From a 14th child

Tradition, thou art for suckling children,
Thou art the enlivening milk for babes;
But no meat for men is in thee.
Then --
But, alas, we all are babes.

Stephen Crane

Rhetorically weary pregnant lady considers simplifying

There are the days when the comments at the grocery store have me scrambling for something like, "Not Catholic. Or fundamentalist. Lutheran. But not the Lutherans who just did the whole gay thing. Traditional Lutherans. But I guess to be fair not all traditional Lutherans have a lot of kids because of some thing some pop-Calvinist said about subduing the earth or something like that. Or something."

And then there are the days when I just want to say, "We're Christian."

Another story about Ping

A tidbit of news from China had me spitting vodka and Coke out my nose last night. Ladies, don't let what happened to Mrs. Zhou happen to you. :D

A modest proposal

Modest clothing covers both nakedness and the thought thereof. Immodest clothing draws attention to what is beneath it and calls nakedness to mind. And let me also say that less the notable exceptions of hard-won weight loss or true anorexia recovery, no one earns her body, and thus it is a very silly thing to show off.

Right up front I'll tell you I haven't kept all these rules. Metanoio. Further analysis below.

Immodest:

--Cleavage, except on busty society matrons at formal events. I'm pretty sure you have to be at least 60 to qualify for this.

--Clothing which appears to have been painted, pasted, or spackled onto the body or a part of the body, no matter how much skin is covered in fabric. It is very possible for a turtleneck, layered tops, or a floor length dress to be immodest, as my beautiful associate notes below.

--Tops cut so low that everybody gets an eyeful when you bend over

--Ill-fitting clothing resulting in gappage and overhang

--Exhibitionist undergarments (vanity or peekaboo straps)

--Clothing through which undergarments are visible

--Midriff exposure (unless you're dressed traditionally in India--yes, culture is also a part of this discussion. But let's stay focused.)

--Skirts or shorts shorter than low to mid-thigh (please note, a skirt's length is measured from the highest point of its slit, not its lowest point on the leg).

--Clothing which makes it obvious that the wearer is wearing a thong or is lacking one of the two standard female undergarments (sorry, hippies).

--Clothing with detailing which draws attention to the places where everyone already pays attention without the helpful direction of seams, sequins, or stripes.

--Clothing with "cute" expressions like "Eye Candy," "You Wish," "Please Mentally Rape Me," etc.

Time for another episode of Good Idea, Bad Idea

--Unlined skirts or dresses without a slip

--Also, athletic events are not an excuse for cleavage or cling. You can wear a t-shirt. It will not kill you.

Inappropriate for church includes all of the above plus:

--Cleavage, ever. This includes bridal parties. I cannot believe this needs to be spelled out. A bride can still look absolutely beautiful in a wedding dress that shows she belongs to her husband alone rather than everyone. If you must cleave, save it for the reception. And then ask yourself, especially if you're the blushing bride, why must I cleave? Why do I want a whole bunch of people looking at my boobs?

--Clothing requiring specialty underclothing (halter, criss-cross, asymmetrical, or no straps or a low back: all these call attention to what's under your dress, since it obviously isn't standard). This excludes by definition spaghetti straps and strapless or backless tops/dresses. Save all these "cute" items for garden parties.

--Scoop necks, deep Vs, and loose collars of any kind. Kneeling, folks. Think about it.

--Skirts shorter than knee length. Bowing, ditto.

--Heels so high that you can't walk in them without wiggling

--Anything clingy or tight on any part of the body

--Also, dresses or tops with buttons must be checked for gapping. If two-sided tape can't take care of it, retire that piece or buy the next size up.

"Style" is one of the falsest aspirations of humanity. No female has a right to wear any particular article of clothing, even if she looks great in it, even if it's what everybody is wearing, even if it's so cute and she really really likes it. Also, for maternal types, they're not "my clothes" if they don't fit me. Get some that do for early pregnancy, postpartum transition, nursing, and whatever else throws off your measurements--that's what thrift stores are for. My wardrobe is a mile wide in sizes and an inch deep in any given size. Sigh.

Now, I realize that it is very difficult to buy clothes for your exceptionally unique body, for someone your age, etc. Girls, deal with it. There are certain styles which simply cannot be worn modestly on certain body types, and certain styles which are immodest, period. I'm sorry. Your body may also be proportioned such that you have to select certain styles of clothing to modestly fit your largest measurement rather than your smallest one. I'm sorry about that too. I don't like it either. I'm fully aware that it often doesn't look as good as we all want to look, and the misery of having a size that big in your closet.

