Just a Stay-at-Home Mom

Are you still able to stay home with your kids?

I remember the first time she asked me that question. I was a brand new mom, a brand new wife, in fact.

In a whirlwind of two years, seemingly everything in my life had changed. The week I moved back to the States after living abroad for a year, I met Herm. Thirteen months later, at the edge of a vineyard, with friends and family gathered, we exchanged wedding vows. Fifteen months after marriage, Carson was born.

In that span of twenty-eight months I had changed climates and cultures and churches. I found a new job - later leaving that to stay home and raise Carson, moved into a new house that didn't yet feel like home, and had to be intentional about making sure to sign my new name. Weaver, though double in length, came so much more naturally than my husbands surname. I was now a wife, a mother, an Esh.

In many ways that season was the best of times. But it was hard. Looking back I see so much good that came out of it, though I am certainly glad to move on.

Yes, I'm still a stay-at-home mom, I replied.

How blessed you are to be able to do that! I wish we could make that work for our family.

The first time she asked me that question I felt myself shrivel inside. I was just a stay-at-home mom. I felt lost in the role, without value after so long basing my worth off of obvious accomplishments. I no longer contributed financially to our family, or managed a team, or attended conferences and workplace meetings.

I had traded all of that for late night nursing sessions and endless dirty diapers and days that seemed to last forever, though time was never my own. Though still constantly needed, I no longer received compliments or praise, something that beforehand I didn't realize I so desperately thrived on.

Somehow, in the midst of laundry and cooking and nap times and storybooks, somehow, after adding another child, and realizing that I truly did have free time as a mom of one, now that I certainly didn't as a mom of two, I felt settled and okay, even welcoming this stay-at-home mom gig for a career.

In the three year time span between her questions, so much is still the same - days can feel overwhelming and never ending, diapers are being changed, late nights still occasionally interrupted. I often find myself wishing for peace and quiet and time alone... which, when that does happen, feels awkward and distant, like meeting a friend from my childhood, someone I use to know, but now, not really.

In that three year time span, it's my heart that most has changed. 

It happened slow and gradual. In the rush of life I didn't notice. But it happened.

Her response, hearing the longing in her voice, made me realize all over again that being able to be a stay-at-home mom, if that is what you choose, is truly a privilege. I often still long for more, wanting to earn a paycheck and hear affirmation in a job well done. It's in my being, that longing to create and be known. And for that, there is still time.

I've heard it said, cliche but true: The days are long but the years are short. I don't always act like it, but truly, I am grateful to be here, at home, with my kids. And I'm grateful for a husband who works doubly hard to make that possible, supporting me 110%, never undervaluing my unpaid work. (While still joking about the amount of books I read, because what else would I do at home all day? )

The days are long, and already I've realized that the years are short. I won't be a stay-at-home mom forever, so while I am, I'm going to fully enjoy it.

***

How are you enjoying mothering by now? a friend asked me over coffee, our kids loud voices the background music to our conversation.

I stopped to think for a moment. Sort of chuckling to myself, delighted in my honest response.

Some days it's chaotic routine, where I feel overwhelmingly underwhelmed. Some days it's tears of laughter to mask those of desperation. Some days I want to throw in the towel, but gosh, more laundry! It's all of that, yes, and so much more.

How do I feel about mothering? Honestly... It's never been better!

It's a Girl!

It seemed like an eternity, that long month of waiting. My due date wasn't until the 7th of May, but two weeks prior I started every day with eager anticipation, hoping for, longing for, delivery. My body felt huge and awkward, and at the close of the day I was left sore, aching. Carson was born 10 days early, giving us all a good surprise. I was a first time mom and had fully prepared myself to go over due with him, as every well-wisher had warned me I would.

But this time around I was ready. The tiny little newborn outfits were washed and folded, there were plenty of diapers and wipes and warm cotton blankets, and I had gathered all of the items -the rubbing alcohol, cotton pads, hot water bottle, etc- off of the list my midwife provided. Any day, baby. Any day.

