Reflecting the Silversmith

I haven't posted anything in a while, and hadn't intended to write this morning, but something our associate pastor said yesterday in his homily is still ringing in my head. Without getting into too much detail, my husband and I have been dealing with some extraordinary stress in our separate lives as well as in our marriage. (Don't worry, it isn't anything terribly tragic or marriage-threatening!) Consequently, I have not focused much time on blogging as we have both been focusing most of our energy into our current strange pile of conunundrums (some stemming from friends' problems and extended family, if ya know what I mean.) and life-decisions. Our lives have been emotionally draining and physically tiring.  We are both learning to be patient with each other and trying our darndest to make good decisions right now.

Father Alex gave a great homily yesterday, but the most eye-opening part of it was his comparison of us, Christians, to pieces of silver with God as a silversmith. He talked about the way silver is purified so that it can be made into something beautiful. The silver is put into fire that is extremely hot, it is melted down so much that it has no solid form. The Silversmith works with the silver, removing all impurities until finally, at the end, the metal is so pure that He can see His reflection in the silver!

Isn't that a lovely musing? Sometimes our circumstances may be painful, or we may feel the sting and difficulty of removing vices or habitual sins from our lives; but the intended goal is not simply to experience these things, but to allow us to fully reflect our Creator. It is such a simple metaphor but one that I, personally, needed to hear with all that is going on in my own life. Let us go about each day, knowing that our problems and our struggles are not in vain!

Keeping the World at Bay: Nursing the World Away

Until recently it hadn’t really occurred to me to write about that ever-important aspect of motherhood—nursing. My “Aha!” moment occurred while trying to google “how to wean a three-year-old from the breast” and subsequently finding all of two resources for weaning geriatric babies….err… preschoolers.  It just isn’t very common in our society. So this blog is dedicated to you with the walking talking almost-in-kindergartener attached to your breast; it is dedicated to you with the infant or baby who refuses to take a bottle even though you would like to wean him by one year—you might be in my shoes one day (I was in yours, once!); and it is dedicated to you, the first-time nursing mom, with questions and curiosities about extended breastfeeding. 

I will start from the beginning.  My own journey with nursing began during my pregnancy with Alison; I knew I wanted to breastfeed (doesn’t every soon-to-be mom?) but had heard stories of how difficult and painful and trying it could be, so I did as much research as I could.  On the wonderful World Wide Web I found videos, websites, and just about every imaginable troubleshoot for breastfeeding problems with which I might be faced.  I was prepared for milk blisters and mastitis, for engorgement and a poor latch, for under-supply and over-supply; I was NOT prepared for the intense emotional stronghold that would form the moment my newborn took those first precious swallows of colostrum.  On a foggy morning in September of 2008, Alison latched on for the first time, and suddenly my previously not-so-useful A-cups became the source and summit of nourishment and comfort and security for a tiny little being.

Breastfeeding: Day 1 of 1,277

To my great astonishment and pleasure, Alison had a natural easy nursing instinct with an above-average latch and fell asleep easily at the breast.  The following months offered a few hurdles—a little pain, mild colic, some engorgement and one mildly traumatic milk blister—but nothing proved so insurmountable that I felt nursing needed to be discontinued.  On her first birthday, Alison was still nursing several times throughout the day and was being nursed to sleep for naps and bedtime.  I had long since forgotten about my silly plans to start pumping at six months so that she could wean by a year old.  (In her short stint at daycare while I finished my Bachelor’s degree, Alison would refuse every type of plastic nipple she was offered and starve until the real thing came to pick her up.)  This trait continued almost to her second birthday, at which time she was finally eating some “real” food and would sporadically drink juice or water from a sippy cup.  Alison’s 2^nd birthday came with some happy news; we learned that we were expecting again! (And now I suddenly have the notion to blog about the wonderful natural-child-spacing effects that breastfeeding can offer! Stay tuned!)  The early months of pregnancy didn’t seem to change our nursing relationship much at all; I was still producing plenty of milk and she showed no distaste with the hormone-laden pregnant mommy milk.  At around five months pregnancy, however, something changed. All at once nursing my sweet two-year-old became uncomfortable and irritating to me; and Alison seemed to feel the same way.  After a few nights of cuddling to sleep and some distraction-filled mornings, it seemed our nursing journey had finally, and peacefully, ended.  

