MollyMadonna.com

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from the mouths of babes. (99)

Eloise tells me at least once a day that she can’t wait to be a big sister. Her excitement over my growing bump is palpable at all hours. Both Henry and Eloise stop what they’re doing in random moments to talk to the baby, to lay a hand on my belly or to give it a kiss. If I react to baby’s movements within their earshot, they’re like moths to a flame. And it’s beautiful.

Tonight before bed, after we’d gone around sharing what we were each thankful for today, Eloise asked if she could pray. She remembered Daddy and Henry and baby and all of the usual things, but then she said this, “And for mommy’s heart and Jesus. Amen.”

I must just be in a very hormonal and weepy space, because I almost cried right there. Really? After all of the craziness of this week and my poor attitude at times? My unwillingness in moments to act with a servant heart toward my children, and the grumbly nature of things here in the little blue house? Thank you for mommy’s heart?

This is the epitome of grace as best as I can define it. And it’s also such a reminder to me of the weighty and incredible responsibility given to us as parents–that we must steward our influence over our children oh-so-carefully, and with intention as much as absolutely possible.

I ask myself how my two and a half year old can be thankful for my heart when I’ve felt so depleted of my energy and ability to express love lavishly? When I feel like I’ve been getting it all wrong?

How important and edifying it is to recognize afresh that our children’s desires are actually quite simple: quality time, basic needs met, affirmation, presence. God spoke to my heart tonight through the words of a not-yet-three year old, which is perfect when my world at present centers on motherhood and the well-being of our still-small babes here at home.

They don’t need perfect. They just need me.

They do need me to respond to their physical needs. They need to me to initiate and reciprocate loving words or hugs or snuggle time. They need me to affirm them more than I correct them, and they need to know that I am consistent, present, and a place of refuge.

Yesterday I did not feel like a place of refuge, and, as I mentioned, we all limped along.

There must have been beautiful souls praying for our little family this morning, because today’s wake up was so much different. (Thank you, by the way, whoever and wherever you are!) I sat on the couch soaking up some quiet time for reflection while the kiddos played well together, and I could breathe deeply. There was so. much. peace.

All day today, the still small voice in my head and heart reminded me to temper my words. To encourage. To wait until it was necessary to exercise correction. To be the gentler version of myself that I so often aspire to and quite frequently overstep. There were sweet spaces in the day and I felt them. I prayed that Henry and Eloise (and even baby) would feel them, too.

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So, tonight? Tonight when we were past bedtime by about 45 minutes and still up sorting through story time and sore ankles and missing lovies and family prayer? Tonight, God used the littlest of our household to remind me afresh that it’s my heart I have to offer above all else.

It’s the best thing I can give freely to our children–not just our two here with me now, but also the third well on his or her way. It’s the best thing I can offer Jason in this season and always, even when our focus is easily drawn toward our young family, baby preparations, life decisions, and the daily grind. And it’s the absolute thing I’m called to offer God in the daily, whether I’m rejoicing or hurting, in awe of him or in doubt.

My heart is the thing, and it always will be. Yours is, too. Just ask your favorite two year old.

grace and peace,

mm

 

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state of the union. (100)

Wow. To begin again, here in this place…these 100 days…this is humbling. It’s a great time for me to acknowledge how fortunate I feel that my belly is so full with baby, but also to take a step back and make note of exactly where I am today, just as I prepare to teeter over into a double digit countdown in the morning. It’s crazy. As with so many things, the days go by slowly and the weeks pass in a flash.

Tomorrow, I will be 26 weeks pregnant.

This baby is moving and growing, certainly, and I am, too. Not always in the direction I want to be in some regards, but always moving and always growing just the same. Today was not a day I would have been proud to broadcast to the world. The truth is, I’ve been feeling pretty raw this week–personal challenges stacking up and troubles here and there that are insignificant over the long haul, but that feel weighty to me in my current state of mind.

It’s hard to be real with myself sometimes, and it’s even harder to be vulnerable. This being said, I felt burdened today to begin this pregnancy countdown with the truth–not because it’s comfortable right now, but because it’s honest. Someday, when our little bean looks back on this time of preparation and anticipation for his or her arrival, I deeply hope that my authenticity will create space for our son or daughter to feel freedom to be authentic, too.