Steadily the hand on our kitchen clock kept moving, marking the minutes and hours of waiting. The calendar showed that my due date was only two days away. Then that day, May 7th, arrived and still nothing.

Two days over due due.

Four.

Seven.

I began to wonder if I was truly pregnant, or if, perhaps, my stomach had simply inflated. If I had grown a tumor, of sorts. My body, the same body that ached at the end of each day just two weeks ago, had found a new zest for life. When my midwife asked how I was feeling at my 41 week checkup, I admitted that in my life I had never felt disappointed to feel good... until now. Because if I were aching and tired and weary, wouldn't that be an indication that labor and delivery was just around the corner?

Eight. Nine. Ten.

And then it happened. On the 18th of May, eleven days after that silly thing we call a "due date", I awoke to a strange sensation. It felt like a Braxton Hick's contraction, only stronger. But not that strong. At 5:30 am, I fumbled out to the kitchen and told Herm he might want to consider driving a separate vehicle to work because I was pretty sure, but not certain, that he'd be called back home again, and really, there was no need for the whole crew to have an interrupted day.

Around 7:00 am I let my midwife know that today was most likely the day, and I sent a text to my mom saying that Carson was packing his bags for a day at Gwama's house.

The rest of the morning was spent preparing things for a home birth. (Which, silly me, thought would also include cleaning the house.) As I finished inflating the birthing pool and sealed the plug, I noticed a strange vehicle pulling in the drive. Inwardly I groaned. I don't have time for this! Those Jehovah's Witness missionaries surely could have picked another day. I began scheming ways to let them know today was not a good day for tracts, but goodness, I sure would like their prayers.

Turns out they weren't missionaries at all, but friends of mine, delivering a beautiful bouquet of flowers. When we pulled into your driveway I said, I hope she's not having contractions! One of them casually mentions. I laugh. Actually, I am!

Minutes later another vehicle pulls in. My mom walks in the door, here to pick up Carson, with a beautiful bouquet of flowers in hand.

These details might seem trivial to you, but to me they are anything but trivial. I dreaded labor this time around. Not because I had a bad experience the first time, I didn't. But my cousin died in childbirth a year ago, and as my due date came closer and closer, there were moments of panic at the thought of my own labor and deliver. At the thought of an event I had no control over. At the thought of completely trusting. As I began to feel the twinges of something happening that morning I distinctly remember thinking how a bouquet of fresh flowers would liven up my house and bring me cheer. Hours later I had not one, but two beautiful bouquets in my house.

Around noon Herm called to check in on me. I told him he might want to come home soon. He was working over an hour away and I really didn't want to be without him when active labor began.

Herm wasn't in a rush, in fact he even stopped for an iced coffee at the Starbuck's drive-thru on his way home. By the time he arrived home, sometime around 1:30 pm the contractions were beginning to be intense; I could no longer work through them. We decided to go for a walk to see if that would help things along at all. When a contraction would hit I would lean into Herm as he rubbed my back or applied pressure. We did thing off and on until 3:30 when my midwife arrived. I was 7 cm dialated the time.

We kept on walking for a while, but before long I was ready to get in the birthing pool. I labored in there the rest of the time, Herm supporting me through contractions while our midwife coached when needed. In between contractions Herm pulled out his BB gun and shot at a few cowbirds and starlings that seem to think they own our feeder. (This is just one of the many benefits to a home birth. Haha!) My midwife and I still laugh at the thought of that...

Sometime around 5 pm my contractions were very intense, and I remember feeling so weak and light headed, like I couldn't keep on much longer. Herm kept whispering words of encouragement, my midwife coaching me to just breath. Eventually my midwife broke my water for me, and after that everything happened fast. I began pushing around 5:30 and at 5:46 when I felt like I had nothing left to give, my baby's head emerged. In that moment I knew I was there, nearing the finished line, and with renewed strength I gave it my all.

At 5:49 pm, on the 18th of May, my beautiful, precious little girl was laid against my chest, all 8 pounds and 4 ounces of her, and in that moment I knew it was worth it, the waiting, the labor, the deliver, the exhaustion and pain. I felt that if I could conquer this I could conquer anything.