Fast forward to the birth of her baby sister, Margaret.  About a week after Maggie was born, I had settled in my bed with the boppy and remote and water bottle to feed my new nursling, when Alison burst in the room to check out the action.  This was one of those turning-point moments we all have in life, when you know you are about to make a decision that will drastically change the future; like that first introduction to your future spouse, or the split-second decision to take the access road instead of the highway only to hear of a fatal car crash later on.  Alison approached her mommy and her peacefully nursing baby sister, and I could see a familiar light in her eyes.  At that moment I knew, she remembered.  As she lovingly caressed her sister’s downy hair and looked up at me, I could see the longing in her face.  She didn’t ask.  She wouldn’t. A moment later my newborn was fast asleep so I laid her down in her tiny hand-me-down cradle.  That sweet two-year-old climbed onto my lap and nuzzled her head into my chest.  She didn’t ask.  She didn’t push.  This was that split-second decision I was talking about.  With a deep sigh, wondering if I would regret my words later on, I uttered, “Would you like some of mommy’s milk, Alison?” Without even replying, Alison fluttered into that oh-so-familiar cradle position and gulped down every last drop of one (very engorged) breast. I knew that I had started something then. Something had been re-ignited.  Thoughts and worries of nursing my sweet Alison until college buzzed through my head, but I shoed them away; because that moment was a happy reunion for both of us.  That very large almost-three-year-old was still so small and had so many needs.  In my arms, at the breast, she gulped and breathed those deep nursing breaths and looked up at me and I could see the sense of wholeness in her face. She was lighter than air. I could feel the complete sense of security of her relaxed limbs. I realized, then, that somewhere along the road nursing had become something more than nutrients and fluids.  The mother-nursling relationship is complex and important, albeit imperfect.  The next few months brought new nursing challenges—balancing a newborn and a preschooler on each side, trying to “exit” while not waking two sleeping children, and trying to keep track of which one nursed on which breast so I wouldn’t experience the dreaded lop-sidedness that can plague many nursing mothers.  But I also witnessed something beautiful.  My innocent daughters smiling at each other while nursing, falling asleep simultaneously while nursing, holding hands while nursing, and growing to love and care for each other as siblings.  Until I tandem nursed I didn’t know my heart could be so full.  There is no greater feeling than watching an older sibling gently pat and caress your newborn’s head and face at the breast. Sibling rivalry is almost non-existent in this household.

This is the very last picture I have of Alison at the breast; taken several months ago, on a whim, with my phone, right around three years old.

Nine months later, Alison seems to have weaned (again…maybe) at 3.5 years old.  I hadn’t truly reflected on what our nursing relationship meant to me until that first morning with no milk request.  She still frequently asks for “gocky” (the mysterious word for breast/milk with no-known origin) but instead of nursing, she will give it a kiss and a hug and a pat and then move on to another important task. And she does face an important task, indeed. The world is a very big and often scary place; I am grateful and proud and enamored with the fact that the simple act of nursing made it less daunting for her, if only for a small portion of her life.  

"Oh Lord, my heart is not lifted up, my eyes are not raised too high....But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child is my soul within me." (Psalm 131)

Lenten Ramblings

Baby was up at 5am, as was her big sister who was really upset about wetting the bed.  I haven’t had any coffee and yet am still attempting to get some meat out of “Interior Castle” by St. Teresa of Avila.   My eyes can barely focus on the words; I may try to read later after a few cups of java.

This Lent is off to a wonderfully horrible start.  (It’s supposed to be kind of crappy, right?) My car is having transmission problems so we won’t be able to make Ash Wednesday mass.  It would probably be crowded anyway; Ash Wednesday is the highest- attended mass of the year.   Alison has been doing this yelling/anger thing that is so utterly irritating that my only recourse is to run away to another room.  I should probably be putting her into timeout or doing some sort of constructive parenting but I have been beaten into submission and every thing I try discipline-wise seems to bite me back later. 

Ya know, Barney songs are pretty catchy…

I was good and remembered to read the girls their daily Bible story today.  The story happened to be about Cain and Abel—read, MURDER.  We had a short discussion on the terms “envy” and “jealousy” and also talked about sharing.  I think we’re off to a pretty good start! I need to get back to folding laundry. I’m excited about moving on to Noah and the ark tomorrow!

Common misconceptions about cloth diapers

It is a lot of extra work.  

