The Treasure of Nurslings

It's these moments that paralyze me.  But not in a bad way.  I want to stay in this moment forever.  Not move.  Not even dare breathe.  Drink it all in.

I'm nursing my baby and I want to freeze time.

She is my number six and she just turned a year old.  I can't decide how I feel about it.  Do I need to feel anything at all?

Her big brown eyes keep closing, opening.  Closing once more.  She grabs gently with her tiny fingers against my skin.  The other kids want my attention, I can tell, even if they aren't daring to open my bedroom door again.  But I'm hiding out in this room, the hum of the AC in the window, the entire measure of the moment with a single thought: Stay right here.

I tried earlier to get her to sleep.  Noise in the house and a barrage of constant interruptions kept her from making that last slip into peaceful slumber.  She had been on the cusp but wouldn't unlatch or she'd fitfully wake and reach out for me with her pursed lips and desperate cry. It continued on and on like this and there was no getting past it. I had no choice at one point but to let her stay up, let her play, hope she got tired again soon.

After lunch, she had had it.  She was in my arms and nursing in the living room. I moved back to the bedroom once more to see if she'd finally let sleep steal her away.  As I listened to her breathing change, her small chest rising and falling ever more slowly, I realized that yes, this would be that moment.  I stroked her forehead and watched her face change.

In this season of life, I don't think there is anything sweeter than the slow fluttering of the eyes of a nursling as she tries to steal one last look at her mama, the soft cooing and that sweet gentle smile as she drifts off to sleep at my breast.

And I can't help but wonder if she will be my last.  Will she be the last baby I nurse to sleep?  Will these be my last moments with her in this part of our relationship?  How soon will it change?  This one feels different somehow, our moments together more weighty; the urgency to slow down and treasure them, fierce.  It wasn't quite the same with my other babies.  With them, there was more of an urgency to break away, to be impatient. To get the job done, tuck them in, roll away and dash.  Much to do, other kids to take care of.

She has changed me.  Time has changed me.

As I review the last year, gone far more lickety-split than the first years of my other babes, I am convicted.  I'm convicted to slow down. To focus. To watch. To treasure.  This season of my life is fleeting.  Fast.  Some day too soon, she will have nurslings of her own.  And I will have but memories, dusty in my mind.

Shoes By the Door

The kids wanted to go to Bass Pro Shops on Father's Day.  After the eternity of digging out all our shoes from the pile by the door or tracking a stray match elsewhere in the house, we ventured out into the merciless heat to make the 20 minute trip up there.  As usual, once arrived and before we got out of the minivan, I voiced our regular "what we expect" spiel, which usually goes something like this:

"Remember, kids, we expect you to be quiet and calm.  You need to respect other people's space and their right to not have craziness and noise around them.  We are representing big families and Jesus.  Show the public how awesome both are!"

Or something along those lines..

Honestly, this actually works about 98% of the time.  There's something to be said for offering an outline of your expectations JUST before you want them carried out.  If I had said anything when we got into the vehicle to leave, by the time we got to our destination, all would have been forgotten, lost in the excitement of getting out of the house and all the shiny things to be found.
In any case, this trip proved to be, for some of the kids, in that other 2%.

By the time we got to the checkout where the nine year old was buying himself a froggy doodad (not official fishing lingo), I was D-O-N-E.

The kids had asked if they could spend their dollars on something. "Something" led to picking out nine different things and not being able to decide which ONE they wanted.

And then...there it was...

"Are they all yours?"

GAH!

I sighed really loud and rolled my eyes away from stranger, pretending to focus on helping the kids pick their one item, but really just cursing low underbreath.

I was livid, really.  For so many reasons.  I took the two babies in the stroller and left.  I didn't abandon hubby, I did ask if I could take them to the car while he had the big 4 at the checkout and he said yes. They had finally picked out their loot and were somewhat quiet again.

Mind you, they weren't even loud or crazy as they chattered and chose their items.  I have serious issues when we go out. Everything they do, the decibels of their noise, it all seems to me to be so much MORE when out in public. As if I'm constantly aware of the scrutiny we get as a big family.  As if we actually are constantly under said scrutiny.  It agitates me.  I sometimes freak.

