Last Gasp: Crosses, Envy, and Mothers' Day

(well, that didn't last long, eh?)

I only go on FB anymore to check specific things: goat group, horse group, homeschool group, etc. I happened to see yesterday an article that two women whom are very dear to me, each in different walks of life, had posted, so I clicked on the link and read it:

What I Wish We Understood

(In googling to try to find the link, I've come across articles such as "Sorry about mother's day, my childfree friends", "Mother's day is the worst," and other such encouraging posts. That in itself is telling. Shouldn't we, as Catholics, be presenting something different from the secular world?)

Now, I seem to be alone in feeling this way; comments rave and praise this girl (whom I've never heard of before and know nothing about, so this is my first encounter) but I felt like I was slapped in the face. Maybe it was on the heels of receiving an email about a group petitioning the UN to abolish mother's day, as mothers are useless members of society - staying at home and raising children, when a childcare can do the same or better. Maybe it's on the heels of numerous health issues surfacing in the family, requiring major dietary and lifestyle changes (again). But this article made me feel like I should be ashamed of finding joy in mothers' day, in celebrating mothers.

Let me get some things really straight here: I know I've been guilty of saying these "platitudes" to single friends, with the best of intentions, not knowing what else to say. (Although, how reminding someone that God does indeed have a plan is a platitude, is a bit beyond me.) In real life, I am not very good at saying things. So, I'm sorry. But: I've been there. I married late-ish in my circles at 28 - nearly ten years after my first good friend's wedding. I spent many years lost, confused, in half-relationships, unsatisfactory jobs, yearning for children. The icing on the cake was when my much younger sister got pregnant at 18. All I could think was Why God? Why does she get a baby and not me? My relationship with my mums has not always been pretty. In fact for years, it was close to toxic, even, despite both of our best intentions. My mom lost her own mum to cancer when she was 9. There is lots of trauma and very complicated emotions about motherhood in my background, in my consciousness. I know *many* women who have struggled with infertility and miscarriages, some approaching the double digits. I know women who have had full-term stillbirths. I have friends whose birth stories would make you fall on your knees and thank the good God you are still a virgin. I have friends who have yearned and desired for years and years to marry and have children. I am not unfamiliar with the crosses of the childless, or of the various agonies of different states of womanhood and motherhood. And, most of all, I am with my whole self behind the idea of all women being called to different ways of motherhood. Absolutely! 100%! Yes! That is why Our Lord was gracious enough to give us Our Lady, Mother and Virgin. That concept is at the very core of the Catholic understanding of femininity.

So, all that said: Something about this article really hit me the wrong way. The irony is that she exhorts us mothers "not to bash people with our crosses" and "be more sensitive" to different crosses than our own - which, hey! I agree with! whole-heartedly! - and yet she tells mothers to shut up, basically, about our crosses because they are insensitive to those who want to be mothers. Honey, let me tell you a few things. First, yes motherhood has compensations, but it is damn hard. And you know what? Sometimes the sacrifices far outstrip any immediate compensations. They are dark years. There have been times when it has been sheer grace only that I have not walked out that door, because I have felt like I just can't take it anymore. So, I am not supposed to "complain" of that to people like you because . . . that is "inflicting" my cross on you and being insensitive to your suffering? It can be, I suppose, but maybe you, dear one, are clinging to your cross so hard that you don't have room to be sympathetic to someone else's. In short, dare I say . . . you are doing what you are accusing "happily married mothers" of doing. And you know what? There ARE compensations for being single! Like getting to shower as often and long as you want; to use the toilet without a conclave gathering outside the door or WWIII starting in the dining room. Like getting to stay out as late as you want, to go to parties, to go to the damn bar and have a drink. Things you take for granted. Those may seem trivial, but it is the trivial compensations that may mean the most, just like it is the quotidian grind that may be the heaviest cross. So: stop "bashing" me with your "cross" of single freedom - which is a real thing! It really is! - if you are going to lambaste me for struggling with my cross of motherhood.

Most of all, there is a name for this. There is a name for being unable or unwilling to rejoice (e.g., celebrate Mother's Day) in another's good (e.g. the blessing of children). It's a moral word, a perhaps not very pleasant four-letter world. Here, I'll spell it out for you:

E N V Y

Here's the thing: As much as this article seems to tout really good things, like tolerance and sensitivity and general magnanimity (who doesn't want to be "great soul-ed?!), that tolerance seems very one-sided and, to me, there is an undeniable streak of envy running through it, underpinning it. The condition of not being able to rejoice in the good of another, who has something that you don't have and want, is envy.

When I compare myself to all these mamas I know who are successful writers, bloggers, speakers, crafters, and see myself being able to do Absolutely Zero and writhe? Envy.

When I look at my body and see a flabby stomach and floppy breasts and yearn for my pre-baby body, for your pre-baby body? Envy.

When I seethe because I had to spend the cost of some damn Jimmy Choos on healthcare for my kid instead? Envy.

When you look at me and tell me to stop rejoicing in and complaining about my life because its hardships aren't yours? Envy.

When you tell me that my life is better because I have taken vows and have these four crazy children? Envy.

What about we flip some of the things she says on their heads?
Stop slinging bitter words about your absent/abusive mother to someone whose mother smothers and controls.
Stop complaining about your infertility to the mama who is bearing the cross of hyperfertility.
Stop raging about people who want to set you up when your married friend has not been on a childless date in five years.
Do you see where I'm going with this?

We all make mistakes. Very few people have the happy gift of having the right word at every right moment. I know I damn sure don't. I apologize to all of you dear beautiful single friends whom I've very unintentionally hurt with my clumsy tongue. It has hurt me tremendously to see your suffering and yearnings. I have held you in my heart and prayed for you, prayed for peace and trust and grace and all good things. I ask you forgive me my failings, as I have borne with yours, as we are all called to do in this broken beautiful Body of Christ.

