to learn quite a bit and the midwife took a very interested and active role in helping to teach her. Cookie was mostly quiet but she was very attentive and completely enthralled by the new little life.

She ended up staying for hours and pondered more than she talked about all that had happened. The details of her head and heart take a while to unravel and reveal and so that first day was spent quietly and happily. I don't think there is another soul in my household besides myself who is quite so in love or attached to this little one. Daddy loves her deeply, of course, but there is a maternal quality to my daughter's attentive care that is impressive. I have to think that watching the miracle of her being birthed has enhanced that bond. I have no regrets about bringing her with us. In fact, I think her presence made the experience even more beautiful. I do admit that being so exposed to additional people is humbling, but it is a feeling that was easily overcome when surrounded by so much grace and blessing.

The Gentle Birth.
I wouldn't normally use the words "gentle" and "birth" in the same sentence... or ever... but there was a quality about this one that demands it. The pain was something I don't care to remember. It was not gentle. But the way that our Lord led me through the circumstances and actions of delivery were so lovingly merciful. He did not take the pain away. But HE was there. And HE transformed fear and suffering into something magnificent.

At one point during the final moments of delivery, I recalled our last labor and the incredible focus that came with calling on the name of Jesus out loud. His name is not magical... not a token word that makes things better like the clicking of Dorothy's ruby slippers. His name is His Presence. Crying out to our Lord does not necessarily diminish pain, but brings focus, like a camera lens being adjusted in the very soul. I remembered and called on Him and was surprised and grateful to hear the midwife affirm my prayer.

I have wondered in the past whether the smiling martyrs were smiling because they were miraculously relieved of the pain inflicted by their tormentors. I used to think that it must be so, but now I wonder if Jesus became just so much bigger and more present than their pain that they were able to smile in spite of it. Of course, I am not like those martyrs and have never even been inclined to smile through childbirth... but there is no doubt that He attends to us when He is called and carries us through.

Recovery.
We were left alone for most of our recovery. The fact that ward was unusually busy, the midwife had given a "hands off" directive, and that we are experienced parents, convinced the nurses that we didn't need much fussing over. We have had difficulty in the past with uptight staff who don't understand our more relaxed preferences or our desire to keep the baby with us. This was not one of those times. By the time we were ready to leave 24 hours after the baby's birth, not a soul was there to poke, prod, bother, or fuss at us. I got into the wheelchair and we rolled home... to the loving arms of the rest of our "babies."

I always forget how challenging the first days with a newborn are, trying to balance the needs of the baby, the household, and my own recovering body. But I haven't forgotten how quickly the time goes. How quickly they grow. How beautiful each moment is and how the human memory wipes so many of these moments away eventually. And I'm breathing it all in deeply and intentionally.

One of my favorite quotes is from Fr. Benedict Groeschel and I have been rolling it around in my mind frequently lately, hoping to live the message more fully:

When all is said and done we will be saved by the beautiful.
Life is good. Life is beautiful. And that beauty trumps all the hard, scary, painful, busy, anxious days of life. Perhaps that is why we suffer when we give birth. God needs us to pay attention. Something really big is happening here and it shouldn't be taken lightly. A reminder that I need to place my entire motherhood at the foot of the Cross, starting from the very beginning.
God be praised! 

Quick! To the Batmobile! {Our 6th Birth Story}

First of all, I want to shout a heartfelt THANK YOU to all who kept us in prayer as we prepared for the birth our little one. There is no question that God answered those prayers. He allowed us to have a little bit of adventure as we welcomed our new son...but He never let us go! Here's our tale, in brief, for those of you who love to read birth stories as much as I do...

You'd think that after 5 full-term pregnancies I'd be an expert at labor and that the answer to the age old question of "When do I go to the hospital?" would be a relatively easy one. Unfortunately, life is seldom so simple and in the early morning hours of November 4th, I found myself lying in bed asking that question and wondering whether or not I should wake up the Chief.

There's a general rule of thumb for knowing when to go in to the hospital called the "411 method" and it goes something like this: Contractions 4 minutes apart, lasting 1 minute, for at least one hour. I can't say that I've ever strictly used it but it's a good guideline for knowing when the event is imminent and to cancel dinner reservations.

My contractions were not like that. They were very, very strange and I didn't know what to make of them. I awakened to a sharp pain but it was unlike anything I was expecting. None of the subsequent contractions were longer than 15 seconds and all were less than 2 minutes apart. 

"They do hurt...but do they hurt enough? Why are they so short? Maybe it isn't a contraction. Maybe it's horrible food poisoning." I lay there for a few of them and then got up, determined to find out what the problem was.

The intensity continued to increase but they still remained only about 15 seconds long. I could walk through them with some difficulty but 15 seconds doesn't throw much of a crimp in any journey. Should I wake him or not?  "Honey, it's time." Better safe than sorry, right? "Should I call Mom and Dad?" he asks. "Sure." I think I'm sure, anyway.