FALSE. When people find out that I use cloth diapers, I usually get responses like, “Wow, how do you handle ALL that EXTRA washing?”  “Or gee, that’s great, but I don’t have the time for that.” First off, anyone who has kids knows that doing laundry is an inevitability in life.  Even if I were to disregard the number of outfits (and loads of laundry) spared because of the supreme leak-prevention of cloth diapers, I probably wouldn’t even notice the extra 2-3 loads of cloth that run through my washer and dryer.  If I actually ran the numbers, I’d bet my wool covers that I actually do FEWER loads in any given week because I don’t have to change my baby’s outfit a half a dozen times a day due to sposie-leaks. 

It is really GROSS. (much yuckier than disposables)

I’m going to classify as an incomplete truth.  Most parents will have to encounter poop, pee, vomit, spit up, and blood throughout the course of their parenting careers. “Gross” is an extremely subjective term.  If dumping a little bit of stink into the wash a couple of times a week is your idea of disgusting, then by all means, cloth diapers ARE icky.  However, if you’re like me and cringe at the idea of changing at least one poop blowout a day, wiping poop that smears up your baby’s back and peeling a poop-soaked onesie over your baby’s head, (and if you especially loathe trying to maneuver a soaked newborn onesie over a delicate newborn head) then disposable diapers are revolting.  This brings me back to the “extra wash” that cloth diapers supposedly cause.  I also enjoy not having a trash can full of human feces stinking up my house.

People who use cloth diapers are super hippie earth-loving tree-hugging nutcases who probably subsist on granola and wheat grass and don’t wear deodorant.

True.

Just kidding.  =)

Most of the cloth-diapering people I know are just regular, common-sensible people who want to save a little money and do something good for the environment.  Granted, most hippie earth-loving tree-hugging nuts DO cloth-diaper, but not all cloth diaperers are hippie earth-loving tree-hugging nuts.  My original motivation for using cloth was the fact that I’d save the exact amount for a manicure/pedicure every month.  Sure, I like the earth just as much as the next guy, but it wasn’t my primary motivation.

Cloth diapers are a pain to master. 

Gone are the days of crinkly plastic panties, pokey diaper pins and ninja-like origami folds.  While the “old-fashioned” styles of CDs still exist, but there are many different types of clothies on the market suited to fit a wide range of parental tastes and baby bottoms.  Parents can choose from the simplest flat or prefold diaper with a waterproof cover (these come in an almost infinite variety of adorable prints!) to frilly, all-in-one diapers that can be used just like a disposable—errr uhmmm, without actually being disposable.

Want to give cloth a try or learn more?  Check out these links:

Try cloth for free by winning a giveaway!
http://cdbooties.blogspot.com/2012/02/3-sweet-peas-giveaways-week-3.html

Get the rundown:

http://allaboutclothdiapers.com/overwhelmed-cloth-diapers-101/

More rundown:

http://www.diaperjungle.com/cloth-diaper-types.html

Tot Theology

I remember a moment I had with my own mother, shortly after my first child was born: we were sitting in the hospital and I was completely enraptured by every facet of my daughter—her tiny hands and feet, her perfect nose, her lips, her smell, that downy soft hair—and I turned to my mom and said to her, “Mom, I never knew you loved me this much.”  She looked at me with the most blissful "I told you SO!" expression and said, "Well YEAH!!"  Having my own children has made me love my parents more now than I ever had in the past, for the simple reason that I can finally grasp their love for me.

          

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the idea of a “Domestic Church,” wherein the home is a model for the Universal Christian Church.  (There is more information about this concept at http://www.theologyofthefamily.com/about/) Since some of my many vague New Year’s resolutions included doing more catechesis, reading, and generally better mothering for my children, I’ve been musing about this concept sporadically—between laundry folding, de-cluttering, carpet scrubbing, and booger wiping, that is.

(Before I share these musings, I want to clarify that my thoughts are in no way sanctioned Catholic theological points, just mere ponderings of a humble baby Catholic convert.)