One Last Hurrah

Well, it's taken me this long to come to terms with a very self-apparent fact: I really have very little "success" as an online presence.
I have so much in my head, and this blog has, for over a decade, served to be a pressure valve for me when I feel like I really am going to lose my mind, or when I just can't find an ear that is *that* listening to tolerate my tirades. (It's not an easy endeavour, I fully realize and acknowledge!) However, the problem is, it doesn't really seem to matter much . . .
The alternate reality in my head, the one that plays at various volumes depending on the day, my exhaustion/frenetic energy ration, children tantrums/naughtinesses/etcetera, says that my words mean something to someone other than me, that my often-not-very-good photographs still can reach people, touch people, that, somehow, what I say or do or post can make a difference. Heck, maybe even can touch somebody's heart. But, the reality is that my posts seem more often than not to come off as sympathy bids, as whining, as pleas for help or affirmation or whatever. And, truly, this makes me cringe, because none of that is why I write, truly. As I said, it's mostly a pressure valve . . .
Some people can be horribly, painfully shy in real life and have a vivid, appealing online presence. Some people are damn lucky enough to be sanguine in real life and are able to carry that bright, butterfly personality through the screen. Me, not so much. As in real life, I seem to be woefully inept at conveying an accurate image of who I am, what I really want to say, who I strive to be. It's humbling, for sure. And it is, at times, horribly depressing to see what seems to be a virtual failure. In taking stock of all of this, and of how much time I waste on the damn internet, and how little fruit it seems to bear . . . well, I've kind of realized that this is not, clearly, where I am meant to be. That, whatever else I may accomplish, and too often that seems precious little, it will not be here. I have removed IG from the home screens on my phone; I have all but nixed FB; I scroll Twitter for news and articles and to keep somewhat abreast of current affairs. But, I am startling myself with the realization that the interwebs are not for me. That, if I have something to say, if I can ever make a success, ti will not be via a virtual reality. And heaven help me, because rarely has the actual reality been much kinder!
For the time being, however, I am striving, with much labor and agony and very slow progress, to complete a couple of *Very* long-running writing goals, and to be more present to my children, and heck, even to train my new horse. Whom I still love, by the by. ;) I am not doing nearly as well as I would wish in any of my goals, but one must start somewhere. So, as best I can, I start here, by saying au revoir. To be continued at some much later date, dear ones . . .

xxxooo

j'aime

We MOVED!

Please follow our continuing adventures in this next stage of life at:

treeandleafapothecary.wordpress.com

Thank you so much!!!

My Name Is Love

Have you ever thought what you would be like if you had a different name? Would your personality be different? Your life experiences? Your taste in clothes or music? Names are powerful, one way or another - not necessarily life defining, but still powerful. Growing up, I hated my name. "It's a boys' name!" I would rail at my mother. And then, as various and assorted forms of "Jamie" turned out to be in the top 10 names of my era, "It's everyone's name!" I wished mightily that my middle name were my first name. I have always loved it: Elisabeth. Loved the "s" instead of the "z", loved the myriad nicknames and variations it offers. A name for each mood, says L.M. Montgomery's "Little Elizabeth" in Anne of the Island. But instead, the common could-be-boys name. It is interesting how self-loathing can be tied up with one's name, one's identity.
It got worse in college, when mass immigration became a thing, and colleges were sending letters to "Mr. Jaime Berger." In fact, at my first attempt at college, the orientation weekend had me actually listed in the boys dorms.

not spanish. not a man.

"ARGH!" sez I to my poor mother. "It isn't just a boys' name," she would tell me, "and it wasn't common when we chose it."

My dad would try to explain further: "It's French. Your mother liked it because "j'aime" is French for 'I love'."

And his words would spark further interior conflict, because especially as a teenager - hot damn, y'all, I was so consumed with the accursed 90s angst, the tail end of GenX and largely raised with the unenthusiastically-named "Generation Why". I dimly saw that we, as people, could be called to something more and greater, something beyond the burning absorption in self, beyond the anxiety and anger and tremendous confusingly painful ways of this broken world. Still, it eluded me. In darker moments, I resented being identified as "I love." What if I didn't want to? What if, like dear Michael Rosenberg, sometimes all I wanted to do is hate? And, perhaps most of all, how could I, my pathetic self, possibly live up to such a name? Still, I got to a point where I tolerated it, tolerated being called it because it was my name, that my mother gave to me.

Like most of my life, it was at college in Virginia that I began to get a glimmering of what it could mean, to have a name like that. I began to see it as a challenge, a calling beyond what I would have set for myself. I am an introvert in every sense and definition of the word - what if this name I bore, I thought, was the impetus to go beyond who I naturally am? To crawl past my weakest spots to find a new way? Where I am weak, He is strong, my Lord has promised. Maybe this place where love begins, where I have carried so much rejection bitterness disappointment disillusionment and pain - what if maybe, just possibly maybe, He wants to be strong there?

Holy moly, y'all. I can't even begin to tell you all the craziness of these last few months - but I don't need to because you have seen and experienced it all yourself. What has struck me most about it are two things: First, obviously, the INSANE fear-mongering that the media has been guilty of. All of it. Liberal, Conservative, Leftist, Traditional: very few voices of sanity are ringing in all of the hatred, scare tactics, slander, accusations that most of the media has been slinging about. (God bless the courage and determination of you few voices of reason.) All think they have firm grounds for their fear and hatred and accusations and poison-spewing. Which - Secondly, how we the people are taking this media-fed craziness - and I do mean Bedlam madness! - and going at it hammer and tongs. 

PEOPLE. Get a hold of yourselves! Just because you are typing your words onto a screen does not mean that they are not felt by the people on the other screens! Damn social media! It is so dehumanizing, in a world where we already are so torn apart. "Stupid car!" we say, shaking our fists and forgetting that the car has a driver, one who may be exhausted or sad or angry or really late or even more stressed out than we. They at least cannot hear our words, but when we spread these accusations - "Oh, where are you pro-life people now, on this immigration thing?" and "You're wrong if you think immigration is okay!" and "We'll all be killed and raped if we don't vet the immigrants!" and all these horrible wounding verbal knives we are using.

Now, let me get one thing straight before I continue here: Love, the true deepest Gospel Christian meaning of love, does not mean letting you do whatever you want. Love, like happiness, does not exist in indulging passions, following our vices, or otherwise overturning all of the natural order. The greatest Love means desiring the best for the other. Which is why Our Lord suffered and died, because He desires our greatest good, which is Himself. So: our greatest good is God, and it requires sacrifice. 

And I'll be honest: I'm still pretty shitty at loving. I lose my temper so very much more than I would like. I so often am ruled, still, by shyness and fear of others and the paralyzing tongue-tying anxiety. But dammit, I'm going to continue to try to do my best to love, which begins with respect. It means respecting the full humanity of my children, the full humanity of the women marching on Washington, the full humanity of the family next to me in Church, of the clerk at the sales counter, of the moms who don't talk to me and the friends who have appeared to abandon me. Because, dear people, most of us are so dreadfully wounded. So much of what appears to us as "hell in a handbasket" is done by people who are carrying so much pain and confusion and fear, and you will never ever EVER reach one of them unless you reach out to them with the love of Christ. Because that's what each one of us is called to do, even if you are not lucky enough to have my name. ;)  And we cannot do that unless we first determine to respect all people, even the ones calling us names. Turn the other cheek, pick up your cross, and offer love.

(If you don't believe me, read this. It's so awesome. Respect works. Fancy that.)