I woke up this morning ready to face the day, but by 10am, I was ready to call it quits. Some days are just like that. Our stay at home trio was housebound yesterday while our eldest (Henry) battled a stomach bug and I battled the mess that was left in its wake. This, coupled with our youngest (Eloise) having broken a bone in her ankle last week, and I was just a bit bummed about missing out on plans to get out of the house and into the temperate, sunny day peering in at me through the windows. We’ve been cooped up more than usual this past week, so a day outside together in the sunshine was going to be balm for my mama soul.

Today I got out of bed thinking we’d give our outside plans another try, but to my surprise (and admittedly, my frustration), Henry was not yet back up to speed. He spent the morning on the couch, poor Eloise limped along in a physical way, and I limped along emotionally. The living room still smelled like yesterday’s yuck, and try as I might, I couldn’t get rid of it. No cleaning or scrubbing or diffusing or sudsing did the trick. The house was stinky, and my attitude was worse.

These circumstances are no big deal, and they are absolutely no one’s fault. But the pregnant mama inside of me just wanted something to go right; I wanted desperately to have some sort of summer “experience,” wishfully thinking we must pack in lots of summer goodness before this baby belly slows me down more in the months to come. I suppose I’m in a “seize the day!” sort of mode, but there’s not a whole lot about life this past week that feels like it’s in the mode with me. Today was no exception.

There’s nothing remarkably awful about the day I’ve had, but the little things have just continued to pile on in a way that challenges my every effort to stay upbeat, to choose joy, to parent graciously and well. I got news before lunchtime that I didn’t see coming–a change of direction that calls me to prep my heart and mindset for future things in a way that’s not what I’d hoped for or planned. And I want to be strong before all of this–both the small things and the weightier things that I’m called to as a mom and an adult and a friend, but this morning I just wanted to (needed to) cry on the couch for a moment and not save face in front of my kiddos by “being strong” for one more minute or one more hour of this day.

Sometimes strength looks like being real and letting your guard down, even if it means doing something that the world has taught us is weak–something that will cause people around us to talk or ask questions and not fully understand.

So here we are,  a 26 week-along state of the union from a harder-than-I’d-like-to-admit place:

My two year old and five year old saw me cry today–more than once, and I am feeling raw and jagged-edge as I enter into this countdown of days. I wanted to do it with so much grace and sophistication, but I also wanted to do it for the sake of remembering what was (and what is) real. I showered at 1:30p this afternoon, and I put on the comfiest pants and tank top I could find. I didn’t do my hair. I put Eloise down for a nap and Henry played Legos and I spent time trying to get back to what’s true by praying a desperate prayer and quieting my heart in the Word. And I took this photo, so I’d remember this upside down day and the following:

-what 26 weeks pregnant looked like

-what 100 days feels like

-why it’s important to be honest with myself and to look and dress the part without guilt

-that I’m still smiling daily at the idea of this baby tucked inside, no matter what comes as I wade through this crazy-beautiful season:

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Because life is real, and some days are hard, and sometimes the dog photobombs your belly pictures and it’s all going to be ok, anyway.

This journey is an imperfect one, but it’s the journey I know that God has planned for me. There’s one more day on the books, and I’m grateful for it. I woke up with air in my lungs and summer calling outside. Maybe I’ll be able to answer it just a shade better tomorrow 😉

bidding adieu to triple digits,

molly madonna

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what child is this?

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  What child is this, who lay to rest 

                               On Mary’s lap is sleeping?

                                                    Whom angels greet with anthems sweet,

                                                                                      While shepherds watch are keeping?

I’ve been thinking a lot about this tiny baby in the manger–how he came so humbly into the world and in such an unassuming way…the image of a young Mary cradling her newborn, resting on piles of hay in a humble stable with Joseph beside them…

It all captivates me year round, but especially at Christmastime.

When I lived in Egypt, we visited places that somehow drew me closer to the scenes we see everywhere depicting the Holy Family’s journey to Bethlehem. I’d never imagined walking through places where I could actually envision Mary on a donkey, full with our Savior, and I don’t think I realized what my heart was doing as we wandered through a small desert town ten years ago. Now though, I can’t separate the two in my head–this experience of dusty feet and a vast starry sky in my memory and the story of the long, long road to a safe place for Mary to give birth to Christ.

Tonight, I am especially captivated by Jesus, Mary and Joseph in the stable, because I’m trying to reconcile the true Christmas with the one I’m experiencing here in the world in 2015. I can’t help but think about the simplicity of what happened; even though I know that Mary was in labor and Joseph was hurriedly seeking a place for her to give birth, I don’t recognize any striving in the story.