Two hours later my parents brought Carson back home, and there we were, a family of four. My world, made whole.

It is with such gratefulness and pride that I introduce to you, our daughter, Brooklyn Avonlea.

Dear Mom, I'm Sorry...

Dear Mom,

This letter might come as a shock to you, but I have an inkling that you may have been expecting something of the sort of the past year or two.

Observing my journey into motherhood, from the first time you heard the exciting (and to me, sort of terrifying) news that you were to soon be a Grandma, to those wonderful but short weeks of newborn bliss as you dotted on your grandson, and into the current stage of terrific-two's, I know being a Grandma, and seeing me, your daughter, be a mom, has brought you great pleasure, albeit sometimes at my expense.

At one point in my life I thought you were simply over dramatizing the events of my childhood. You were quick to tell me, and whoever else might be listening, that you hoped someday my children would give me at least half as much trouble as I gave you.

But Mom, I wasn't a problem child, really.

Sure, I may have rubbed Vaseline in my hair and spilled baby powder on the freshly washed hardwood floors, but that wasn't so bad. And yes, I do remember biting holes into bags of Gummi worms and Good n' Plenty licorice candies at Oak Hill because I knew that was the only way I would be a able to convince you to buy them for me. And there was that time I weighed the consequences and decided that cutting my own hair would be worth that spanking I would receive for such an action, because while a spanking would hurt for a moment, it would take my hair much, much longer to grow back.

But a problem child? Who? Me?

You and Dad told stories of how I didn't always think through things well, like early one spring when the creek was rushing violently from a flash flood, and I decided that it would be the perfect time to try my hand a white water rapids. Dad still sighs with relief when he mentions that he caught me, inner tube in hand, near the mouth of a clogged culvert, where I would have surely been sucked in and drown had he not been there to intervene. Or how my brilliant idea to ice skate on the frozen manure pit resulted in poop up to my waist, and a very stern lecture from you on the reason why you insisted the landlord install a fence around the pit in the first place -- to keep children, like me, out of it.

You told me I was the reason for your grey hair, and I scoffed, not willing to take that guilt.

But Mom, now that I have a child of my own, one who colors on my walls and breaks light bulbs on the concrete floor and drinks from mud puddles and sometimes wanders a bit too close to the road, I sort of believe you.

And I'm sorry.

Just yesterday I had the biggest scare in mothering so far.

Carson went missing, I couldn't find him or his puppy Mia anywhere. It was after some time, after looking in the garage and old barn and by the road, after wearing my lungs out from calling their names, that I spotted Mia running back towards the house, alone. She was coming through the woods, wet from the creek water. In that moment I suddenly didn't care that I was barefoot or wearing a dress, and it didn't matter that I am pregnant and haven't ran in months. If I would have been timed, my pace would have broken all personal bests, for I ran as fast and as hard as a could. And when I arrived, breathless with feet bleeding to the creek bank, there stood my brown eyed, blond haired, beautiful little boy, completely unaware of the adrenaline pumping through my veins or the relief and tangled emotions flooding me. Look Mom, I found the creek! He told me enthusiastically.

It was in that moment, Mom, that I opened my mouth and you came out.

I squeezed Carson tightly, kissed him firmly, breathed a prayer of thanksgiving to my Jesus, and told him that he is the sole reason for the grey hair I found.

Barely two years into this mothering gig, and I completely believe you. Yes, I was a problem child. And while I know there were many days where you felt like you were barely surviving, and certainly not thriving as you mothered five loud and rowdy kids, I want you to know you did well. You kept us loved and alive, and that is reason enough to say that as a mother, you were very, very successful.

I am so grateful for you (and realize now that I probably owe a lifetime supply of hair dye to cover those greys).

Much love,
Sarah

To Truly Seize Life

As the days on the calendar neared the close of December and 2014 gave way to 2015, I was still reeling, deep in grief, after the tragic death of my childhood friend, Ev. 

When the life of someone young, someone filled with so much passion and exuberance, is taken away suddenly, and your fervent prayers seem unheard, useless, it's so easy to question everything you thought you knew. And it was in that state, shaken and angry, broken-hearted and unstable, that I began a new year. 