Lover of My Soul

"You've got some kinda attitude, son," sez I to my oldest.
"Yeah, that's because I'm stupid," he said back to me.
"You are not. Don't ever say that."
"Why not?" (always)
"Because God doesn't make stupid people."

pregnant elderberry, reaching for the sky and weighted down with ripeness

But in the corner of my mind? There's the automatic "except me." Which is why I was not terribly surprised to hear his words, because he's so, so much like me: so terribly sensitive, so easily overwhelmed, so easily discouraged. And, just like his mama, he feels like everything is "my fault."

sourdough

Which grieves the very inmost parts of me. Did he absorb my constant interior self-trashing through osmosis? How often has he heard those self-disparaging remarks that escape my lips without my even noticing I'm doing it? How often have the thoughtlessly cruel things about him blurted out, me hardly thinking about it and him cut, scarred? He doesn't hold it as a grudge against me, I know - though I've no idea why! - but how much have I contributed to him sharing in my daily, momently struggle of self-loathing?

volunteer watermelon

Chesterton it was who said that the longest journey is from the head to the heart. In my head, even in my soul, I know Christ died for me out of love, that I alone truly am worth every drop of blood that came from His Body. There are times when receiving His Body and Blood overwhelm my whole self, when I feel Him in the very depths of my being and I don't notice that my toddler is taking off her dress in the cry room. My "revert" to the faith was hard one, and my commitment to Christ has undergone trials of fire. He is mine, I know beyond all doubt. Lord, where else would I go?

monkey

Yet, even so, my interior dialogue remains firmly entrenched: You're no good. See how stupid you are. What an idiot. How could you think you would deserve anything else? There are whole books, I know, about reprogramming our self-talk and self-imaging. Books, though, can't change our hearts. They can't take those beliefs and experiences into our every-day struggles and make it real in the way you need it, friend, because the way you need it is different even from what I need. (Not that I'm decrying self-help books. If they have helped you - huzzah!) But the problem, I have come to think, is learning to find Christ NOW.

Right now.

This moment.

NOW.

As I have said for the last couple of years, there is no particular reason that you, or I, are alive right now. And today of all days, we ought to bear that in mind. Some people that we assumed would be with us are not. Which means only that God has work left to do both in and through you. Do you believe that? Do *I*? In theory, of course! In reality? Well, I am beginning to suspect it is a cop-out. If I am a worthless failure, then I don't have to step up and play ball. If I "know" that I am no good, that people talk about me with condescending sneers, that I am not worth your notice or God's . . . then I don't have to try. I have already failed, so I already have an out for not getting the laundry done, not cleaning my house, not taking that walk . . .

Someone turned one!

This is getting far longer than I wanted, so: We are accountable for every moment. If we have experienced the love of Christ, then we have no reason - NO REASON - to shirk our duties, to accept failure, to settle for mediocrity in marriage or motherhood or whatever your vocation is. He calls us out of love, and asks only that we answer with joy and trust. So often, I do not. What about you?

DO YOU?

In which I Voluntarily Risk Making a Fool of Myself and That's Okay

it's been a really long time since i wrote. most of you know i had to put my horse down; i felt i should write about it and when i kept procrastinating, realized i really don't want to. i first started riding her nearly 25 years ago, and i have not the words nor the desire to say more. so here is what i want to say instead:

i used to be more musical than i am now. by which i mean: i used to devote more of my time to playing music. in college i had a passable (though not great) voice, and decent (although not exceptionable) guitar skills. most of all, though, i loved it, and i gave a lot of time to it. i wrote songs that i liked to play and other people often enjoyed to hear. one of my favorite things to do was to set poems to music. i still love it! i often putter around with melodies and rhymes in my head. i even still like many of the melodies i wrote all those many many years ago ...

so the other day i am driving back home from the "northern DC area" and into my head pops Yeats's achingly wistfully beautiful poem "When You Are Old", and i think how it is perfect for a song. having but two of the kids with me and both of them sleeping, i started messing around with the lines and rhythms and things, and i loved it. i loved it, and i realized anew how lazy i am with my music, and it's because i'm afraid.

here is something, though: life is too damn short.

too short to care much about "fitting in" or winning other people's approval. i cringe when i recall how much time and energy and tears i have wasted - WASTED - in the course of my life trying to earn or win approval and acceptance from people who just don't care so much about me. for whom i will never be enough. or for whom a single misstep is enough to elicit a stream of verbal vitriol and derail the whole friendship. or who "just don't have time" to squeeze in a visit. we all find time for the things that are important to us, for the people who matter to us. (listen, obviously we all go through seasons where we don't have time even to shower. i get it. believe me. i'm talking big picture here, not those hard hard moments of overwhelm and isolation we all endure.)

I'm done with that.

it is coming up on two years since Sarah died. one of the absolute greatest gifts she gave me was the belief that i had something to offer that was of value, that was good and unique and important. so much of my life i have allowed those experiences of rejection (and they've been real, and strong) to rule my general approach to people. i have allowed their rejection to define my view of myself.

here's another thing: there will always be someone smarter. thinner. sexier. funnier. wittier. livelier. richer. holier. calmer. more stylish. more together. more competent. more je ne sais quoi. there will always be that "inner circle", that enticing group, that really cool clique that attracts you so much.

Let It Go.

spend your time and efforts and talents with and on and for the people who want and value and need and appreciate you. let go of the social vision you're clinging to so hard, and find the people who love you for who you are. who won't take your likes and dislikes personally. who forgive and forget and embrace you with open arms when you mess up. who aren't "too busy" to let you into their lives.

those people do exist. stop chasing rainbows and let them in.

all of which is to say that i took a crappy video on my phone of this little melody i found for this little poem i really like, and i'm going to post it here. in honor of being who i am, of not needing to have all the skillz or all the whatever, i give you my little bird song. because not quite perfect, my friend, still can be good enough.

so, without further ado, my knee singing "when you are old":

Growing Up

"Mama," announced my oldest son last week or so, "I think I'm old enough to go visit our neighbor."

We don't have many neighbors living in the country, and we've not made awesome headway meeting the ones we have. (Much to my frustration. I wish so much I were better at such things.) But our "next-door" neighbor across the field came and introduced himself right when we moved in, and he's awesome. He's 80 now, and still lives in the ~1100 sq ft house where he and his wife, who passed away almost ten years ago now, raised their nine children. Although in the winter we will go weeks without seeing him, he's the closest thing we have here to a grandparent, and the boys love him. He used to have an auto-repair shop, and he still tinkers on cars for friends, as well as his two vintage 40's-era autos.
"That's fine with me, but we'll have to check with him," I said. When we stopped to visit the other day, I asked him. "Oh sure, sure," he said, "That'd be fahn."

