So it really does happen

It's always interesting to chat with our neighbor, who is one of the town's EMTs (Neighbor, Recommended). One of their recent calls was to assist a woman who sat herself down on her toilet to take care of some routine business...and out came a baby instead! Splash!!! Quite understandably, this woman freaked and called 911. Not only did she not know that she was in labor, she had NO IDEA that she was pregnant.

I've heard such tales before, of course, but have always been half-tempted to dismiss them as urban myths. I can't do that in this case because 1)We ain't urban :) and 2)The eyewitness testimony is unimpeachable.

This got me thinking: if all the "I know someone who knew someone whose cousin-twice-removed didn't know she was pregnant until she gave birth" stories I've heard are actually true, this occurs with disturbing frequency. What gives? Anyone else have confirmed reports of the like?

Oh, and in this case, mom and baby (who was 6-some lbs) are apparently doing just fine, though undoubtedly both rather bewildered by the whole experience.

A time to nurse and a time to nurse anyway

Times I don't hate nursing

1. When I can't take any more socializing and want nothing more than to sit alone in a quiet room.

2. When my feet are killing me.

3. When I have a good book and no other way to get time to read it in good conscience.

4. When I realize I'd better get my normal clothes out of storage, and all I've done to shrink back into them is sit on my duff for an extra 3 hours every day.

Babies sense my power and they seek the life essence.

Times I hate nursing

1. Postpartum. Like I'm not already in enough pain?

2. When I'm sick. I'm SICK, for crying out loud! But here you are anyway to drain me of my precious bodily fluids, without even acting remotely sorry.

3. At the end of the day when I feel so chewed up and emptied out and we've already done this a billion times today and how can you possibly be lunging at me again?

4. When someone pees on the floor 45 seconds post-latch.

Thunder thunder thunder thunder CATS!

My 4-yr-old is suffering from a terrible man cold so I'm sitting at home thinking how weird it is to hear the church bell ringing from out here. Sigh. (The little man is back to sleep for the moment--thank goodness. :( )

Anyway. When I got to college I was very disheartened by many of the specimens who were introduced to me as pre-sem. What a bunch of brain-damaged idiots, arrogant jerks, and womanizing creeps*. I assumed that the brain damaged idiots would flunk their way out (most did, in seminary if not before). The womanizing creep type has never had much interest in me personally and I hoped The System would weed them out for the greater good (no comment). But the arrogant jerks, what of them?

I developed a solution: the Thundercats Route to the Pastoral Office. I didn't watch much TV growing up, so the shows I managed to sneak stuck with me. One was an episode of Thundercats in which Lion-O wanted to be the leader of the Thundercats. In order to prove his worth, he had to beat every Thundercat at their greatest skill. So, for example, he had to outrun Cheetara. I can't remember all the other feats of strength. But, man, it was tense! Lion-O had to earn that spot! He had to be the best at everything!

So, cross-apply: anybody who wanted to be a pastor should have to do all the jobs at church. He should have to clean the floors after the spaghetti supper, work the nursery during VBS when every baby in the church was checked in since their mothers were all teaching, teach the kindergarten Sunday School class, balance the budget, organize the youth group mission gimmick including fundraising and preventing makeout sessions under the mosquito netting, etc. That would teach them!

Funny thing about all that. My husband has to do these things regularly. He cleans bathrooms, sets up chairs and tables, teaches little kids, teaches big kids, deals with the financial situation, makes coffee, and tomorrow he's providing child care for a women's Bible study I'm deputizing for a few weeks, which is what reminded me of all this. He's done humbler and less savory tasks also, which I won't get into (and those are only the ones I know about). And the meetings! The accursed meetings! Lion-O just wouldn't have it in him.

LCMS pastors: Thundercats to the max. Sweet!

Sure, I'll cut the Ladies' Aid Anniversary cake.

*obviously there were a few exceptions.

What's been bugging me

I’ve always trended more tomboy than girly-girl. An exception: Enter a bug with an unreasonable number of legs or exceptionally disgusting appearance into my personal space, and I’m all shrieking schoolgirl, at least on the inside.

So I’m rather pleased that I managed to flinch only slightly when I absentmindedly put out my hand to hold the boys’ latest discovery and received these fine fellows. Thankfully, they were only the shells of their former selves. It was a good little science lesson, after all.

Still, I was decidedly happier with the crickets we chased for the rest of the evening.
Cricket huntin'

Defessissima

My go-to response when someone asks me how I am is "tired." It allows them to show some brief, polite sympathy and provides a natural segue into a safe and limitless small talk topic, the kids (I'm not a conversationalist; I rely on tricks to get me through unstructured social situations).