But in the deepest part of my being, I still believed — I still believed that He is good and merciful and loving and sovereign.

So, in spite of my head and my heart not aligning, one screaming 'Meaningless, totally meaningless' and the other gently whispering 'Be still and Know', the phrase Seize Life! was born to embody the coming year.

Ev left a legacy that valued relationships above all. At such a young age he had already figured out that success isn't based on title or position or financial gain, but rather on how well you love God and love others. I wanted my life to carry on his legacy  

Had I know what lay in store for 2015 I would have scoffed at the phrase.  I was unaware that the hard work of grief was only just beginning, that in a year where I so desperately wanted to Seize Life! I would be faced, yet again, with death. My beautiful cousin, Cheryl, and her perfect newborn son, our beloved dog, Rambo, a dear Jamaican lady I befriend during my year in the West Indies, all gone from this earth — leaving my heart shattered and soul crushed.

To know how it feels to grieve deeply, one must also know what is it like to experience great joy. And there were, tangled within this year of sorrow and grief, many, many moments of joy so strong I thought my heart would burst.

2015 — I am so grateful for those moments; for the numerous road trips and flights where we got to experience new destinations and revisit old ones; for the miracle of life growing at a rapid pace before our eyes in the form of a toddler with energy unending, and that of new life growing deep within me; for the sure and steady love of a man who cherishes my heart. I am grateful for slow mornings at home and evenings on our deck as the sun sets beyond the horizon; for health and strength and a puppy who is chewing her way into our home and hearts, one shoe at a time. And I'm grateful for challenges that stretch me; opportunies that overwhelm me; for old friendships that, like cheese and wine, are getting better with age, and new friendships, still tender and budding.

Yes, tangled into this year of bitter was so much sweetness, and I am truly grateful. 

But as for resolutions and words and phrases to build the coming year around, I have only one: To keep a journal. I want a safe place where the joy and heartache that was and is to come will be recorded — And the rest on which this fresh slate of a New Year will be built upon? I'll be leaving that up to the Good Father and the year, 2016.

Happy New Year!

Conversations and a Red Cup

Hey how are you? I was putting mushrooms and spinach into my grocery cart, placing them next to the olive oil and yogurt already in the basket. Carson and I were at Aldi, stocking up on produce and a few other items we needed for the week. I glanced up. Was someone talking to me?

Hi, good to see you! I responded, recognizing one the the former employees who I've grown to know in the past three years of shopping there almost weekly.  As we chatted Carson ran down the isle and turned the corner, suddenly out of sight. I'll catch you later, I need to find my kid!

Minutes later Carson was held prisoner, in with the mushrooms and spinach, and our conversation resumed. How are you doing? I haven't seen you in so long. Her expression was bleak, even before she answered, I already knew. In the past few years her life has been rocked dramatically. One day they were a happy family of three, and the next left her a widow, a single mom. To respond, she held up a box of tissues and package of chocolate Debbies. I'm counting on these to get me through the week, I'm going to need them, and some prayer too, if you think about it. She's in the thick of legal papers and insurance claims, every day reliving the moment that made her a widow, as she fights for her rights.

How about now? And there, surrounded by toilet paper and Windex, we prayed.  

If someone would have asked the the same question this week, I too, may have broken down. My hard-slogging is nothing compared to what my friend is going through. But in the thick of motherhood, in the piles of laundry and upset stomachs and diapers that aren't holding the runny content well, I've been feeling completely drained. Empty and lacking. Ready to throw in the towel - which would only result in more laundry.

And it was in the midst of one of those days, a day where yet another nap resulted in only ten minutes of peace and quiet before the small boy was roused, crying and whining and demanding so much, when Herm walked in on one of my break downs.

Babe, why don't you and a friend go out tonight? Carson and I will stay home. No need to worry about supper, I'll take care of it. It'll be good for you, for us.

I gratefully took Herm up on his offer, but I went alone. Motherhood can be lonely and isolating, especially with young children, but what I felt like I needed, even more than companionship that night, was complete silence and solitude.