And there is the problem.

It's not really them, it's me.

I think about this fact, that I probably wouldn't be so agitated if I didn't care so much what other people think.

And then I started thinking about how it's not just the general public with their unfiltered thoughts and their self-imposed "right" to say whatever they want to anyone at all.  It's even within my own social circle.    I recently had a discussion with a friend about how she feels she is judged by big families for NOT having one.  We are both Catholic and it's interesting to me that in the same arena she feels judged for not having a big family, I feel judged for having one.  I can't even tell you how many Catholics asked me after having my fifth if I was "done."  Like the fact that they graciously brought me a meal while I was recovering lent them license to ungraciously ask me such a thing.  But not only did they ask, they then went on to talk about why they could never have more than the two or three they have.  Like having to dig out 8 pairs of shoes instead of 4 to go out somehow equals mission impossible.    That projects onto me.....how?


In any case, I was sitting here thinking about it for a minute and in case there is some lost soul who wandered here to read, I just wanted to encourage you (and this is as much to myself as to you):

DO NOT BE AFRAID.
DO NOT WORRY WHAT OTHERS THINK.

You may wonder, which is right, a small family or large one?
My answer is this: When we are steadfast in prayer and desiring to do what God wants with our family life, NOTHING else matters.  Not that nosy stranger at the checkout, not the generous meal-making mama who comes over after you've had baby #2...or baby #8.  Not Catholics with bigger families or ones with smaller ones.  When you are following the designs of God's will for your life and as a Catholic, the Spirit-inspired teachings of the Church, you are doing exactly what you need to be doing.  Everything else is just white noise.  Our lives are meant to be lived for eternity, not here on earth. Meaning while we spend our days growing, raising and loving our babies- however many we have- if it's all for the Lord, if it's all for God's glory, that's all that matters.

When we stand before God to answer for our lives, being able to say we followed Him instead of the world will be HUGE.  What following the Lord looks like in your life may be different than what it looks like in mine.  Your pile of shoes by the door might be larger or smaller.  Neatly ordered and matched, or strays lost somewhere within the belly of your home.  And that's ok. How boring would the world be if we were all called to have the same exact family size and dynamic?  God is a god of order, but He isn't a bore.  We aren't measuring our worth by the number of shoes by the door.
All of our families vary in so many ways.  As long as we are chasing His plan for our lives, the number of children matters not.

There is no point in having one or two kids and then stopping just to appease the world.  What does this teach your children about following God's will instead of the ways of the world?  There is also no point in having a dozen or more just because you can/feel you should, without also grounding their souls in the Lord.  Quality trumps quantity every single time.

Live life for the Lord, not the world, and you are always right.

A Big Family. Is It Worth It?

I divide my children into two categories: my first litter and my second.  My first litter is the older four and there is no more than a year and a half between each of them. Then, there are three years between the youngest of that litter and the oldest in my next, separated by a miscarriage and many months of serious mental health issues.

So I look at these two in their vastly different places and stations in my life.  The older four, while still young, are pretty independent.  The youngest of them will be 6 in a few short months.  The second litter is comprised of a 2 1/2 year old who is ON from sunup to sundown, and a very needy 10 month old who still is almost exclusively breastfed and doesn't know how to sleep through the night yet.  I wonder if  am convinced she and her older brother are in cahoots.

So is it hard? 

Definitely.

Is it worth it?

Eh...

Am I a terrible mother for not even knowing where to begin in answering that question? It's weighty and depending on what kind of mood I'm in, if I've had my coffee or- God forbid- a shower, the answer could vary moment to moment, day to day.

I look at those cherry-sweet faces and I ask myself all the time, what if I hadn't continued to be open to life after my miscarriage?  What if I let my fears overrun me, crowding out my deepest desire to please the Lord and serve Him in whatever way He asked? I can only think of another question: does it even matter?

They are here.  And I love them.