But I find myself annoyed at times that "tired" is so easy to blow off, particularly during the first month or two or three or four or five or however many after a baby. I can't remember where I read it, but I thoroughly enjoyed one mother's fury at seeing her husband sleeping when she'd been up all night, desperate for a newborn to go to sleep. She said she wanted to throw a bucket of ice water on him. Ahem.

Sleeeeep.

I also recently read The Mask of Motherhood by Susan Maushart (book: acknowledged to exist, neither recommended nor unrecommended). The image that stuck with me from that one was her description of a new mother fantasizing about sleep like a starving person dreams of food. Um, yes. When I daydream about my imaginary weekend away that could never happen, the central feature is sleeping, sleeping, sleeping until I wake up of my own accord, and then going back to sleep.

How many nocturnal hours I've spent in the baby's room HATING all sleeping people. Is there anything more offensive than the rising of the sun when you've been up all night? All creation doesn't give a care. Everybody needs bums wiped and clothes and breakfast and ponytails and supervision for another whole day.

I did that thing again the other day where I kept falling asleep in the middle of reading to the babies. I must have somehow slept through a whole paragraph because I know we finished the chapter, but when I read the same chapter again later to a kid who missed it the first time the entire last paragraph was completely unfamiliar. This amazes me.

Does it seem weird to anyone else

that if the Republicans won, the second AND third persons in line for the presidency would be mothers of five?

......Count 'em and weep! ...........Thanks for noticing. I do have
............................................my hands full.

If the shoe fits...

I recently wrote about how grateful I am for the freedom to be at home with the kids instead of feeling compelled to drop them at daycare and go make a few extra bucks that we really don’t need to spend. That is true. Also true: I’m occasionally bewildered to find myself here at home with the kids. Four years into my default appointment as Minister of the Interior, the role still sometimes fits like new running shoes that weren’t broken in before a long workout. There’s a considerable amount of chafing, maybe even some blisters, and not a few raw spots—this, as I contemplate the marathon ahead.

My reaction to an innocently-emailed remark reminded me of how unlikely a candidate I still am for this job. A newish acquaintance wrote, “You must really love being a mom!”

Wait, what? With that, I suddenly realized that I can’t recall ever thinking, “I really love being a mom!” Now, I have thought about how much I love my husband and children. I’ve thought about how amazing it is to watch these little creatures grow and develop. I’ve thought about the ways God uses the raging purifying fires aka my offspring to purge the dross from my life. Believe it or not, I’ve actually thought a lot of positive things about motherhood :P. I’ve been overwhelmed to think that God would entrust us with these lives. (And, of course, I’ve been just plain overwhelmed.)

But I’m pretty sure that the precise exclamation “I really love being a mom!” has never spontaneously welled up within me. Maybe I just express differently what other people mean when they use that phrase. Or maybe I need to be more intentional about trying that phrase on for size—breaking it in for the miles ahead.

Gattesdienst, or How Girls Have It Easy

I have no idea what a dude's brain looks like. I imagine, based on the Concordian Husbands of Perpetual Parturition, that there are lots of antlers mounted in there, a sweet and well-maintained ride out in the cerebellum, and some funktastic rhythms keeping it keen. But I can see how the concept of loving Jesus would not come as easily to men.

I'm unspeakably blessed in having a husband whose representation of our Lord to me is humbling even to the point of humiliation. The best thing about this iconic faithfulness is that it teaches me to love and long for the true Bridegroom. It's a favor I can't return.

Call forwarding

If anyone needs me, dial the bathroom. We're finally making a serious attempt at housebreaking the two-year-old. I doubt if I'll be seeing much daylight in the next couple days...then again, at this rate, he'll be out of clean underwear well before lunch. To the laundry with me!

Manplay

Ok, so it's my job to take care of the kids. But I suspect I'm not the only one who's noticed that once the kids reach a certain age (and it's not that old), dads get a lot more engrossed in kid activities than moms. To wit:

Legos and other construction-type activities
Army guy wars
Building forts out of furniture fragments
Any number of outdoor sports

Some of these things I can fake. For others, I can only supply the accouterments and wish them well. But Dad can have a downright good time chucking pillows across a room for an afternoon. I was recently reprimanded by the children for not trading my Memory matches after a game, an activity apparently devised by their uncles to increase and extend the competition. The tiger is worth at least two less cool card matches, and if you want the strawberry shortcake you'd better be willing to part with your whole stack. ?!

I suppose I should just be grateful for Manplay when it happens, and appreciate the time it buys me for trying to figure out where the pantry got to.