As I slipped on to the chair in the far corner of Starbucks, away from the conversations across the room, I marveled at how lovely and rare time alone like this was. The Gingerbread Tea Latte tasted amazing in that highly controversial red cup. In fact, I rather like how it looks without snowflakes and whatnot, even if it does supposedly take Christ out of Christmas. (Is anyone actually offended by that?) But that quietness quickly ended as the door swung open and a lady, short and wirey, with close cropped hair dusted in gray, strode in.

She carried an air about herself, but her tattered clothes and glasses held together by medical tape gave her secret away. She was homeless.

Right away she started complaining to anyone who would listen. This place isn't very cozy, is it? Nothing like the Starbucks in Pittsford. Yeah, there they have leather chairs, and they're open late. It's Pittsford where I like to go.

She tried to chat with a student who was studying, every couple of minutes getting up to ask another question, each time forcing the student to remove her earbud before answering, then returning to her textbook and laptop. She complained about something to the man reading the paper a few tables over.

I tried to tuck myself further into the corner, but it didn't help, she noticed me and sat down.

I could tell she was lonely, wanting someone to listen. But what about my silence and solitude? The conversation jumped from place to place, she asked where I lived, and what I do for work. She wondered how I was ever able to survive out in the sticks, surrounded by all those Amish and Mennonite folks. Life is so backward for them, she stated, having no idea that I am one of them.

Somehow, in the midst of this, we began to talk about refugees and poverty, and that is when I quickly learned that she had complete disdain for immigrants and Mexicans and Blacks and anyone who wasn't of a higher class. She told me how she was currently fighting potential jail time for assaulting a Syrian pastor in a neighboring town. That man has got to learn that he can't come to our country and show disrespect! I've got rights, I will not go to jail because of him. They come and take our welfare and live off of us. I won't have it! My main concern in life is for my well being, my safety comes first. You might not agree, I know you don't, but they aren't welcome here.

Over the next 15 minutes she spoke bad of everyone of a different ethnicity then her and brought class and economic status up again and again, as though that was the most important thing in this life. I found this ironic, considering her obvious state, living on the streets, possibly even taking our welfare, in tattered and torn garments. 

As I left Starbucks that evening, I kept replaying that conversation in my mind, and comparing it to conversations I've had with refugees. The ones who were the 'lower class of our society', as she would have put it -- even though I would consider her to be in that class as well. She was completely miserable, her life only about her. The refugees I met, they were grateful to be together as a family, in a safer place. They were concerned about the safety of their family and friends back home, in the countries they fled. Life was not simply about them. If class would be based on happiness, they would be classes apart.

After two hours and fifteen minutes of alone time, I was ready to come back home again, back to the hard-slogging of upset stomachs and chewed up raisins pressed into the carpet, back to the  man I love more than anyone else, and back to this career as a stay at home mom, which I don't exactly love, nor do I hate. And I was so thankful to be reminded that this life isn't about me, about my safety, or my protection and well being. There is so much more to it than that.

If I had to pick only one thing I am grateful for today, it would be that controversial little red cup and the many conversations and perspective shifts that happened around it.

Thankful

I am on a quest to find one thousand things that I am thankful for, one thousand ordinary things that make this life so wonderful. You can read more about my journey to thankfulness here.

494. Clean sheets, fresh smelling and crisp

495. Friends who bring us a delicious meal and amazing fellowship for no reason in particular

496. A couple consecutive days of childish contentment

497. Running in the rain

498. Bullet-proof coffee

499. Finding joy in what I used to dread

500. Media-free Monday nights

501. "This soup is really good!" (Coming from a man who earlier had declared I ruined soup for him because I made it so often.)

502. My little Rembrandt wall-artist

503. Love notes + ginger

504. Smoked cheese and sun dried tomatoes

What are you thankful for?

Thankful

I am on a quest to find one thousand things that I am thankful for, one thousand ordinary things that make this life so wonderful. You can read more about my journey to thankfulness here.