I've wondered vaguely on occasion when they, especially my son Finn, would want to spread his wings past our little fenced-in domain. I shouldn't be surprised it's "so soon"--well before I was his age, I was flitting around to neighbors, to the little gas station on the corner where the owner brought his dog to work, even walking to school--a good half mile, maybe more. I relished the freedom of those days, the freedom to explore and the security waiting for me at home. I'm sure some days we were gone longer than we were home, and I bless my mother for her "hands-free parenting" style because those memories remain bursts of sunshine, as fresh and daring and delightful now, almost, as the experiences themselves.

I called to check on them a bit ago, and they were happily pounding scrap nails into scrap wood. My brave adventurers are home now, and I confess: They are ready, I know, but I didn't realize how much it would stretch this mama heart. Help me have open hands, Lord, to let them be.

Not about me

When my first child was born, he screamed. All the time. Unless I was holding him, he screamed. I couldn't put him down, couldn't give him to anyone else. I called my mums in tears, and she said, "Parenting isn't for the faint of heart!" I hear those words over and over, as this life continues to make me more than I thought I could be, to demand things I never thought I could give, to sacrifice things I have been determined to cling to. On a day-to-day basis, I feel like I haven't changed, haven't evolved at all, but when I look back to who I was six years ago, I am astonished to find I hardly recognize that person.
Perhaps the single thing I strive most to achieve: respect. More than anything else, I strive to respect my children as people. If they have the right to life--or rather, since they have the same right to life as an adult, they also have the RIGHT to the same respect as any other person. My mums, again, relating what she heard in a talk: Scripture says to "train up a child in the way HE should go," not, "the way we think he should go."
My latest discovery is Charlotte Mason. I'm just dabbling my toes in so far, but in this very amazing book For the Sake of the Children I came upon this passage:

How colorfully and scientifically our generation talks down to the little child! What insipid, stupid, dull stories are trotted out! And we don't stop there. We don't respect the children's thinking or let them come to any conclusions themselves! [emphasis added] We ply them with endless questions, the ones we've thought up, instead of being silent and letting the child's questions bubble up with interest.

She continues to talk about simply reading a group of children the creation story from Scripture, with no preface, no follow-up sermonette, no tricks or gimmicks, no tiresome quizzing and leading questions, but simply reading the story and letting them hear it for themselves and wonder at it. Doing so allows it to become theirs. How many times have we seen it, or been guilty of it--of forcing our interpretations, our vocabulary on a child, of asking them a question expecting them to give us OUR answer? You know what happens when we do this? Education becomes, not "the mysterious, exciting growth of a person", but about pleasing me. It becomes all about me.
It comes down to that again and again: It is not about me. It is not about me being able to display perfectly behaved children standing primly in a line; it is not about me making them into mini-mes, into little reflections of myself who echo my opinions and spout my preferred ideas; not about me guiding them to think the way I think or see the world the same way I do. It is not about me at all! It is about my children, and who they are. Do I know my children, or am I trying to turn them into myself? Do I know what they think, or am I more interested in shoving my own thoughts into them?
It's not about me. I want to know who they are, who God made them to be, because they cannot do His work in the world if I my main focus is to make them into myself, in order to boost my own ego and calm my own self-doubts. I need to love them as who they are created to be, and in order to do so, I need to know and love myself, so they in turn can be secure in who they are.

Before the thaw

we're sort of behind the times, playing catch-up.

 i have frostbite (michigan barn brat legacy), so staying out when it's "feels like 19" isn't so much of an option for me.

The Amazing Ryan has been working on digging us out, and our awesome neighbor Mr Charlie. 

The boys and I were so crazy excited about all of this snow though.

It beatifies everything.

We just got around to building our snowman today, when all the snow is melting.

Coupla tough thugs here.

She totally posed for this photo: she cracks me up. I love her wonky ponytails. At least they're both in.

(Isn't she beautiful? I look at her and still can't believe I have a daughter!)

Snowman!

Hearth Lessons

I feel like every year as I contemplate our woodstove, it gives not just warmth but insight--and most oftenest, something to do with love: marriage, faith, family. It's no coincidence that the ancients worshiped Hestia, goddess of the hearth.
This morning, we came downstairs to a smolder rather than a flame. Ryan had tried multiple times to get it going before he left, Lord bless him, but was unsuccessful. My rather half-hearted efforts, sandwiched between breakfast and diapers, were likewise. Later on, feeling the effects of this grey day, I went to have another go at it. I was expecting to shove some more kindling in there, light it up, and poke at it a bit. Surprise! those not-insignificantly sized logs, while resisting the flame, had been slowly smoldering all day long, wasting away without producing any beauty or heat.
You see where I'm going with this, right?
Because our modern world praises "smoldering". Folks get real excited about it: her eyes were smoldering with passion | his gaze smoldered with intensity | that dance smolders with . . . in fact, if you want to quit smoking, you can even get your electronic cigarette and go smolder instead.
Smolder.
Smoooooolder.
But you know what smoldering does? It produces no real heat. It is not beautiful to watch. It burns you up until you're nothing but smoke and ashes, covering everything around it with a black filth. Perhaps it seems safer, more attractive, because it seems not to demand a full commitment. But it will consume you, all the same, from the inside out.
Fire demands an outright total sacrifice of self. Love allows for no holding back: not of mind, heart, goals, finances, fertility, whatever. And that doesn't mean you give way to the other, necessarily, but that you become one. Fire makes all things one. And it gives, in return, beauty, warmth, and light for the flourishing of home and family.
So whatever you're going to do, don't be content with an ugly, half-hearted smolder. Allow yourself to burn, for all the world to see. Give it your all. Live your vocation, your calling, with all you have to give. And you will be a light for all to see.
Be who you were meant to be, and you will set the whole world on fire.

Peace in the Midst

Even when nothing "big" or "important" is happening, life still manages to be busy--chaotic, even--full to non-stop overflowing. All The Things never seem to get done, try as I may (laundry), and morning comes with unstoppable rapidity. It is life of wee small ones at its height, and I find myself now, at 35, living this life so full of beauty--and insanity . . . I received a comment recently implying that I don't "enjoy" motherhood enough. I was taken aback, to say the least; it's an odd comment to make, and this person certainly does not know me particularly well, at all. As for being told I need to "enjoy being a mother" more, well that's some cheek, what.

Being a mother is part of my vocation, not just as a married woman but as a woman, fundamentally. All women are called to be mothers in some way. Is it always "enjoyable?" That should be an obvious answer. Are all parts of *any* vocation "enjoyable?" Do I "enjoy" being woken up multiple times a night? Cleaning up poop from the floor? Dealing with tantrums from getting dressed in the morning till pajama time? Having my toddler literally throttle me while I'm trying to nurse a new baby? Days of constant toddler screaming or sibling squabbling? Of course not! I don't think anyone would classify those things as "enjoyable."