The shame!

There is someone for whom every woman gets to look great and dress as strappily, clingily, or minimally as she wants, and that's her husband. Save it for him.

Social Duds

Mostly speculative, assuredly crazy

Interesting discussion here.

A few months back, I was bulldogging an overfull cart through the grocery store when I walked by a middle-aged mother happily discussing the merits of some brand of something with her three older daughters. All four women were dressed in denim jumpers and loose T-shirts, and they wore their hair up in simple ponytails. The simplicity and uniformity of their clothes startled me (we don't get a lot of that around here), and as I looked them over the oldest daughter noticed me and gave me a warm smile.

I smiled back, of course, but as I lugged my stuff away I wondered, “Why do they do that? They’re communicating ‘weird’ by dressing that way.”

Then: “Oh. That’s why they do that.”

Then: “Ack! No! That’s why they do that!”

Then: “But I LIKE wearing jeans!”

That brief encounter with such unobtrusive modesty made a deep impression on me. Those women were different, and they wore their difference on their sleeves. Their clothes sent a clear message to any onlooker: We aren’t like you; we belong to someone else; we know something you don’t know.

Yet they were not snooty broads, those women. They didn’t seem to be conceited legalists. Their ponytails hinted that they weren’t members of some woman-hating cult. Their cartful of products boasted of normal tastes and a normal life (unlike my cartful of wheat flour and raw beans). They smiled at me kindly when I passed. They laughed easily. They were typically human, but they were modestly dressed and, therefore, set apart.

I have committed various crimes against modesty over the years. I confess I used to wear the girl uniform Father Curtis lambastes in his post. I still own a few tighty-Ts, given to me as gifts, which I have worn. I am heartily sorry and sincerely repent of my tighty-Ts, because I now see that wearing such clothes, clothes that invite the world to appraise my frame, is disrespectful to my confession, my marriage, my children, my brothers and sisters in Christ, and myself. I am a woman, and can hardly disguise it. I am not ashamed of being a woman; I look the way I was designed to look. But there are limits, and looking like a woman needn’t translate into everyone looking.

What is more, I am responsible for the dress of three little girls. The type of woman I am now heavily influences—if not directly predicts—the type of woman my daughters will become. What I wear and how I comport myself communicates consequentially, and my little ones are paying attention. Shape up, self. Lose your vanity and kick the world out of your closet.

The problem: there is precious little available to the sewing-impaired on humble incomes who wish to dress themselves and their daughters modestly. The blousiest blouse is too low cut, the highest turtle neck is corset tight, the loosest pants are much, much too “juicy” or “go team” or “take a good long stare.” Modesty is especially difficult to affect when nursing, for obvious and "I hope it's not so obvious" reasons.

Sure . . . I'll get right on that.

So . . . the most apparent answer: Maternity clothes from the 1980s. The second most apparent answer: Denim jumpers. Aaaaaa! :D

In reality, I’m not about to give up my beloved blue jeans and sweatshirts. Neither am I going to force my daughters into Mennonite garb* anytime soon. We’re weird enough already, and I’m not sure I’m as brave as those grocery store ladies who wore their confession (whatever it was) outright. Instead, I’ve started budgeting to buy my girls' church clothes from providers like Hanna Andersson and April Cornell, whose products are less influenced by Disney, and competitively priced on the sales racks. And I purchase our play clothes from uncool bargain bins at Goodwill. Overall, I’ve started thinking more carefully about what our clothing communicates to outsiders. Does that skirt scream “Everyone, lookit here”? Or does it confess that, finally, we belong to someone else, that we know something the world can’t understand? Our clothes are the first and, sometimes, the only thing people know about us. I think it’s worth considering what our clothes confess, and being sure that our clothes don’t betray us and our children to our enemies.

Goodbye tighty-T. Sure, I was saved by the efficacious blood of Christ while I wore you, but you didn't do me any favors. I’m sorry I ever knew you.

*Though, consider this: I grew up in capped Mennonite country. All the Mennonite girls and women wore tea-length, home-sewn dresses in calico fabrics. The married women wore their hair coiled in buns and covered in black caps. But knock on a Mennonite family’s door in the middle of the day, and you’d likely find the girls and women in jeans with their hair flying loose. Their “capped Mennonite” uniform was for social purposes only . . . which I think very interesting. Very interesting indeed.