I once read (or heard?) that a mother’s and father’s love is the first comprehension of God’s love that a child experiences. Consequently, it should be the parents’ duty to love their children in the same manner (or at least a teensy fraction of the manner) that God loves His children.  In raising my own babies, a preschooler and a little rug rat, I have been, like most parents, confronted with some of the more profoundly trivial annoyances and pleasures of daily parenting and have found myself wondering if God sees us in the same light:

For example:

I am constantly in awe of my preschooler’s affinity for television; no matter how much she already knows that viewing time is limited in this household, she always asks to watch her cartoons first thing in the morning, after breakfast, after lunch, before nap, after nap, after dinner, before bed. Constantly. Must watch SuperWhy! This leads me to ponder:

            Does God wonder why we constantly want the things that aren’t fulfilling? Does he wonder if we’ll ever learn “the rules?” Does he wonder why we want to fill our days with mindless, only somewhat entertaining endeavors that are ultimately harmful and empty? 

I can’t say for certain, but I’d be willing to bed that our Heavenly Father invented the eye-roll for a reason.

The baby is teething, as she should be!  As I watch her suffer, cry, bite anything and everything within reach, and struggle to get to- and stay- asleep, I wish I could somehow communicate to her that everybody needs teeth!  Everybody uses them to be able to chew and digest real food!  I want to tell her that although it is painful right now, she will be very glad for those big Irish chompers in a few months, and for her whole life!

I can’t help but wonder if God wants us to understand the same thing,

            …when His children feel the temporal effects of sin, or when we have those painful, uncomfortable pangs of conscience that remind us of what is right, reminding us that His plan is so much better, if we’ll only be patient and wait so that we can digest “real food.” And when we suffer, whether financial, physical, or emotional—are those circumstances not grown-up versions of painful razor sharp teeth making their way through soft tissue?

Perhaps our souls are just “teething,” and we need to be patient, in order to be able to relish in the “meat” of our faith? The ability to enjoy real food comes with a sometimes-painful price.

           More powerful still is the notion that I would do anything to protect my children.  I love them with a love that is more fierce and passionate than a hurricane.  When they stumble, we don’t look at our children with disgust or judgment, but with compassion—we rush over to pick them up, brush off the dirt, to kiss the owies and to comfort with a hug.  When our children make mistakes, we gently reproach them and explain how they can do something better the next time around.  When they misbehave, we discipline-and sometimes punish-out of love, because we want them to succeed at this thing called life. 

            If our own flawed human love for our children is that powerful, imagine how much our Creator-Who is perfect in every way-loves His children!

Lets allow our Heavenly Father to mold and shape us into the eternal beings we were created to be!  Let’s stop the whining, endure through the teething, and rejoice in the immense love He has for us!

Part II-Goose Island maiden voyage

The second morning of our maiden camping voyage got off to a bit of a slow start; we chalked it up to inadequate knowledge of all of the necessities for trailering.  After another lazy breakfast of eggs, bacon, and leftover beans (yes. We are Texans. We eat beans at breakfast, especially when camping!) we needed to head to our local “chinamart” (I’m sure you know which store I’m referring to!) for a few extra toiletries and back to our house for some extra socks and underwear.  Our second lesson from this trip was that camping has a tendency to cause clothes—especially underclothes—to become stinkier, faster.  Camping also necessitates the use of the shower facilities more often, so a single tiny bottle of shampoo will simply not suffice for a family of four.  This trip to civilization took up the better part of the morning, so we tried to make up for it with some quality outdoor time.  We will know to pack double the socks and undies, AND full-sized shampoo and toiletries on our next trip!

One of the attractions of Goose Island State Park is the infamous “Big Tree,” which is a 1000-year-old Live Oak that is thought to be the largest of its kind in the nation.  Although the actual “Big Tree” was fenced off to keep it protected, there were lots of other quite large and majestic trees to climb upon and run around.  We spent about an hour meandering through the beautiful groves of “small big trees” before we ventured onto the 50 foot path that led to the  “Big Tree” of Goose Island State Park.  Antsy had a blast, and made a very keen observation that very large trees make very big (and fun!) sticks.  Here is my "Antsy" climbing a tree in her tutu:

Me and Baby M:

Another feature of GISP was the plethora of endangered Whooping Cranes in the area.  Although we weren’t fortunate enough to snap a photo of any of these beautiful creatures, we could hear them from our campsite and from almost every area of the park.  Also among Antsy’s favorite creatures were Leaf-cutter ants.  My own “Antsy” marveled at their ability to carry large portions of leaves all the way down a tree, along a path, and into their secret underground homes.  We spent a good amount of time just watching, following, and searching-for these little buggers. 