Do I enjoy their whole-hearted snuggles? Enthusiastic hugs when I return just from another room? Hearing that I'm "awesome sauce"? Having a lightbulb moment with homeschooling? My son help his little sister? Their whole-hearted glee at seeing their baby smile at them? Cuddling up with a story by the fire, or under a blanket? Watching them push themselves in their play, with their physical escapades and bounding imaginations? Seeing my children forge bonds and memories that will help them, God willing, their whole lives? Of course! I don't just "enjoy" it--it makes all the awful moments very much worth it.

I know lots of mamas that have had more and closer children than my four kids in under six years. Most of them were having babies several years before me, but they can attest to what perhaps this individual does not realize--the tremendous emotional and physical toll it takes, especially since by 35 most people don't have the energy enjoyed (wasted?) in one's 20s. Yes, it's hard, for both Ryan and I. It's an extremely difficult time in our lives, and we both struggle in different ways.

And as those who know me, especially you dear friends that have been around since college days, auld lang syne, are aware, I have struggled with anxiety in various ways and intensities throughout my life. It is a cross I would have to bear regardless of the vocation I was called to. Certainly lack of sleep and the tremendous demands of four small children exacerbate it, but that does not mean I do not "enjoy" them, or my vocation, or my life. Despite dealing with anxiety flair-ups lately, I have had a tremendous amount of peace. I have learned quickly with this fourth baby, with having four kids, that Jesus is absolutely essential. If all is not right with Him, nothing will be right, at all, in any part of this crazy life. I have learned how much I need to let go of things: of perfectionism, of my idea of how things ought to go, of presenting a classy, polished, artsy image of myself. (Although being able to throw on some funky clothes and call it an outfit helps tremendously on those days when I feel so miserably a failure.) 

I do not take for granted that I am alive each day. There is absolutely no reason why I should be alive, in particular, and I am so thankful that each day I have another chance to get my soul right, another chance to become holier, another chance to be more of the wife and mother that I want to be. The path to holiness is never "enjoyable"--we're told it won't be! But on that steep rocky path is where we find peace, and joy, and God.

When Saints Let You Down

I did it! I made it through the St Therese novena! Happy Feast Day! I was really excited about today, and I even was brash enough to entertain a vague hope: Maybe, just maybe, I'll get roses today!

When I staggered downstairs (I always stagger down these days, even on the rare occasions when the toddler sleep (the newborn sleeps great, knock on wood)), I found the oatmeal pot soaking with the crusted remains of last night's potato soup. oh, yeah. So I scrubbed it out, cooked up some oats and eggs, and called the circus downstairs. One little monkey flat-out refused to eat. Later, at pick-up from school, the teacher said he spend the morning trying to eat food off the floor (I had sent a snack with him, too). Um, he didn't eat breakfast? (This is also the monkey who spent a couple of years sneaking cat food and horse grain at every opportunity. I don't really know what to say about that.)
So we got home. At 9.15, I'd consumed nothing but an enormous mug of coffee, so I heated up some toast (GF), slathered on butter and honey, and headed out to the schoolroom, where the first little monkey was working on handwriting. Okay, I said, Let's do your timeline. He had a little bit of trouble with the first two, so we went through and I said, Let's do this one five times. Whoa, Nellie! All Hell broke loose, too. Broke right out of that handbasket. I can handle Hell if it stays in its handbasket, but when it busts out, I run around trying to shove it right back in. Wrong strategy, I tell you.
We finally got it contained again, howsome-ever, and went on to rock that timeline's boat, all whilst wearing a tiny babe and fielding a WILD toddler.
Nota Bene: very very Bene: Do Not No Never Discount This Toddler. She is one great big sunshine; she cheers us all up when life is awry; she sits in timeout with her monkey brothers so they won't be sad; she is smiley and darling and OH SO CUTE and Personality busting the seams. SHE IS PURGATORY. A five-minute convo with my sister-in-law included: Oh. Shoot. She turned off the washer again. | Aibhie, no table. Get down from the table. | No, no; don't eat the box. She NEVER STOPS. NEVER EVER EVER. She will very sweetly and with intense concentration shred every book she can get her hands on. She will crumple playing cards, turn off the washer, reset the dishwasher, destroy every single thing the boys build with any sort of toy, unmake the bed, unfold the laundry, poke the baby's eyes (EYES! baby's EYES!) . . . I could go on. and on. and on. Ad infinitum. Ad nauseum. In fact, that's where I end up most days: nauseum, exhaustium, yellingum.
A monkey got into a small wee jar of craft paint that I missed in their "army box" on the porch. Another monkey made the baby cry after being explicitly told to leave her alone. I made a very, very strong whiskey sour, kind of accidentally strong, called my best friend, and all but wept.
I can't do this. I am failing.
So lately I've been sort of obsessed with Passenger. He's pretty much awesome. Well, my aunt said he sounds like Kermit the Frog, but she admittedly had a cold. And he drops the F-bomb more than one might choose . . . but I put him on constantly. I can't get enough. And there's this song he does called Scare Away the Dark (he's really into being a light and having lights and such). So here it is: 

 

There are those words Feel, feel like you still have a choice . . .

And I felt the words behind my eyes, welling up tears, yet again, as I scrubbed dishes at the sink. Yeah right. I made my choice a long time ago. But I do have a choice, still: a choice to yell, or to sing. A choice to resent these tiny people who demand so much of me, or laugh and rejoice or at least bite my tongue, because Mama, their day sucks too right now.

It's hard for me to buy into the whole "change your attitude" song-and-dance, but it's a legit thing: we sing and dance every day, and we do choose the tune.

So, no roses from St Therese, but some hard-a** life lessons, a little love from Passenger, and some very much-needed grace.

EDIT: A few short hours after writing this, St Therese sent me roses. Because, of course, the saints don't ever really let us down. Sometimes they just hide a bit.

Full Circle

pI had a weird amount of difficulty titling this post. (Two posts in one week! Can you even?)

This story starts a long time ago. It starts, in fact, before I was born, when a seriously melancholic young man bought a guitar and played all the good solid folk-rock from the 60s and 70s--Gordon Lightfoot and Leonard Cohen and Peter, Paul & Mary--until he had a conversion and played Praise & Worship music. Then he got married, and had a little girl who loved music and loved guitars, and he played "Puff the Magic Dragon" to her as a bedtime song for many many moons.