372. Drifts of snow piled high against the window

373. Cinnamon Rolls, sticky hot, fresh from the oven

374. My brown-eyed boy

375. Moonbeams peeking through the bedroom curtains

376. Risotto

377. A pair of new jeans that fit 'just so'

378. Clear crisp winter skies, dotted with twinkling stars

379. Surprised with a beautiful desk made by my Lover

380. Birds at the feeder

What are you thankful for?

Eucharisteo

Eucharisteo : Thanksgiving 

Number one on the list: Record daily things I am grateful for

I truly believe that a contented and thankful spirit requires intentional gratitude. It doesn't just happen. Bowing my head before a meal and whispering a quick thanks won't make thanksgiving spill over into my heart. 

I know this personally.

     9. For a chubby little boy who depends on me for his every need
     10. For slobbery wet kisses
     11. Sunshine and yard work and long afternoon naps

I purchased a blank notebook and began recording last June. My heart was heavy and angry and I was so tired of being tired. It wasn't a physical tired that I felt, it was emotional. A soul drained. Empty. Lacking.

I chose to write only positive things in that book. It wouldn't know my frustrations or the causes behind my anger. But perhaps ink soaking into the crisp pages things of thankfulness my heart would change.

A habit began to form. The more I recorded, the more I noticed.

     65. Tom + Hannelore
     66. Spontaneous swimming ventures with Aleah after blueberry picking in the heat of the day
     67. Story-time 

Summer was busy. There were days where the notebook was neglected. Recording wasn't a miracle pill, but my drained soul slowly began to feel alive again.

     95. For Herm. Always, Herm
     96. Foggy Monday mornings and the sun shining through
     ...
     110. For passports and plans of travel with my Mahlon and mini-Mahlon
     111. Clean laundry; washed, dried, folded, and put away

Summer turned to Autumn and days where I hammered into my journal of gratitude became fewer and fewer. Not because I wasn't thankful, I was. Life was still very busy and I didn't work hard enough to keep it a priority.

Then tragedy. And after five long weeks of fighting, the life of my childhood friend was whisked away. "Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." (1 Thessalonians 5:18) Give thanks, even is this? How? I still don't have the answers. I need time to learn how to give hard eucharisteo.

So I picked up the book One Thousand Gifts and began to read it again; to soak in the poetic lines of grace and thankfulness in both good and bad. "Who would ever know the greater graces of comfort and perseverance, mercy and forgiveness, patience and courage, if no shadows fell over a life?"  

I reach for a pen, and with determined force I hammer again because joy is not the absence of suffering. Joy is the presence of God.

     176. Seasons, one fading in to another. Ever changing. Ever glorious.
     177. Laughter and delight that one so young adds to life
     178. Rainbows; a promise of hope, of sovereignty, of healing

Happy Birthday Little Man!

One year and one day ago I woke up earlier than usual for a Sunday morning. It was cold and wintry out; even the air in our house felt crisp.

I grabbed our bags to finish some last minute packing...

Opening day of Rifle Season was on Monday, and as is tradition with the Esh family, we were all heading to the cabin in northern Pennsylvania for a few days over that time. The guys would be out hunting and us ladies and the children would enjoy the warmth of the wood stove and endless amounts of coffee and hot chocolate back at the cabin.

But something felt different. Was today the day? I still had ten days until my due date. Everyone told me to add at least another week on to that time because first-time moms always go over.

Going to the cabin is a major highlight for Herm. He had excitement in his voice whenever we talked about it. A few weeks prior I had jokingly told him that I would make the almost three hour trek down there with him, but that he first had to sign a contract saying that he would play the role of midwife if needed.

Did something actually feel different? Should we stay home? My body didn't feel at all like my own in the past eight months. There was probably nothing to worry about. I had learned that in pregnancy expect the unexpected.

I casually mentioned to Herm what had happened. He continued to load the luggage onto the truck.

We were going to the cabin.

I silently tucked a few blankets, sleepers, diapers, and a cap into the side pocket of our suitcase. I just had this nagging feeling...