It's a long labor of love, this parenting gig.  Whether you have 2 or 4 or 6.  When you let God design your family, when you shirk all worldly thoughts and maybe even some acknowledgement of your own feelings and capabilities as you measure them, when you just BE for a moment without all the control and pretense, you can't ask yourself questions like this.  You just can't.

Because it really doesn't matter.

You have to just do the next thing. Change the next diaper.  Nurse that baby.  Push those chubby toes out of your face at night.  And just be.  Keep going.  Labor away.

Time goes by, regardless.  Sometimes it passes at a yawning, groaning, aching pace, and sometimes it flits by in a flash, chasing after a future always out of grasp.  Sometimes it is comprised of lost babies, empty arms, foggy mind, and sometimes it's full of little hands to hold, nurslings, round bellies, full breasts.

Time teaches you, heals you, grows you, regardless of its contents.  It isn't really a measure of contents anyway, so much as allowance.

Allowance for things you may not plan.  Allowance for life to crack you wide open, and for the mighty hand of God to piece you back together in the manner He sees fit.

And really, if I think about it, if I sit down in the quiet (which, incidentally, is a rare find around here), I can tell you that yes, definitely.  It is indeed worth it.

Stripped Bare

Life can be difficult.

[Duh.]

When you're facing something that is difficult, human nature often makes you feel a little afraid.

You look down the long, dark corridor and reach into the space beside you, hoping there is a hand with which to cling.   When it's the corridor of labor, as in to bring a child forth from your body, hopefully that hand is your husband, your midwife, your doula, someone who loves your heart and is trustworthy in the feat of guiding you through.  It makes it easier.  Somehow, you are not so afraid.  When someone is with you, each step forward is much less scary.

In life, it is much the same.  But...sometimes there isn't a hand there.  Sometimes you just have to have faith that though you see no hand to hold, nothing tangible to cling to, you can walk through the corridor and come out on the other side unscathed.  Because even though there is no human hand to hold, Christ is there holding not just your hand, but your whole life.  Every breath. Your feet, your movements, your meager steps, each counted and upheld by the same hands and feet which were pierced through to save.  To save YOU.

Jude, a dear friend of mine, recently told me that my current life-state sounded so much like Lent, she wondered what Lent actually looked like for me.  That was even before Lent began!

I try not to complain but I feel like I have a lot lately.  I am weak.

But in my weakness, Christ's strength is made perfect.

Ya know, every mama gets to that point where enough is enough is enough.  It's one thing after another and in this long labor of raising children and keeping a home, there are bound to be a few moments years of rough patches, where things just keep rolling along, gathering momentum, pulling in anything and everything in its path.... One big gigantic snowball looming and ready to roll over and crush you.

I'm at that point of throwing my hands up and shaking my fist at the sky.  But....BUT last night, I remembered Jude often encouraging me to just surrender.  SURRENDER.  So I did. Palms up, in my kitchen, I surrendered.

The moment was heavy and broken.  Shards of my life weighed me down.  I was attempting to pull out a plastic cup which got lodged in the garbage disposal.  This, after retreating from a battle I didn't even begin with the hot water heater which was leaking all over the laundry room floor, soaking blankets and other random clothes awaiting wash.  That, after spending the last three days cleaning up puke and washing my hands a thousand times because my two boys have been sick with "THE PLAGUE," one currently at the hospital.  And ALL THAT after the last two years of other devastating and difficult things.  Don't get me wrong, I know everyone is battling so much. I know this. I'm not an exception. I'm not saying my issues are bigger or more terrible than those of anyone else.

But even Christ needed help carrying His cross.

So there I am, trying to dislodge this cup which was the proverbial straw for me, and I felt like I might explode. I am in the middle of this dark corridor of life, crying out into a vacuous space, and I hear a voice telling me to just surrender.   I am being stripped bare.  A lodged cup or a busted hot water heater, or even sick kids puking for 3 days is NOT the end of the world.  This I know.  But those little things on top of the larger things that remain a constant, they were just too much at that moment.

Strip me away, Lord.  Strip me away.

So last night, my dear friend Jude lends me some really beautiful words.  Words that soothe; balm to my soul. 