The story continues: the little girl grew up, messing around on flute, quitting piano because she thought her teacher was a gorgon (she had terrifying eyebrows and used to slam my fingers on the correct keys: no joke), fumbling around on the gee-tar and dreaming of whistling gypsy minstrels and Irish rovers and falling in love with Dvorak. (Rabbit trail: my first attempt at college was a state school. I somehow ended up on what was known as the "whore floor" where I didn't exactly fit in so well. But while they were all blasting their bootie music, I cranked up the New World Symphony. They all were stopping by my room: "What is that?! It's amazing!" **Beauty for the WIN!**) And then this past summer I ran into some peoples who reminded me of all that, of all that intense burning desire to have music part of my family and home and life.

In the many preparations for this baby's uncertain timing, my dad sent me a random email: Do you want my steel string guitar? Well, gee golly, let me thinkaminuteYES. Yes, please!

in all her 70s beauteous glory--so love!

So he brought it down, and it brought tears to my eyes: my daddy's guitar, to me.

See, the thing is, life so often does not turn out the way we want (how's that for inane cliche?). Dreams *poof* blow away, melting with ephemeral morning mists. But if we don't cling to what we want with that death-grip of no trust--oh ye of little faith!--then God has a way of gathering our vanished hopes, shaking them out into something new, real, solid, attainable, something far more tangible than wishes hopes dreams. It takes a lot of trust to let go of what we want, even if we want something good, beautiful, noble. So often we want it in the wrong way, or at the wrong time.

Sarah's actual piano; so thankful

Playing at Gypsies, indeed. But in my home, my real solid home, I have received many gifts. As any real musician will tell you (and as some have told me to my face), I am a total hack: Jack-of-Some-Trades, at best. I used to be decent on my flute, but that was auld lang syne. Now I plinker away on Sarah's piano and wrassle with my hate-to-be-still boys to practice their violin. (We're still on Twinkles. It's awesome.) And my talents may be feeble, they may not measure up to your standards, Mr RealMusician, but they are mine, and I can give them to the people that God has given to me.

(like this one. i'm so over the moon.)

Little Waves

Well.

Look who decided to arrive!

Ondine Sarah Lourdes
2:45 am last Friday
6'12"

Ondine: (on-DEEN) water nymph; the name means "Little Wave". This Little Wave already has made big waves!

Sarah: of course

Lourdes: i like using titles of Our Lady; Aibhilin is named for Our Lady of Wisdom, although i initially proffered "Lourdes" for her, as well--i love the gentleness in the whole story of Lourdes

photo credit Lori Elizabeth Photography; thanks Lori!

we all are well, happy, and comletely in love.

You Who Are Weary

Today on the way to Mass, Finn was asking if it was okay to sleep at Church. I won't lie: I kind of encourage "Mass Naps" for my own perhaps less-than-holy reasons . . .
I told Finn that Jesus commanded his Apostles, the first priests, to let the children come to Him, that He loves it when we crawl into His lap and rest with Him because we are safe and at peace there. Being at Mass, right there in front of the Tabernacle with the Eucharist, I explained, is just like being right in the lap of Jesus with His arms tight around you. My son, who on a semi-regular basis likes to voice his scorn of sleep, and also likes to sit in the cry room with his toddler sister so he can be loud, said with great excitement in his voice, "I want to go right to the front of the church, right in the very front pew, so I can be the closest, and I'll just curl up right in Jesus' lap." And he did, right in the front pew. Curled right up next to me during the homily, and rested in His arms.

Suffer the Children
Ford Madox Brown

The last week or so has been kind of rough, and it's going to get rougher until this kid makes his/her exit-entrance. It always does, despite my best efforts. But that reminder, that we are safe and at peace in His arms . . . Kids know, man. They call you out on your prevarications and half-truths; they know when you are joking and bitterly resent being deceived about important things. So, there is nothing like seeing the faith not just of a child, but of *your very own child* to drive it home: We are safe with Him. Just curl right up on His lap, in His arms, and rest.

On My Way

NOTE: I share my struggles here not because I am trying to gain sympathy plead hard times. Rather, during this very difficult time, I was so, so blessed, supported, encouraged, and ministered to by the vulnerability and honesty of other struggling mothers. This is not easy, to live out our life-affirming convictions, and my deepest hope is to encourage any other mamas who may be struggling, as well. Take heart, dear one! Be of good courage! Our God is brighter even than your darkest moments, bigger than the greatest of your fears.
Another early morning--way, way too early. I lay in bed, intently pleaded with the universe: Please, please just some sleep. Of course, being a tired mama is never easy, not for no one. The real problem, though, is that I am distressed, to say the least, about the current state of my affairs.
Confession: I dislike being pregnant. Every second of it. Everything about it is difficult for me. I hate being so unwieldy, not being able to do the things for my kids that we want to do together. I hate my insides being rearranged and pounded on. I hate the scornful looks. It isn't a question of "worth it": all love requires sacrifice. Sometimes the sacrifice comes before the love, and that's okay, too. My body's really jacked up, though, with all these little 'uns coming so close on each other's heals. Definitely Not My Plan!

This pregnancy has been challenging in every possible way. Before I even realized this baby was on the way, my hips were giving out and my migraines had intensified. And, having planned on another three-year break, the very fact of this happening was difficult to swallow: Having to field tsunami waves of excitement when I was crying myself to sleep every night. Knowing that my body really, objectively, had not healed enough after delivering my daughter a scant nine months earlier. Still reeling from a really hard painful year. Facing some bleak personal struggles. Just not good timing.
We're nearly 37 weeks along now. It's gotten better in some ways, although my body still protests loudly on a daily basis. Another crisis has surfaced: this baby is breech, and not budging. I would have little qualm in delivering a "normal" breech baby the normal way: I have very fast labors, and there is only about a .1% increased chance of cord prolapse. This baby isn't normal breech, though, but footling breech. And posterior. which ARE problems, big ones. A hospital birth with a likely c-section is absolutely my worst nightmare (other than losing the baby of course, obviously). It terrifies me, horrifies me, makes me sick to my stomach. After trying a host of other remedies, I have an external version scheduled--the doctor thinks there is a good chance he can turn the baby. We'll see how that goes.
But this isn't a pointless bitch session, I promise. There is a purpose to me regaling you in a very long-winded manner how hard these last few months have been.
On the Blessed Is She IG this morning is this:

