MollyMadonna.com

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in the mood.

As of late, I have become decidedly decisive. The exception here might be the occasional meal (when nothing sounds great and when whatever is readily available and mild will suffice), but otherwise, I’m feeling very decisive. I like this new turn of events, because I’m finding more and more of myself each time I’m not afraid to say exactly what I want or how I want it. This freedom might be one of my favorite side effects of pregnancy so far. And I do think they’re related–most certainly, because there’s something entirely liberating for me about carrying this child.

I have wanted to be a mom since I can remember understanding what “mom” actually means. At times in my life when there’s no way I would have been ready to be a mom, and when I wouldn’t have dreamed of trying to become one, I still really, really craved the idea in a powerful way. I can liken it it this: all your life long, you’ve wanted to grow up to be a (blank). You’ve considered what it will take, you’ve plotted the course, and you’ve hoped you can manage the reality of your dream. So you do what it takes to get there, whether it be years and years of medical school, hours of studying, travel to far off places, or rejection a thousand times before you hit the mark. And then one day, you wake up and you have finally become that doctor, that professor, that international journalist, that published writer. It’s hard to believe, but it’s happening, and you are living it. You are becoming what you’ve always wanted to be.

Well here I am. And every time I think about May, or every time I ponder middle-of-the-night hours in a rocking chair, I feel blissful inside. It’s true that when you’re pregnant, pregnant thoughts consume you constantly. They might not all be about the reality of the baby growing a mile a minute inside of you, but they relate to it in some beautiful way. What color should we paint the walls? (In baby’s room.) When should we get rid of all of the things we really don’t need? (To make way for baby.) How many times can I vacuum or dust or wipe down or pick up? (In anticipation of baby.) Where should we go to get away together, just us? (So we feel best connected, before baby.)

None of this bothers me. I absolutely love it. I’m so beyond-myself excited to look after this child, and every decision leading up to it brings me one step closer. I’ll wear the black pants, because they fit, and I don’t care if most of my clothing options are becoming obsolete. I’ll clean out all of the closets so that there’s plenty of room. Don’t need a new _______, or to spend money on _______; I’d rather have it for baby things. I feel so much more practical and clear headed in this way. And it’s all coming so much more easily for me now…

So, yes. I’m in the mood. In the mood for motherhood, and for family. In the mood to nurture and to love. To be the best wife and mom I’m capable of, and to pursue the things that matter the absolute most to me. I’m in the mood to clear out the clutter of my life, to organize, so that things make sense, and to build the best relationships I can around the people I care about most deeply. I’m poised to be surprised, delighted, humbled, captivated, burdened and enlightened, in the best ways, by these next 165 days (or however long it will be until this babe greets the world).

Until then, and possibly after, I’ll take the red ones, please…will have cereal for dessert…would like to hang the pictures just so. I’ll go to bed early, sleep in on weekends, and order a decaf, skim latte, no whip, extra foam. I’m not trying to be picky, I just finally know what I want. There’s life change happening, and I’m changing and happening along with it.

decidedly and decisively in the mood,

mm

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chicken noodle soup.

On Monday, I went grocery shopping for the first time in two or more weeks. It’s hard to want to shop for food when nothing sounds good to eat, and when shopping requires and hour or more of walking around the grocery store, then carrying and emptying and putting away bags when I get home. These days, grocery shopping is my definition of awful. But the refrigerator was getting all kinds of sad looking, and we didn’t have milk left for cereal or bread left for toast, so I went to the store with a list and a few dinner menu ideas in mind that sounded O.K.

On this particular trip, if an item wasn’t on the list, I didn’t buy it. This is hard for me to do, but when I just want to get in, get out, and get home, it makes life much easier. (It’s also quite friendly on the wallet.) I stocked the cart up with practical things: milk, chocolate milk (baby seems to like it, so now we buy it), sour cream, cheese. Cereal, bread, tortilla chips and tortillas, ground turkey, a whole chicken, egg noodles. Fruits and veggies, including bananas, apples, celery, onions, carrots and avocado. A frozen pizza for Jason. A few quick-to-pack, snackable items for me, and caffeine free Pepsi for when my stomach is having a field day. No liver sausage (although it still sounded good), because the butcher looked at me like I was crazy when I asked if they carried it. I paid for the contents of my cart and made my way home with one task in mind: homemade chicken noodle soup.