Mary and Joseph were acting in obedience to God–clearly blessed by a high and holy calling on their lives, and yet, very, very human. As it was the first Christmas, I suppose there were no traditions of the holiday to consider, but still…

Where was the striving?

On the night Christ was born, the Glory of the Lord shone brightly on the hills of Bethlehem and Mary and Joseph set eyes on their baby boy. No doubt he was perfect in every way, but still a baby who needed to be cared for and loved, nurtured and fed. He was human and divine, and the young, newlywed couple became mother and father to the Son of God.

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When this took place, Mary and Joseph were not preoccupied with everything they had to do back at home or how well prepared they’d be for visitors. They lived out their reality by living in it–by being present in the moment and not allowing anything else to overshadow it. I’m sure the two felt the weight of what had just happened, and yet, nothing about their story tells us there was panic or alarm.

Why would they strive or worry when God had orchestrated this plan from the beginning? When they knew that they had partaken in a miracle, and that the whole world would change because of the new life in their arms?

Why, when I’m trying to celebrate this most holy night in a reverent way, do I find myself striving each Christmas season? 

The very first Christmas and its amazing, beautiful, life-changing story had nothing to do with striving. It didn’t speak hurry and stress and worry then, and it doesn’t now.

I am quite-imperfectly pursuing a graceful December in hopes of living out more of the peace that came on the night Christ was born 2,015 years ago. It doesn’t feel as simple as just resting and letting all of the Christmas “things” go (although Christmas would come anyway, details or not), but I’m certain that it can be more simple than a whole month full of days consumed by the dazzle of consumer Christmas and the striving to accomplish every last Christmas task.

I’m not trying to be lax about the holiday. I just want to celebrate it well. And I don’t want a 2015 version of Christmas to detract from the ancient miracle that we seek to remember in the carefully placed nativity scene.

I want my babies to know the baby in the manger. The child who laid to rest on Mary’s lap, asleep.

The whole world was waiting for a Savior then, and it still is today. But now there should be even more peace than on the day of His birth, because we know that He has come and He will come again.

There is no striving in the birth narrative. Just grace. A humble place for the King of All Kings to enter the world as one of us–a place of welcome. Of reverence. Of rest.

  Raise, raise a song on high,

                                     The virgin sings her lullaby

                                                                          Joy, joy for Christ is born,

                                                                                                           The babe, the son of Mary.

May we find respite from striving this Christmas. And may we take rest in the lap of a Holy God who sent his Son as a baby, that we might have life and life to the full!

molly madonna

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eloise josephine–a birth story, part 3.

I hope the anticipation has been worth it, Eloise, because what I’m about to tell you is the story of one of the very best moments of my life. And you made it so…

(For the full story, see my previous posts here and here 😉

I had prayed and prayed about the circumstances of your birth, and one of my consistent prayers had been for a malleable nursing staff on the day of your delivery. We have a friend who works in the birth center, and if the stars didn’t align for her to be there, I really, really hoped that whoever God ordained would be flexible and open-minded. I hadn’t meant to test our nurse with my insistence on staying put that morning, but when she went with the flow and obliged, another guard of mine fell. I settled even more into the mental and emotional space I needed to usher you into the world in a peaceful way.

Both you and my body continued to dictate my movements and positions, working together so beautifully it felt like a choreographed dance. The more and more I learn about, experience and witness birth, the more I am convinced this is true. Our God is the ultimate Creator, and He has designed our bodies so incredibly to be able to grow and birth babies into this world. At no point in the process of delivering you was this lost on me. In that space, no matter the intensity, I just marvel at every single thing that transpires. It is the most powerful combination of experiences I could imagine.

Within minutes, I was instinctively making my way from a standing position to where I would eventually give birth to you–on the hospital floor. At some point in this window of time, our photographer arrived and began to capture each moment leading up to your arrival. I will forever be grateful to her for the indelible images she grasped with her lens. This series below so perfectly articulates the range of emotion and physical change I experienced over such a short period of time:

 

When my doctor entered the room, I was on all fours and committed to staying there. He was exactly the combination of laid back and take charge that I needed–he casually joined us on the floor to measure my progress and to begin guiding my second stage of labor (or pushing), at the same time leading the nursing staff to prepare the room for your delivery and to help make me as comfortable as possible. Not once did he question my positioning or suggest we relocate to the bed, but rather he encouraged me to continue listening to my body and allowed you and me to guide the process of your birth. Truly, I could not have been more grateful (or felt more safe) than I was with your dad, Karlye, and our doctor as my support team. Everyone in the room played so perfectly into the scene. I had visualized these moments so many times in my mind, and now in real life, they were materializing even more beautifully than I could have imagined!