Breastfeeding myths and legends

I got a kick out of reading over at the Good Lutheran Moms Blog about the chapter of the Duggar book entitled something like "The Myth of Breastfeeding as Birth Control." Hear, hear, Michelle. I'm still trying to forgive the Kippleys for telling me that our kids would almost certainly be spaced 2.5+ years if I were a good enough mom, and I've got it much easier than Michelle does. I'd like to address it briefly along with a few more myths about breastfeeding.

1. The anovulation thing is way overblown by NFPers. As we've discussed before, it requires a very calculated approach to breastfeeding which can hardly be called natural for many people, and even then often doesn't "work" for a lot of women. Ecological breastfeeding is the coldest of comforts for someone with an early return of fertility, no matter how much she loves babies.

2. Breastfeeding, the magical weight loss cure. It's true for some people. Not everyone. It's annoying at best to a more traditionally built hard core nursing mom when some scrawny young thing beams knowingly to everyone who tells her that she doesn't look like a mother (horrors!), "I just breastfeed!" So do a lot of moms, get it? Wouldn't the imperfect among us be doing ourselves a favor to emphasize the fact that no naturally occurring function or appearance of our bodies is a personal accomplishment?

3. "If it hurts, you're doing it wrong." I've finally gained enough confidence in my own non-idiocy to say this is . . . let's see, how would pious Grandma have put it? Well, I guess I'll go with "for the birds." Incredibly stupid birds. Lobotomized, inbred, Epsilon Minus dodos. Some women have difficult pregnancies or deliveries, not because they're being pregnant or laboring wrong, but because it's just how their bodies (don't) work. And some women have difficulty breastfeeding, not because they're too stupid to understand the extremely simple latching directions or need even more ogling and manhandling by lactation consultants or really should join La Leche League if they're serious about this. For some reason, breastfeeding can be hard even when executed with the correct mechanics, and by hard I don't mean "Ding bust-it spit, this zipper won't zip!" I mean, "Has the old CIA waterboarding team heard about this?" So deal with it, lactation experts. Breastfeeding is just as screwed up as everything else on this screwed up planet. You, of all people, ought to know. Quit blaming mothers who already hate themselves for failing at something beyond their control, and please make the next edition of your propaganda rag how-to book more honest.

>>Then you and Osama were . . .

>>YES. YES. Say it. He vas my... BOYFRIEND.

Tall dude who lives in my house

Parish life is, for me, much easier with kids. I always have something to talk about. How well I remember sitting awkwardly in the pew or the narthex or Bible class while my husband was on official field worker business during seminary--the boring wife to whom no one knew what to say. The solitary thing that got easier when our first baby was born was dealing with the church social requirements of vicarage (not least because I sometimes had an excuse to get out of them). Now I have an ever-increasing number of conversation pieces and reasons for being late, leaving early, saying no, or not knowing what's going on.

There is another advantage, too--I don't have to figure out what to call that one guy any more. I call him Dad, both directly and referentially. I know no one else from church will appropriate this familiarity for personal use. I won't be suspected of affecting formality in these highly informal parts by calling him Pastor. Everyone knows what I mean and it keeps us all very human in a place where it's important to be very human. And I'm partial to the paternal nuance. ;)

Your joy to know

You know there’s been too much sadness in the family lately when the 5-year-old, praying for pregnant friends and relatives, feels compelled to add, “And please don’t let their baby die.”

This prayer, however matter-of-factly uttered, is heartwrenching. The lad is tough, but with a tender heart, and he has shed tears for babies loved and lost. Did we err in sharing grief with him?

No. We have shared not only our grief, but the reason for the hope that we have—the reason that we do not grieve as those who have no hope. This kid gets it. He knows the race isn’t over yet. He knows we’re waiting on That Glorious Day. We’re listening for the trumpet blast that heralds the One who brings an end to all strife and the beginning of life made new.

More: He’s five, and he knows that even a teeny, in-utero sibling or cousin or friend that he’s never seen is a person, created and loved by God, whose existence is cause for rejoicing and whose temporal loss is cause for sorrow.