Pregnancy can be very isolating. No one else can feel what your body is going through, and even the most empathetic cannot really understand the terror of a hitch in the natural process of things. It is one of those times when we realize how very fragile we are: I would be far far more of a wreck if I were trying to do this alone, and I am so dependent on my husband and friends right now. And I'm not even in this alone. There is another tiny little person very much dependent on what happens these next few weeks, as well.
Which means: having these beliefs, these ideals, these convictions, they don't make the road any easier. Just because I believe that all life has the right to exist does not mean that it suddenly is easy for me. It means that this hardship has a reason. That each human person conceived has worth and value that I need to respect, even when it doesn't come about by my own planning or desire. It's what it means to "walk the walk", and sometimes it just plain sucks.
So how does one view such a thing as a "beautiful adventure?" I have no magic words or formulas. This is really hard for me. Every minute is hard. It is hard for me to accept that my "choice" and "free will" lie mostly in my responses--oh how infuriated I would get at my mum for that constant refrain! Because we--I know I am not alone in this--we want to rail against things beyond our control, to somehow pretend that we can be in charge of fate. This desire to control control Control All the Things! causes so much grief, because we will be throwing ourselves against the iron bars of reality, damaging ourselves sometimes greatly, and to no purpose. Some things, many things, we cannot change through our own beating of the air.
The alternative, then? Once again to bow our heads and say "Yes, Lord. Not my will, but Thine." which doesn't, in fact, mean that things will get better or easier or go our way, not at all. What it means is that in the core of our beings, in our heart of hearts, we will know peace. His peace, that passes all understanding--because accepting His will is the beginning of wisdom.

Acceptance with Joy

Very, very last minute, I found myself in a great big van, driving down to Charleston SC with two friends and without any kids for a mamas' weekend. The main focus of Edel, of course, is building community, of having a "safe place" to be unabashedly Catholic. I've been feeling extraordinarily blessed by where we are, of how we've begun to settle into community and friendships and such.For me, Edel would not be so much about meeting All the People (which is not really my forte; I have a hard time saying Words) as about regrouping, recharging, refocusing before the craziness that is next month (or this month, as the case may be). I also felt very much--or as much as I do "feel" along those lines--that this was a God-gift. The way everything fell together in a heartbeat was uncanny. So what, I wondered, did God want from or for me in this seeming random weekend?
He didn't waste any time, fer sher. Very first thing, at the radio broadcast on Friday evening, when Mary Lenaburg shared the story of her visit to Lourdes with her daughter Courtney and receiving the word "Acceptance." Like the Infant of Prague, Lourdes has been kind of a leitmotif. The beauty and importance and significance of her Immaculate Conception is a whole nuther topic; suffice to say for now that it has been super important in my understanding of what Christ requires of us, as well as His mercy, and the way in which grace operates. (That's all.) So the story was a double-whammy: the idea of acceptance, and the importance of it in my vocation, in particular.
My vocation. My. vocation. mine. My vocation, my life, my calling. Here's another thing: One of my greatest struggles, always, has been really believing that in the grand scheme of things, I matter. That anything about what I do, matters at all. I've screwed up so many times, irreparably botched so many opportunities, etcetera etcetera. I came to a point some years ago where I realized (decided) that so much of what happens "to" us, so much of what we do, so many of the opportunities we have, depends on our own choices. What I do or don't do now is going to affect what I can and cannot do down the road. Sounds common sense, right? But so often, it seems, we blame God or resent ourselves for these choices.
Here, then, is where faith comes in. Faith is believing with firm conviction, beyond all doubt, that God takes our choices, even our worst bad stupid ones, and uses them for good. Uses them for good. Kelly Mantoan's talk drilled this home again: Who I am, matters. What I am doing right now, matters. The man I chose to marry? That's me, and my life. Our children, planned and unplanned? Yep, they matter to. Matter on a cosmic level. Matter to God's Providence.
You know Robinson Crusoe? I know a lot of people roll their eyes at that story, but I love it. Love it because it shows so very vividly the fact that our choices go hand-in-hand with God's Providence. Providence doesn't mean God dictates our lives: exactly the opposite. Providence means that God allows us to make each choice without coercion or inhibition, and that no matter what the natural or logical consequences, that He will take every wrong turning, every broken thread, every lost chance, and make it into something Good, Beautiful, and True.
So as I hit the ground running today--everyone up by 6, everyone melting down by 10, me losing my temper by dinner on my first day back--all of that, I offer to Him. Every wistful What if? I shut down straight away, knowing that my path to perfection? That's right now, right here, at this moment--THIS life, THIS family, THIS trial. What I have is now, and it is beautiful. And it matters.

. . . to be continued . . . 

*why is this post so linky? i don't know. but also these people are really cool.

Happy Mother's Day

image of Mary, allegedly based on the
Face of Jesus as on the Shroud of Turn

It can be so hard, sometimes, to remember why we do it, and why it's worth it. But then the other day at Costco I saw a bumper sticker: "Better late than pregnant." And I remembered: Our path to heaven, to holiness, to selflessness, always is through other people. And we mothers? We create people! And by doing our utmost to show them the way to Beauty, Truth, and Goodness, we find it ourselves.

And this mother? She shows us how.

Happy Mother's Day, mamas.

Preaching to the Choir

my sister-in-law sent me this link from Jenny at Mama Needs Coffee. it's a great read, and i appreciated it so very much (thanks, Sar!). it's all true, and good: the pitying scorn, the contempt, the tremendous pressure to make parenting, especially of small children, "look good" in this vastly anti-child, anti-human culture we inhabit.
one thing, though, that i have often encountered, often struggled with, is this same attitude from "our own": when well-meaning, baby-loving, pro-family, God-loving people come down on you like a load of bricks for not being sufficiently "happy" about motherhood, or mothering, or pregnancy. when people whom you think are going to support you, judge you because you don't have the attitude they think you ought to have.
i will never, ever ever no never forget the time i was at daily Mass with my very new infant strapped to my chest, chronically sleep-deprived, having to haul out my screaming, resisting, boneless toddler from the church. this lady comes out and lambastes me: accusing me of abusing my child, of treating him "like trash", of being basically the worst mother ever and please not to treat my children like that in front of her. did she offer to help? no not once, not for one second. she wasn't interested in helping, just in judging and abusing an exhausted, overwhelmed, very alone mother. that was almost four years ago, but every time i see that lady my stomach clenches into celtic knots and my hands shake a bit.
obviously this is an extreme example, but it's shameful, friends, that we savage our own like that. every mama, whether you like her or agree with her or understand her, needs your support. every single mother out there needs you to have her back, even if she IS in the wrong. coming up and scolding a woman for failing at motherhood is pretty much the worst possible way to show you are pro-life.
so you're not doing that? you're as shocked and outraged at that church lady as my own mama was? maybe you're not in the clear, though. some things are more subtle, but nearly as damaging and demoralizing:

focusing on the baby and ignoring the woman
i remember after i had my first baby . . . of course i was excited. over the moon! elated! euphoric! but then it seemed that every single person who came in completely ignored me and went straight for the baby. well, of course everyone else is excited, too . . . but suddenly i don't matter? i don't deserve even a greeting because there's a baby here now? instead of being able to share in the joy of others, i was relegated to an  outsider--and i was the one who had had the baby!
other things, too: sometimes an exhausted, overwhelmed mother doesn't want to hear how great "motherhood" is, because to her in that moment, it is not great. insisting that it is can come off as invalidating her feelings and her experience. or comments like, "it's hard for you, but *I* think it's great" to a woman struggling with an unexpected pregnancy. that, too, is implying that the mother's struggles and emotions don't matter, that her state as an individual human being is unimportant, simply because her body is making a baby. how demeaning and dehumanizing! certainly not a good way to encourage a woman who might be facing a crisis pregnancy--and a crisis pregnancy doesn't always mean a young single mother with no one supporting her.