Now, all of labor and delivery isn’t a fairy tale, and it is extremely challenging physical and mental work. Some of the words I’d use to describe my state of mind as we rounded the corner on your delivery include intense, focused, determined, primal, maternal, powerful, exhausted, exhilarated and anticipatory. Perhaps that’s an interesting mix, but in that state, everything was so heightened and clear to me, and every one of those words is accurate and true. I remember locking eyes with our photographer in moments, feeling like I was absolutely pleading for relief, and then in other moments, just maintaining a supernatural level of resolve (that is probably reserved for childbirth and little else). My doctor told us that you would likely arrive in a timeframe of ten to thirty minutes, which felt both hopeful and long. I wanted so badly to meet you, I wanted the deeply intense pain to cease, and I wanted to know that there was an end in sight. This loose window helped me to set my expectations, and really gave me the last few bursts of energy I needed to see the process through and finish well.

I pushed for roughly twenty-five minutes, and in the end, you weren’t entirely easy on your mama. At that point, it didn’t matter in the least. Our doctor was attuned to what we both needed, and in the last minute he had me turn onto my left side for your birth. When your daddy announced that you were a girl, it was a though something inside of me burst. I couldn’t hold back my joyful tears a second longer! I had been so sure that you were a girl, sensing it very early in my pregnancy. As soon as I knew it was true, so much about the past nine months was confirmed for me…my intuition, your brother’s insistence, and most particularly, what I had clung to as a promise from God that you would indeed be born a healthy baby girl.

The delight of setting eyes on you for the first time was even greater than I had imagined. You were simply marvelous as we watched you pink up from head to toe in the doctor’s hands. It looked as though you’d been twirling with your umbilical cord as you entered the world, and our doctor unwound you from the cord while you silently opened and closed your eyes. You were perfectly alright, but you didn’t make a sound. We waited for your cord to stop pulsing, and then your daddy clamped and cut it as I brought you close. Nothing could have been better than that warm feeling of you snuggled up in my arms. Karlye asked if you had a name. “This is Eloise Josephine,” your daddy and I announced at the same time. We lay there on the hospital floor just soaking each other in. Enveloped. Exhausted. Peaceful. You had come in just a matter of hours…from the time I woke up with a start until the minute you were born was just over three hours and twenty minutes. So much transpired in that short period of time, and you were without a doubt quite ready to be in the world. I was quite ready to have you.

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Eventually, we moved to the bed under warm blankets. The hospital staff was very respectful of my desire to keep you close. We waited to take your measurements and check off boxes, and you kangaroo crawled your way to me and began nursing almost immediately. When we finally did put you on the scale, I guessed your birthweight to the ounce! You weighed in at nine pounds, two ounces, and measured 21 inches long. Afterwards your daddy cuddled you while I got cleaned up and ready for your first visitor…your big brother, Henry! Nothing could have made me happier than to see him fall in love with you for the first time. Not only did you steal our hearts at first glance, but you grasped your brother in a single moment. He had known it was you all along. We settled in as a family of four, piled closely together on the bed for pictures and snuggles and plenty of time for me to hold BOTH of my precious kiddos in one grasp. I couldn’t be more thankful that you made me a mama all over again that day.

August 19th 2013 changed our lives. You were a force in my belly, a force upon entry, and now, you are a powerful little force in this world. Each day, as you grow and learn and become more of who God has created you to be, I consider just how blessed we are that you’ve been entrusted to our care. Our family is more complete because of you in it, Eloise Josephine. You are right where you belong.

deeply in love with you sweet baby girl, and so honored to be the vessel God ordained to bring you here.

xo,

your mama

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eloise josephine–a birth story.

Well, little lady, the time has flown. I promised you a birth narrative, and now here we are: nine months to the day since I went into labor with you, and not any less in love with the sacred day that you came into the world. Snuggle up, and let me tell you a story…

At almost exactly this time (it’s 10:35pm now) on a very hot and sticky, perfect summer Sunday evening, I was sitting on the couch working on a playlist for your upcoming delivery, and feeling a little disheartened. I had been convinced for some time that this very day, August 18th, 2013, was the day I would go into labor with you. We’d been to church that morning and I’d sung my heart out, just as I did with your brother the day he started making his way into the world. I’d shed a few tears in service as I considered your beautiful presence, so round in my belly–the gift of you and the fulfillment of God’s promise to me in the fact that you would so soon be here. And I’d sat in the pew at the end of church that morning when your brother came straight up to my belly and got down close to say to you, “Hi baby! I’m going to see you soon! And I’ll meet you tomorrow!!” with such anticipation and assurance in his voice that I couldn’t help but wonder if he was right.