"Try to imagine that you are tending to Our Lord as he makes his way through the narrow streets toward Golgotha. Be Veronica...with every puke sheet you wash, every bottom you wipe, every drink of water you offer...tend to Jesus in His Passion.  Imagine Our Blessed Mother and how her heart was aching to see his open flesh and dripping blood. Imagine how she, too, must have felt that God, Her Father in Heaven was stripping her, like you, to bare bones that first Lent. Imagine how she must have felt that she could not bear one more moment. But, she did. And, so will you. You are a STRONG WOMAN, Rebecca."

Being stripped bare is no joke, people.  And if you are unwilling, it can be all the more painful and messy.  But as I look around my house, disheveled, filled with germs, laundry piling up, broken things to be fixed, and as I look into the deepest darkest corners of my heart, my life, my personality, broken me to be fixed, I see a mess, yes... but it's a beautiful mess.   All this stripping down to bare bones is teaching me something.  Everything.  I have to conform my sufferings to Christ's sufferings and continue down this dark corridor of labor, of life. 

My friend had a few other words for me which gave me pause. Made me think.  Ushered in a new perspective.

“You ARE truly the Cyrenian; helping Jesus to carry His cross. It is good that you surrendered. He WILL provide the grace for you to persevere and because you are willing to accept that grace, you will make it through.”

I am helping Christ carry His cross?

Apparently I am.  And I have no doubt that He is indeed giving me grace.  I have no doubt on that dark day when Jesus was crucified, Simon the Cyrenian was given multitudes of grace.  That his selfless act of helping a broken Christ to literally carry the weight of the world up a mountain was more for his benefit than Jesus'.  Simon himself was being stripped bare, even though he could not know this.  What an amazing gift to a poor sinner to suddenly without notice be given the opportunity to carry Christ's cross!

Life can be difficult, yes.  The sufferings we experience, be they marathon sickness or broken appliances, losing a loved one to cancer or rejection of family, are all meant to gift us with grace.  To draw us to Christ.  To bring us home.  In our weakness of being stripped bare, we are made new and Christ's strength is seen.  Do not run away from suffering.  Stop living your life trying to avoid every single uncomfortable thing.  Pick up that cross and allow yourself the gift of suffering, the weakness and humility, the hardship. There is a point to it.  When the gray skies clear and the heaviness has rolled away, there is light.  A purpose.  A hope.

So step forward into the darkness!  Trudge on!  Labor away! You. can. do. it.  He will give you grace and you WILL make it through.

I promise. 

Supporting Other Mothers, Even Post-Abortive Ones

Every year the media makes a grave mistake in ignoring or sugar-coating the mass of people who descend upon the Nation's capitol in peaceful protest of the 40+ year old decision which legalized abortion on demand. Every year.  They attempt to distract and redirect; utilizing the very tool of the Prince of Darkness which brought that decision about in the first place: LIES.  They do this and yet, it's like in Horton Hears a Who...the small rise up; we call out, "We are here! We are here! We are here!!"

I myself have never been to the March for Life.  Every year I think about how amazing it would be to go and have that experience; stand in solidarity with my fellow pro-lifers and pray the rosary as I walk, to meet new people and speak with them on this deep, difficult topic.  I think how amazing it would be to crest that hill and look back and take in the sight of the sea of people, moving together as one body; braving the cold and the anti-life protesters, joining together for the same righteous cause: sanctity of human life.  One of these days, I tell myself.   One year, I will have no needy babies whom I can't leave at home and I will be able to attend and immerse myself, and possibly my older children, in the experience.  Some say it's very emotional and spiritual. I don't doubt it. I don't doubt that when hundreds of thousands of people gather for a just cause, for the Lord, for mercy and opposition toward evil, that it isn't an amazing and rich experience. 

When I volunteered at a pregnancy center in Harrisburg a few years ago, my life was changed.  I thought I was there to help women, young girls, in situations where having a baby was less than ideal. I thought I was there to give out information, listen, encourage, teach.  But amidst all of that, something else took place.  I was encouraged.  I learned.  My eyes were opened.  I saw the hearts of some of these women who were just trying to make it alone.  I saw the dynamics between women and their partners, boyfriends, husbands who were just as scared as the women were to welcome another baby.  I saw the neediness of the "least of God's people," and my heart grew in compassion and understanding for them.  I spoke with women who had had abortions; women who deeply regretted them, but found themselves facing another pregnancy and wanting to do what was right, despite how hard it was for them. I saw their fear and their resolve.  I saw their strength to turn away from past behavior. It changed me indeed.