limiting the definition of a crisis pregnancy
she's got a loving husband with a good job, a lovely house, beautiful children. she's young and healthy. what's her beef about being pregnant? what's her problem?
friends, you never have any idea what is going on in someone else's life, unless they tell you. and maybe not even then. a "loving marriage" may be facing serious problems that you don't see. maybe that great job puts an incredible amount of stress on the family. maybe that lovely house takes some serious upkeep, or is a big financial strain. you never know. another baby could seem like the straw that breaks the camel's back. i recently read another article, "Do Catholics Have Crisis Pregnancies?" i have so much admiration and am so thankful for this woman's honesty and courage in sharing this. it's something that a lot of pro-life mamas are ashamed to admit. friends, that shouldn't be the case.

forgetting that part of being pro-life is parenting the children that are already here
ooo i've had lots of conversations about this one. so often in a pro-life community there is so much pressure to "quick, have as many kids as is biologically possible!!!!" that the whole purpose of actually, you know, having children is pushed to the wayside. look, folks: if having another baby is going to be damaging to your family, if it's going to create a serious health problem, or a serious impediment to educating or caring for your current children, you are not being "pro-life" by getting pregnant. being "pro-life" does not mean being a baby-machine. it means accepting each individual life and taking care of the child so he or she becomes a responsible, holy adult, capable of making virtuous choices, of discerning a vocation. it means being able to give the best of your abilities to cultivate his or her talents and strengths and to correcting weakness.
some mamas can do it. some women seem to be able either to marshal lots of kids with masterly organization and patience, or go with the crazy flow with enviable joie de vivre. but some can't, and they ought not be judged for trying to do right by the children already in their care. being pro-life isn't limited to being pregnant and just birthing the child. in the long run, maybe that's almost the easy part!

the other kind of NFP judging
i am not a big fan of Simcha Fisher, but a friend gave me her NFP book. she does have a maybe-not-so-oblique slant, writing to tick off the people who think that having more kids makes you holier, about people who judge other people for using NFP as the "Catholic birth control." which is a legitimate enough point, although considering that as even she admits most Catholics are, in fact, using some sort of birth control, i wish she would have addressed that mindset a little more. but it's a good book with a lot of good points, and parts were, in fact, very helpful.
there's another kind of NFP judging, though. it's the people who look at families and say, "whoa there, clearly they don't have their act together. what, she's pregnant, again? doesn't she know that NFP can be used to *avoid* pregnancy, too?"
friends, NO form of "birth control" is 100% effective, not even the chemical ones or the device-using ones. maybe that couple knows they're in some mire over their heads. maybe they are as baffled as you are scornful. there is no room for any kind of judging in this game. it isn't easy for anyone. if some couple is "cheating" and going against God's law . . . well, that's between them and God, and judging them isn't going to change their attitude towards sex or children. if some couple has more kids than they were intending, then they need your help and sympathy, your support and love, not your raised eyebrows. and maybe not even your enthusiasm that what they're doing is "so great." it is, of course . . . but to a mama in the trenches, it often doesn't feel like it, and can make her feel guilty about not feeling that.

so who knows what people are going to take offense at this post. my intent is not to offend anyone, but to contribute my own perspectives and experiences to this very difficult topic. peace to you, gentle reader. and courage and power to you, mama. i've got your back, the best i can.

Slow Skills

("warning": some mildly "graphic" goat post-birth photos)

we had baby goats!

Murielle cleaning off just-born baby

and they lived this year!

first baby, ready to try her legs out

i don't think i ever wrote about last year's goat trauma, and that's okay. it was definitely a Trauma.

up and at 'em!
(our doeling, which we kept)

we had some minor tragedy this year, but most of the babies survived--three in all--and it's been a blast. i've been on the fence about whether even to keep the goats, but this has definitely tipped the scales in their favor.

two!

i did sell our white doe, Ivy, to a goat farm a bit down south (Down Yonder Farm), and i couldn't have asked for a better home. she seems like she's doing far better there than she did here, in fact. then my friend decided to take our two bucklings as bottle babies, to wether and use as brush clearers. since she's so close, we decided to milk my other doe, Murielle, for the babies, to make the transition to bottle-feeding easier for everyone.

when i first got our goats two years ago, i got them just as brush clearers. i ended up getting triplets, because they threw in the buckling, a bottle-fed runt, for free, and lowered the price on the two does. i ended up with milk goats because, again, they were cheap. i thought at the time, "oh, it will be nice maybe to milk them, some day. at least i'll have the option." despite the babies, i don't know when that would have happened--no time is a good time!--but then these babies needed milk, and her husband made a stanchion in an afternoon (!!!!!!), and she brought it over and set it up and there's Murielle, with her head in those bars, and my friend's son and i milking her . . .
i'm milking my goat!
that's really cool! i'm really excited! i'm getting really into this! i'm gonna quit buying milk; i'm gonna make soap; we'll be even more Self Sufficient!!!

then i read how i'm getting less than half of what even a "freshener" should give, and it was tempting to get really discouraged. and it got me thinking about these slow hard skills of the land . . . we lost the babies last year, and we had to wait another year to try again. it wasn't like getting a car fixed. i've messed up with my garden in numerous different ways, and each year i need to wait, to think it out differently, to plan better, for the next year. and now, with milking, it isn't like i can run out and "practice" whenever i want. i have to go one day at a time, trying to figure out what i'm doing wrong and what to do better for the next day. in a world of notorious Instant Gratification, and the more recent explosion in Everyone Can Be a Virtuoso, these slow skills are hard.

but it's worth it. and i hope it travels to the rest of my life: to be patient with the slow, slow growth of my children, of my marriage, of my soul. because our God is not a God of haste. He moves slowly, and it is hard to wait on Him. but waiting upon Him builds strength, makes us strong enough to mount with the wings of an Eagle. and it is beautiful to see these lessons in His creation: to wait, and be patient, and keep working, a little bit every day, to get a little bit better.

Robin Hood, Little John, and Maid Marian inside on a single-digit night