That afternoon, we’d taken our time as a family…gone to the pool to cool off in the August heat, then come home to get ready for outdoor baptism and a picnic on the church grounds. As we listened to names being called that evening by the side of the pond, I just kept thinking and wondering about sweet little you. I had been so certain and yet, the day was almost through and I was still very pregnant. No baby yet, and no labor. There were only five or so hours left in the day, and my confidence in my mother’s intuition was waning. I insisted we take a walk, just to urge things along a little more. We wound down the day walking to the park and climbing and goofing around. I was tired. Full. Happy. And so curious about your arrival.

After getting your brother to bed, I couldn’t wind down. There were things on my mind–and my pre-baby to do list–that just wouldn’t let me rest. I curled up on the couch and hand-picked song after song…worship music I wanted playing as we ushered you into the world some time soon to come. Your daddy sat across the room, and occasionally, I pointed out to him the strange way that you had started moving in my belly. Every few minutes I’d look down and my stomach would be completely misshapen, like something I’ve never seen before. It kept happening periodically, and I kept right on creating that stream of music all the while. I remember telling your daddy that it hurt when you moved that way. I’d had contractions on and off for the better part of three weeks, so this didn’t phase me much. Your mama, the doula, didn’t realize that I was already in labor with you!

I stayed up much too late that night, talking with your dad and taking care of other things. When I finally went to bed, I couldn’t get terribly comfortable. I was so tired though…I kind of remember just curling up on my side and eventually drifting to sleep. At some early stage of the morning (maybe 3:30 or so?), I woke up with a contraction here and a contraction there. They weren’t yet intense, and I would doze between them, so I didn’t even wake your daddy. I vaguely remember hearing him get out of bed that morning to get ready for work. What I do very clearly remember next is the sudden jolt I had waking up, knowing I needed to get up from the bed and into the bathroom. At first, I thought my water had broken, and I could discern quite quickly that things were getting moving. Your dad came downstairs from his shower and I called out to him, “Hey J?…I don’t think you should go in this morning…We’re going to have a baby today.”  At that point, my contractions were six to seven minutes apart. It was Monday, August 19th at 6:45am.

I called our doula, Karlye, and text our photographer, just to let them both know that things were in motion. I was feeling fairly breezy and laid back at this point. “I just wanted to let you know,” I explained to both, “To give you a head’s up. I’ll keep you posted as things progress. We’re just going to take it easy here at home this morning.” I thought it best to fit in a shower and to take care of a few more last-minute items before Henry woke up. I got upstairs just after 7am. I remember the clock in the bathroom saying 7:10a.m. Then 7:13am. I know it did, because I checked at that moment as another contraction came on. A long shower seemed like a good idea, so I tried to refocus. I checked the clock again at my next contraction, feeling like they were kind of close. 7:16am. A fluke, I figured, really trying to stay centered under the hot water. Another contraction. 7:19am. I canned the idea of more time in the water and got out to check in with Karlye again. “Do you think maybe you could just come in an hour or so?” I asked her. “I think I’d just feel better if you were here, so you could help me to make the call on when to go to the hospital. Things are feeling a little more intense,” I remember saying. I pulled out the hair dryer and poured my focus into drying my hair. Brushing my teeth. Putting on a little makeup (your mom is silly like that). With each task, the surges were coming faster and stronger. I settled for good enough and headed to my closet to put odds and ends into my hospital bag. Your dad ran around the house getting other things ready, making calls, checking in on me. Around 8:20, we decided it was time to wake up your brother. I walked into his room to say good morning, and in the same moment, my water broke. It took me by surprise, but I didn’t want Henry to be afraid, so I left the room as quickly as I could. I recall telling daddy that things were “about to get really real,” in the same moment as Karlye (in all of her infinite wisdom and intuition) arrived and came up the stairs early–and not a moment too soon.

More to come tomorrow, my love. Nine months exactly since your precious birthday. I’m sorry I’m only getting to this now, sweet Eloise. But I’m thrilled at how clear and tangible it all still feels in my head and heart.

i love you, baby girl,

mama