When it comes to topics like death, the truism is true: each mother and father can best discern the information that’s appropriate for their children. (For instance: We’re not totally sure where the three-year-old is with all this. We haven’t talked quite as much with him about it, but neither have we hidden anything from him. Also: we don’t dwell extensively on the topic with our older son, but deal with it as it comes up.)

Sometimes, the suddenness of grief forces a parent’s hand. Misguided protective instincts might tempt us to wrap our children in cozy euphemisms, or else cut them out of the loop altogether. Let’s not be misled by a world that grieves without hope into thinking that we should “love” our children by insulating them from sadness. Let’s not make our children’s happiness into an idol that usurps the place intended for a more profound joy. True Love, after all, is stronger than death.

Let us suffer here with Jesus, and with patience bear our cross.
Joy will follow all our sadness; where He is, there is no loss.
Though today we sow no laughter, we shall reap celestial joy;
All discomforts that annoy shall give way to mirth here-after.
Jesus, here I share Your woe; help me there Your joy to know.

My hobby

Being asked what my hobbies are is always unsettling--just more proof that I don't really exist. Things I do that other people might consider hobbies are what I consider necessary work for the operation of our house. We do not live from scratch to the extent that we do because I have too much time on my hands. Doing things on-site as I am able is a priority for our family, and the products are desirable for thrift and/or quality. Some of them I enjoy; others, not so much. This blog is my hobby, but there's no honor in that. :D

But there is one other thing I spend a lot of time doing: church stuff. Dad has me subcontracted for a women's Bible study, I'm involved in various modest musical endeavors, I'm inextricably entangled with the school, I'm elbow-deep in every project and event, I babysit to make it easier for other people to do church stuff, I put up signs around town, I have clean underpants on hand for when a kindergartener next door needs a pair (something that happens enough that it doesn't surprise me any more), not to mention that I'm the main supplier of children to the cradle roll. Many of these things cause our house to fall into greater chaos than usual, but it's cool. It's for church, and everyone in our family gets that. Church operations are a "hobby" for all of us.

This, I think, is what pastor's wives used to do. They weren't co-pastors. They did for their church families the kinds of things they did for their families at home. But since wives don't do what wives used to do any more, pastor's wives don't either. Instead of spending the week making pies for the auction (what am I, a scullery wench? and who makes pies any more?), they won't suffer anything beneath the dignity of leading exegesis sessions in the original languages or organizing spiritual retreats where everybody has to sing stupid songs and cry. They're just as busy and tired from working as everybody else, so they're not going to spend their spare moments doing grunt work at church any more than anyone else from church is. Furthermore, the few who are home and are called upon for such tasks are likely to feel taken for granted, since anyone else would be getting paid for their work, and it does intrude upon household operations.

Contemporary pastor's wife angst is cut from the same cloth as contemporary maternal angst. Maybe we don't all play the organ or teach Sunday School or do those things we all love pointing out that we don't do to prove that we're "not the typical pastor's wife," but sheesh, can we please put this boring whine away? I know it would make my husband's life a lot easier if I did play the organ, so that's nothing to be proud of. :P

But the argument I'm more interested in making is that the traditional pastor's wife, like the traditional mom, is primarily someone who is available. Someone who might be able to answer your question, or if she can't, can make sure it gets answered for you. Someone who has the keys and knows where things are. Someone who is there when there's cooking or cleaning or calling of plumbers to be done. Someone who is sensitive to and patient with a parish's quirks and needs. Someone who knows who needs help when, and who might be able to offer it. Someone who can quietly take care of the stuff that other people don't even realize needs to be done. Someone who considers her special gifts an offering to the church rather than something she has a right to pursue and showcase on her own terms for her own fulfillment. Someone whose work stretches the church budget rather than eating into it. Someone who doesn't growl about how she's not getting paid for this and if she were in some other church she'd have a desk and a paycheck (thank you, Commissioned Minister roster).

And all this disregards the fact that there's a rather huge Christian tradition out there that's been getting along just fine without clergy wives and their important, important "ministry" for centuries. Perspective, girls.

Anyway, that's my hobby. And I like it. I love church and I always have and I'm glad I can do things for church because I'm home. Thank you, God.

UPDATE: That should be "pastors' wives," not "pastor's wives" in the third paragraph. How embarrassing.

Go for it!

Big thanks to My Own Brother-in-law for sending me this article:

No, you are probably not RISKING YOUR PRECIOUS, PRECIOUS HEALTH!!! by having more than 2 kids.