As we were traveling I began Google what had happened. Maybe my water really did break? I thought it would be a bit more obvious. Like a gush of liquid? A small river? A mighty ocean perhaps?

Before long I lost cell phone service and was left with a bunch of unanswered questions.

When we arrived at the cabin I pulled my sister-in-law, Anne, aside. She has six children... She would give me the comfort I needed. She confirmed what I knew in my heart all along.

I was in labor.

The rest of the family was just sitting down to eat breakfast. We enjoyed the meal with them. But as soon as the dishes were cleared, Anne and I drove out to the nearest town, fifteen minutes away, so that I could contact my midwife and let her know what was going on. I tried to call her. I tried to text her. But the service wasn't strong enough. I couldn't get through. Finally in the library parking lot I found internet connection. I sent a brief message to her on Facebook. Within a matter of minutes I had a reply, "COME HOME NOW!"

We said our good-bye's to a shocked group of people. Yes folks, we drove three hours, ate breakfast with Herm's family, and immediately turned around and drove three more hours home again.

It was almost 4:30 pm when we finally reached home and not a minute to soon. Snow was falling heavily.

My midwife suggested I walk for a while to try to speed things up. So Herm and I bundled up and drove down to a big parking lot near our home. We walked in circles, well over a mile, in that parking lot as the snow was falling and the air was crisp. A college security guard asked us if we were okay. We probably did look a bit strange.

When we got back to the house, I walked stairs for a while, Herm supporting me through contractions. I just want to sit, I told him. I was exhausted. We heard a loud popping sound; there was that river I was expecting.

After that things really sped up. The birthing pool was filled with warm water and not too long after we called our midwife. She arrived sometime after midnight and coached us through the rest of labor. At 3:52 am Carson was born.

There are no words to describe the joy and elation I felt as he was placed into my arms. My heart was bursting with love. I couldn't help but stare at him. I was overcome with newborn bliss.

We waited for him. We prayed for him. HE WAS FINALLY HERE!

It's so hard to believe that he is actually a year old already. Where has the time gone? But in the same breath, I will also say that it feels as though Carson has been a part of our little family forever. He adds so much joy to our lives. We feel so blessed to be his parents.

Happy birthday, bud!

Utterly Mundane

"We don't do very many grand and significant things in our life. Most of us will not be written up in history books. Most of us will only be remembered by family and perhaps a few friends. Most of us will be forgotten in two or three generations after our deaths. There simply are not many grand moments of life, and we surely don't live life in those moments. No, we live life in the utterly mundane. We exist in the bathrooms, bedrooms, living rooms, and hallways of life. This is where the character of our life is set. This is where we live the life of faith." 

- Paul Tripp, Age of Opportunity 

I had read that quote before, but it never really resonated with me until recently. 

One of my summer goals is to slow life down. To start enjoying each and every day to the fullest instead of always looking at what lays before me; to embrace where I am at and who I am with. 

I will work at resting.

Before you think that I am trying to justify day after day spent at the pool with a good book and iced coffee, hear me out.

In order to feel accomplished, I write out a to-do list and start crossing things off. A good day is often defined by the amount of projects I am able to scratch off the list. But having an active little child around causes even menial tasks to take longer. 

In the middle of what was an extremely busy week for me, I heard myself saying "just wait, mommy has to finish this first..." for the umpteenth time, as Carson sat among scattered toys, crying, arms stretch, reaching for me. 

I am making laundry and yard work and cleaning other peoples homes more important than my little boys needs. The thought hit me like a sack of bricks. I wasn't dealing with many deadlines or due dates, it was day to day tasks that could wait a few hours or even a few days. 

When my children are grown, I want to be able to reflect on their lives and remember the little everyday moments like rocking them to sleep and reading Guess How Much I Love You to them so often that I could recite it word for word without the book. I want to take them on adventures that they'll reminisce as adults. 

True accomplishment as a mom isn't keeping an immaculate home, never allowing the laundry to pile up, or having a weedless garden, but rather it is to love well; to be present; to instruct hearts; to give them Jesus.

 So to myself I propose this idea: 

The lists of projects can wait; there are making-memories lists to be checked off.