It was already late by the time I unloaded the car and put things away, so I tabled the chicken for the night. On Tuesday, I put the 5.5 Lb. bird in the oven for a few hours in the afternoon, so we’d have chicken for dinner and I’d have the rest of it for Wednesday night’s pot of chicken soup.

Making homemade chicken noodle soup isn’t just something I do when it gets to be this time of year. Growing up, mom’s chicken noodle soup was a labor of love, a feast for special occasions, the perfect comfort when nothing else felt right with the world. It’s still the item I request when coming home to visit, and still the thing she makes even if I don’t ask. I’ve never tasted a better rendition. So now, being all grown up and too far away to dash to Mom’s on a weeknight for a bowl (or two) of soup, I make my own version from memory–recalling the steps and ingredients she’s included in every pot for years.

Wednesday evening, I came home to chop celery, onions and carrots, and to clean every last piece of passable chicken meat off the bone. I boiled the rest of the carcass, skin and juices for stock, simmered the veggies and added seasoning as necessary. After skimming the stock, I combined the two pots, gave it more time to flavor and boiled egg noodles to mix in when finished. One of my favorite meals on the table, I delighted in putting the rest into containers for leftovers and freezing–chicken soup for lunch, and dinner again, and for just because.

Jason and I sat down to our homemade meal, enjoyed, cleaned things up. And then, I got sick. The chills and aches hit me like a truck. A fever followed shortly after. And all I could think the whole time was, “How’s the baby doing with all of this going on?” I called the on-call doctor at 10:30pm, after worrying for a few hours and wondering what was best to do. She suggested a virus, told me to stay home a rest for a few days, and to make sure I wasn’t getting dehydrated. Seemed practical enough. But I felt terrible, and honestly, I kind of just wanted my mom. I also wanted to know that baby was just fine, all tucked away inside and protected from whatever was racking me physically.

I rarely get sick, and when I do, it doesn’t take me long to get back on my feet. But the 24+ hours I held onto a fever seemed like forever with the little one growing in my belly. I wanted to do something, to make it better, and more safe. I wanted to protect all of the little growing parts at once. So I prayed. I rested and prayed and stayed hydrated. And when dinnertime came around again, I was oh-so-grateful for chicken noodle soup.

There’s something about the things a mom does, just for her children, that make them divine. And by that I mean they’re unwavering, sacrificial, unconditional, ingrained, out of the utmost love. When I think about the things my mom did for me, in all of the years, through all of my growing and changing, my celebrations and heartaches, I think about things like chicken noodle soup, prom dresses, singing and dancing in the kitchen, her fingers running through my hair. I consider the things that feel like home, and that made it what it was–what it is. And I recognize among them my own desire to create home, to be unconditional. It’s happening, in just the ways that I hoped it would. I think first about this little one before anything else. I hope to be “mom” in all of the loving ways that my mom has been, and when I’m unsure how, I call her and ask. And these days, I make chicken noodle soup. I cook and chop and simmer and serve, for all of the right reasons.

feeling a bit better, at home and grateful.

mm

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accessorizing.

I’m an accessories kind of girl. Scarves, earrings, bags, you name it. I could shop for them regularly and rarely tire of coming up with new and creative ways to employ the ones I own. I’ve given myself limits on purchasing, of course–no more scarves or earrings, in fact, unless they’re traded, gifted, crafted or loaned. And although I’ve gone through my closet time and again in an effort to pare down my collection, I’ll toss tops, pants or even shoes to avoid eliminating one, beautifully woven scarf. Thing is, nearly all of the accessories in my wardrobe have memories attached. They’ve been given to me by special people, or picked up in colorful markets around the world as I’ve traveled. They’re souvenirs, masquerading as everyday items I depend on for warmth or cheer or to “tie it all together” on a not-so-together morning. At the risk of sounding entirely trivial, I have always felt a little more “Molly” with them, and a little less “Molly” without. Until now.