The final, and most important lesson we (especially mom and dad!) learned was that even in a small dwelling (in our case, a 28 foot camper), with limited TV and internet and less-than-pillowtop mattresses, a change in routine, and atypical meals, we CAN stand each other.  We can make it without hours of sitcoms and cartoons.  I can’t even describe the immense joy I felt watching my children play OUTSIDE.  Yes, I take my kids to the park, to the beach, and to the library; but there is something so magical that happens when all that is available is a pile of dirt, some sticks and rocks, and a blooming imagination.  Baby M couldn’t get enough dirt and leaves (we actually observed these delicacies in a few of her diapers) and Antsy’s beautiful imaginative three-year-old mind was capable of throwing together entire villages and even a “playground” together with a few well-placed logs and some piles of dirt. 

I can’t WAIT till our next camping adventure!! I CAN’T WAIT!!

I began writing this journal two days into our three-day maiden RV voyage.  My head is spinning with lists and ideas for our next RV trip so please forgive the impending disorganization of this blog.  Here’s what we did wrong, what we did right, and what we learned.

Since it had been several years since my last actual camping trip—and by several years, I mean at least 15—and the last time was in a borrowed tent, on rocky ground, with nothing more than a nearby water spigot and a half mile hike to the bathrooms, I had some fears about camping, (even with our brand new Mountain View travel trailer) especially with two kids aged three years and six months.  What would we do?  What would the girls do? The answer was surprisingly wonderful: nothing.

 I hate to admit it, but as outdoorsy and “green” as I’d like to think I am, the idea of camping in a park “surrounded by hundreds of acres of woods!” sounded a little bit horrifying—okay—it sounded a LOT horrifying.  As we pulled into “Hidden Oaks RV Resort” just outside of Goose Island State Park, my fears were magnified; the place was basically a circular dirt road with equally spaced RV plots.  (This ‘resort’ apparently boasted a pool and hot-tub, but neither my husband nor I ever saw this mythical oasis.) There appeared to be a diverse mix of campers: a few tiny, ancient looking trailers, some super-mega-sized modern ones, and a few of each that had “permanent” looking structures surrounding them—flower gardens, cheap white picket fences, wooden patios, and flag poles with big Texas flags proudly displayed. It was dusk when we arrived—which meant our trailer wouldn’t be set up until after dark. 

This brings me to our first camping mistake: arriving at night.  Not only was Andrew forced to park (!) and hook-up the grey- and black-water and electricity in the dark, but since I had been busy packing all day, my three-year-old had been stewing in front of the TV all day and was bursting with pent-up preschooler energy.  She was a ball of fire when we arrived.  No doubt our temporary dwelling seemed formidable to her as well; she seemed excited about camping but unsure of the strange, dark surroundings.

Lesson #1- Pack, plan and prepare meals, and make beds the night before an RV foray, so that adequate outdoor play, trailer set-up, and general settling-in can happen before dark, child-meltdowns, and adult fatigue set in.

After the trailer was finally level and the beds were made, we made a quick dinner of hot-dogs and beans, then I snuggled in with Baby M at around 9:30.  Hubby played with Antsy outside, roasting marshmallows and making dirt-castles, until well into the night.  Antsy finally crawled into bed with Baby and me in the master bed, and Hubby slept in the bunk. =)

The next morning was surprisingly beautiful.  Andrew had to head to work for a few hours so I was alone with the girls.  We sat in bed for a while, snuggled, played and talked, then Antsy opened the trailer door and grinned at the wilderness outside.  We had a leisurely (yet tedious to make with two wiggly children) breakfast of pancakes and bananas, then I put Baby M in the stroller and we went for a walk around the resort.  Antsy found about a dozen rocks, which she carefully loaded into the storage compartment of the stroller and in my purse and back pockets.  Baby M cooed and gurgled at the wind, at the rustling live oaks, and at her big sister's antics.  We stopped at the office and picked up some miniature candycanes for which Antsy was very grateful.  While we were there, we chatted up the old man who lived at the park and served as the "landlord" and watched some elderly ladies do their morning "low-impact" exercises.  Antsy found that pretty entertaining. Then we meandered back to the RV; I made lunch and Antsy played in the dirt with some sticks, building forts and making shapes, for-- I kid you not-- at least two hours.  

We spent three days without TV, internet, pillowtop beds, and all of our stuff. It was three days of getting to know eachother and learning to cope with less than we're used to.  Good times.  Truly a trailer "truffle."  =)

I have so much more to say about this one trip, but will post later; I am pooped!  

To be continued...