Only about 1/2 an hour had passed since I was awakened by the first pains but still I hurried around the house preparing to leave. Where are those tennis shoes? Suddenly, I felt strong contractions, a POP and a gush and knew that I did not have time to tie those shoes. On went the ugly baby blue Crocs and I renewed my preparations with a rising panic and a fervent vocal prayer: "Please Jesus, get me to the hospital on time. Please. Please." 


After my water breaks (and it always does), labor goes very quickly. I knew from experience that I had, at most, 45 minutes before the baby would be born. The hospital ride would be about 25-30 minutes. No time to wait for our babysitters. We had hoped not to wake any of the children but the Professor was called upon in time of need and grandma and grandpa arrived to find us long gone. It turned out to be a very good thing that we hadn't waited for them.

The car ride was one that I hope to never experience the like of again.  (Cue Knight Rider theme song.) I am so grateful that traffic was minimal in those dark morning hours. I am also grateful that my husband had the good sense to break a number of traffic laws (prudently and safely, of course) along the way. I hadn't been paying much attention to the time up to that point. I knew we were rushing around in the 4:00am hour somewhere but didn't note the minutes.

In the car, it was easy to see the time and we were cruising along the empty highway at 5:00am. The contractions were decidedly longer and very much consistent with the final stretch of active labor. I could feel the pressure of the baby and I knew that in a very short time I would be in transition. I have never had more than 5 transitional contractions (usually just 3) once they begin but they are doozies since most of my dilating occurs in that short time (going from 2 or 3cm to 10cm in 45 minutes following a water break). I have never had to push more than 3 times to deliver.

Have I mentioned that I was becoming a bit anxious that we wouldn't make it?

The Chief called ahead to the ER so that they would be ready for us and wouldn't stop us to fill out paperwork. "Please bring a wheelchair...baby is coming." The car trip ended up only taking about 20 minutes and progress was going more quickly than I had estimated. I felt like laughing when I saw the number of staff ready to greet us at the door and thanked God for my husband's excellent professional connections in the medical community!

The ride in the wheelchair seemed awfully long. My legs were shaking so badly from the pressure that I felt a little silly... like a pumpkin shaped jumping bean. I was trying not to make any horrible pain-related noises in the halls and just tried to pray. 

"Jesus... Jesus... Jesus." 

The nurse deftly deflected the paper-gatherers as we rolled through the halls. "No time," she said, "She's been here before...let's get to this baby first." I was so very grateful when we pulled into an oh-so-familar birthing suite room. My midwife arrived immediately (bless her heart) and measured me at 6 cm. Transitional contractions began...and at 5:24, just 8 minutes after arriving at the hospital, the baby was delivered.

I wish I could tell you that I was the picture of calm and grace. In reality, I yelled my head off during those few minutes and had great trouble collecting myself following delivery. I know that I am blessed to have short labors but the degree of intensity is definitely higher for that brief period. My easiest labor (ha ha) with the smoothest recovery was 4 hours long. The shorter they get, the more violent the actual labor feels and the more shell-shocked I feel afterwards.

I happily admit that, overall, it was lovely to have the baby so quickly! "It's over! He's here!" is what every laboring woman longs to say. And the baby is placed in arms...well, what's labor pain compared to that joy?

The short labor was also a little harder on the baby. The descent was so rapid that the normal "squeezing" of the lungs did not happen and they were filled with fluid. Baby got a lousy APGAR score (4.5) and a "Code Pink" call to the neonatal resuscitation crew. The nurse told me that it is common for very rapid labors to be rough on the babies. But the rapid descent was also a blessing since it prevented him from taking in the meconium that had gotten into the amniotic fluid. Thankfully, he recovered quickly with no ill-effects.

There was so much that could have gone wrong that day. So many points at which things could have gone differently and changed the course of events. What if I had stopped to tie my shoes? And waited 2 more minutes to wake up the Chief? What if we had waited for our sitters? What if my baby would have been born in the car and needed that neonatal team...but they weren't there?

Do you ever wonder if God hears the prayers you offer for bloggers across the miles? You don't have to wonder anymore. He heard you.

In times past, with longer labors, my husband has been able to lead me through prayer. I remember all those times and treasure them. This time, there was no room for a verbal Hail Mary but I do remember calling on the name of the Lord in my panic and pain. I heard my husband say, "Don't worry. He's here. He's with you." Those words brought great clarity to me in that moment. I was able to focus on them and was greatly comforted. It was the super-condensed version of labors past but his words reached my ears and my heart and renewed me in faith and hope. I am so grateful.

One slightly comical blessing of the day was that the decision of whether to get an epidural was (once again) removed from my hands! It looks like it will continue to be my lot to walk straight through that pain even when I wish to go around it.

Baby Update: Healthy as a little horse. Calm as a cucumber. Nursing voraciously. Cute as a button. An absolute blessing and a joy...it is such a privilege to be a mother. The months of sickness and the discomfort and the pain of labor have culminated in a greater love than I could have imagined. Even the previous experience of motherhood (5 times in my case) cannot prepare a woman for the preciousness of another new life. It's always a sweet surprise. We forget too quickly what the Almighty can do. God's works are marvelous!!