In the past number of weeks, as I’ve swapped things out of my wardrobe for other, more practical (read: long, loose, comfortable, appropriate for my new shape) items, I’ve also realized I’m far less dependent on the accessories I’ve grown so accustomed to wearing. It’s not because I couldn’t use a splash of color in my life every day, or because the bright green and gold, India-inspired earrings I acquired this Spring aren’t among my favorites…I think it’s because I’m just too busy celebrating the life forming beneath my skin. I look in the mirror each morning (and now, each night before bed), to admire the life-change taking place, right before my eyes. And sometimes nowadays, I consider a scarf, but put it back; I’d just rather be able to look down and see the most tangible evidence I currently have of the sweet, sweet baby I can’t wait to meet. Far less trivial than the latest bag or necklace I can’t pass up, I’m swapping adornments for adoration, finally feeling comfortable in my own form and embracing my inability to button up my favorite pair of jeans.

It’s fair to say that there have been days when my image of self has gotten lost in needing to look or be something–pulled together, coordinated, classy, thin, trendy, beautiful. And of course with time and age, and certainly with a better understanding of who God is in my life and who He has created me to be, I have outgrown some of those needs. To be perfectly honest, I’ve also held on to a few of them.

As with most things, growing and maturing do not mean that we become perfect (or comfortably imperfect) overnight. In this life, I will never be everything I strive to be, and I’m grateful for that. I don’t ever want to believe that I’ve “arrived” while the rest of the world around me carries on learning and experiencing grace. I do, however, want to take the snippets and pieces of each season I’m granted and make the most of them. Like this one, for example.

I want to remember, long after this baby is born and growing and grown, that I have been comfortable in my own skin. I want to remember it on the days when my inclination is to accessorize in order to cover something up, instead of just for the sake of fun or fashion. I want to love the extra pounds on the scale because they indicate a healthy, developing baby on the way. I want to glow, not just because I’m pregnant or put make-up on in the morning, but because I see the beauty in things as God created them–the people and places around me, and my own reflection in the mirror.

I’m grateful to be in the midst of this growing season, and for so many more reasons than I could have once imagined. I love the way that, as much as this baby needs my body to carry it, I need to be carrying this baby. It is the greatest, most treasured, most memorable “look” I’ve ever worn, and possibly the most important lesson in self image I needed to learn. It’s totally not about me at all, and I love that. Baby K is the best accessory I could ask for, woven together and coloring up my life like a million perfect scarves at my fingertips every morning.

adorned (and adoring),

mm

scarf purchases in india (certainly not all mine, but all delightful!)

scarf wearing for practical purposes...and for taking silly photos, of course.

better than any accessory. at nine weeks, when baby k still looked like a peanut 🙂

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pantry woes and other things.

It’s 10:45pm, and I just told Jason that I’d like toast with liver sausage and some canned peaches. I denied the idea of cravings for a little while, but I’m pretty sure that I’ve just ruined my case.

Baby Kehrer is now 14.5 weeks in the making, and when I put my hand on the slight, growing bump that is my belly, I can’t help but grin. I feel a little like I did on the first day of class in elementary school when I was small–all kinds of anticipation, back-to-school shopping, brand new clothes and shoes, ready and waiting. And still, I had no idea what the next year would have for me. I could have purchased every pen and pencil, every loose-leafed notebook, every holographic Lisa Frank folder, but no one could predict how much I’d grow and change and learn from August to May.

August to May. 9 months. Baby bump and crib shopping and maternity clothes, here we come! Even with all of the still-persistent nausea, lack of appetite (except at night. see above.), decision-making and baby-prep underway, I have never felt like life was quite as sweet as it is right now. I’m sure I could look back and recall seasons that were delightfully bliss-filled in their own right: traveling the world, discovering God, falling in love. But in terms of sweetness? No. Nothing seems to top this chapter. Baby K is adventure and Creation and miracle and unconditional love all rolled into one.

I never imagined how much I would absolutely LOVE carrying a tiny little baby. Our tiny little baby. I’ve been swept completely off my feet, and we haven’t even met.