They say that if we want to know what life is really about; we just need to immerse ourselves in situations where we'll see it up close.  While I was with the center, I wrote this article on my other blog. It was my hope that people would read it and have some small understanding of what many post-abortive mothers feel.  That they could come to the same understanding I did when I worked at the center: that most women who seek abortions aren't doing it to be evil. They are broken, just like the rest of us, only maybe in a different way than most of us.  They are in need of love and support and forgiveness.  I hoped that other pro-lifers would understand that we shouldn't approach these women in anger, but surround them in peace and love and understanding instead.  Especially the women who do not feel remorse.  It's one thing to think these things in your head, to know them in your heart; it's an entirely different thing to put that into action, to actually face those women and let love do all the work.

Down here in the trenches of motherhood, we all need encouragement and support, even and especially post-abortive mothers.  Aborting a baby does not take away the title of Motherhood.  We become mothers the second our babies are conceived.  Nothing changes that. 

Today I pray not only that there will come an end to abortion, but that we as pro-lifers will seek out more ways in which we can move as one to support post-abortive mothers, to reach out to them and extend the Love of Christ, the forgiveness and compassion He so selflessly extended to us as He hung on that cross on Calvary.

Motherhood Is The Longest Labor

They who I labor for

The Lord has blessed me with babies.  Lots and lots of babies.  He’s also given me a somewhat-introspective personality, and the desire to convey my thoughts to others, in order so that they may grow in understanding of themselves and of the Lord’s will for their own lives. (Specifically as it pertains to motherhood, but other aspects of life as well.)  I love to not just sympathize with others, but empathize.  To commiserate.  To encourage.  I want to cry with people as well as laugh.  Sit and ponder, as well as dance and sing. I want to go deep, and then deeper still on the important things in life.  The truth is we all have our little nuances.  We all have our distractions.  We all have the things that seem so big and so blaring in our minds every single day.  Facebook. Television.  Music.  Our jobs.  Shopping.  Food.

But those things, while aspects of our life here on earth, do not indicate to ourselves or to anyone, or most importantly to God, that we are really living.  And that’s what this is about.  I want to really live.  I want to live and I want to be a light.  Especially to other mothers, other parents.  I want to let my light shine.  Not because I think I’m so important or special; but because I’m not.  I’m just like you. I’m just like every other mama on this earth, going through the parenting tunnel, trying to do my best.  Sometimes I have good things to say. Other times, I’m just a shout in the void.  

But here I am anyway, trying.

The inspiration for this blog came from a piece I’m working on.  I say piece but I’m hoping it’s a manuscript.  I’m hoping that in the midst of homeschooling, chaos, coffee and laundry, I can etch out the parts of motherhood that really mean something important enough to share.  But not just share- make a difference.  I spent the last ten years of my life being told that I can’t make a difference.  That my attempt to share my little light with people was my trying to be controlling, or my trying to change people.  That what I had to say didn’t matter.  I spent this time with negative people who were always downing me, my words, my desire to help or console or encourage, and I started to believe them. I started to believe all of it- I have nothing new to share, nothing important to say.  I can’t save anyone.  

The truth is I don’t want to save anyone.  That’s not my job.  My job is to be a light. To serve.  It’s such a simple concept, one we were taught even as wee ones in Vacation Bible School.  We sang it loud with the song, “This Little Light of Mine.”  While making sheep-shaped soaps to go with our wooden shepherds and elbow-macaroni Crosses, we were taught to be servants.  We were taught to have compassion.  To love.  To bring others to Christ.

Motherhood has given me that platform, to rise up with my light and draw others into the light of Christ in our vocation.  

Motherhood is in fact the longest labor of our lives, and we need to encourage each other through it.