LOVE. Completely worth all of the cravings in the world. And in case anyone was curious, Jason did offer to make a Meijer run to appease my taste buds. Honestly though, it’s late. And a man in line at the grocery store past 11pm with liver sausage, a loaf of bread and a can of peaches can only say one thing, “My wife is at home, pregnant, and craving liver sausage toast and peaches on the side. Totally gross, I know. But she’s carrying the kid, so I get to do this.” Ahhh, the things we do for love.

I very much appreciate the offer. Saving my chips for cashing in on a much more desperate, pickles and ice cream kind of evening. Instead, I settled for pretzels with french onion dip and chocolate milk. Bon appetit!

Satisfied,

mm

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extraordinary love.

This afternoon, from my window seat, I watched as Lake Michigan drew patterns in itself like a mighty tessellation, waves ebbing over and over and creating tiny whitecaps plainly visible from a bird’s eye view. Between the clouds and a clear blue sky, below gray vapor and beneath a radiant golden sunshine, the familiar lake I have grown to love was not only captivating in a new way, but a welcome indication that I was nearing home. And somewhere, halfway between Milwaukee and Grand Rapids, juxtaposed between a wonderful weekend in a big city with friends and the impending start of another “normal” Monday, everything hung in a beautiful balance. Surrounded only by strangers and the hum of the plane, I was alone with my thoughts. Life, for a moment, was quiet.

Minutes later, as we passed over the long, lovely stretch of Michigan’s shoreline and the lake became a patchwork quilt of Autumn-kissed tree clusters and verdant farmland, I couldn’t help but marvel at the significance of a vast plain–the seemingly contrasting insignificance of individual buildings, homes, streets, lots and streams. I began to imagine families inside each home, men and women traveling from place to place in each little matchbox car. I thought about whole lives going on in spaces that, from above the earth, looked like pinpricks and monopoly pieces. And I started to feel both very small and extraordinarily humble at the same time–in a good way.

There in my seat, I considered how infinitesimal I truly am in the grand scheme, scientifically and/or physically speaking. And I couldn’t help but ponder the contrast of how significant–in the spiritual AND physical sense, I am to God. Below the airplane, I could hardly delineate property lines or bodies of water or even entire towns, but from a God’s eye view, He sees me and knows my name. He hears me and has numbered my days. I have never been more sure of this than now.

As we touched down in Grand Rapids, I placed my hand over a growing belly–my belly, in some instinctive effort to cradle another human being before it even enters this vast and miraculous world.

And I know now, more than ever, that God sees me and loves me.

He is forming new life inside my womb; He is teaching me, every single day, more about love and loving and hope and joy and trust than I ever imagined I could know. He is entrusting a new and precious life to us, and adding another chapter to who we are as individuals, as a family, as a young man and a young woman trying to pattern our hearts after His own.

We are delighted to become parents. And we’re excited and nervous and hope-filled and prayerful about what this new charge in our lives will mean. Daily, my mind fills up with all of the details–doctors appointments and nursery decor and baby-proofing and finances, health and eating well and caring for my body even more intently now that it is caring for another. And daily we acknowledge this growing belly and what it means is taking place beneath the surface–a beating heart, fingerprints, a speedily-developing, miraculous, incredible, tiny little human.

Some days, the intricacy of it all makes me feel like I did today in the airplane–all of the changes inside of me so seemingly small and imperceptible to the eye or mind, like individual trees and spaces and lives thousands of feet below. More than that though, I wonder at the attentiveness of a loving God who would, even now, be crafting and creating a soul whom He cares for as deeply as He has every other human being.

I will never be able to love this sweet, precious baby in the same way that God’s love has brought him or her into being. But oh, I’ll try. I will surely try. And when the time comes to welcome this new life into our arms and into our home, I know already in my heart that the lake and the sky, the sun and clouds, the beach and the landscape will all pale in comparison to those ten tiny fingers and those ten tiny toes–and to all of the days we will be privileged see God’s hand in every sound and inch and smile and cry. We are expecting a baby on May 1st. It sounds so extraordinary to me. And it is.

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”  Psalm 139.13-16

Expectantly, and with great joy,

mm