From one mom to the presidential candidates: I wouldn’t let my kids act this way

I’m one of those weirdos who’s always been fairly interested in the political process. Probably has something to do with my love of U.S. history and the fact that I am a (recovering) journalist by trade.

So it should be no surprise to those who know me that this weirdo oddly looked forward to watching the Detroit GOP debate Thursday night. The kids were in bed. Sweats were on. I sat down in front of the TV, with a pile of laundry to fold and a slice of Achatz 4-berry pie topped with a scoop of ice cream (because everything is better with pie).

As I flipped on Fox News, I thought I was done parenting for the night.

But then, it started.

The name-calling. The shouting. The taunting. The interrupting. The dishonesty. The blame-shifting. The disrespect.

Not from my kids, though, or any others. From those vying to hold the highest office in the land. And I quickly felt my inner-momma coming out.

You know that feeling you get when your toddler melts down in public? As I felt my embarrassment and blood pressure rising while the behavior on stage fell to new lows, I wanted to throw up my hands and shout “That’s it! We’re done here!” and march all these candidates straight out to the car.

In this election cycle, we’ve seen some of the most childish, confounding, unacceptable–and in some cases, perhaps even criminal–behavior I have ever witnessed. From people (in both parties) who want to lead this nation. Heaven help us.

If my 2-year-old did any of the above, she knows exactly what would happen next.

So candidates, come here. Put your listening ears on. Look right into my eyes.

This mom has had it.

Since you’re acting like children, I’m going to treat you like one of mine. Apparently, you all need to be taught a lesson.

Speak sweetly. Seriously, guys, this is pretty basic. I am beyond appalled at the tone of the discourse I have heard. The insults. The sophomoric jabs. In our house, we have a favorite phrase that we are constantly repeating after our toddler whines, complains, demands, or shouts: “Excuse me, how would you say that sweetly?” If it’s not spoken sweetly, we don’t respond to it. And if it’s not something you can say sweetly (as in, “Little Marco,” “His ears are big,” “He sweats too much,” “His face is orange,” “His hands are small,”), don’t say it at all.

Wait your turn. If you hear that someone is speaking, don’t interrupt. If you are upset, don’t immediately react. We follow the Daniel Tiger adage around here: “If you feel so mad that you want to roar, take a deep breath and count to four.” (I was wondering Thursday if the Cruz family was also partial to the popular PBS program when the senator kept telling a certain billionaire to “just breathe” …)

Tell the truth. I realize this may be one of the hardest things to do if you’re running for political office. It seems like under-handed tactics and deceitful campaign ads are just part of the game. Or lying or cheating (or breaking the law) to benefit yourself. But we want to make an informed decision, so give us the facts. Like the kid with crumbs all over his face who claims he hasn’t eaten a cookie, we can see right through most of your poor cover-up attempts anyway.

Show respect. How can you say you’re running on behalf of all Americans if you can’t even treat your peers well? Or if you target and degrade certain groups of people? The office of the presidency, no matter who fills it, deserves honor and dignity. At various points during this campaign, I’ve felt like I could be watching a casting call for the latest reality show. It seems like the candidates have confused humility with performances that are humiliating.

Own your actions. If you’ve changed positions, tell us why. If you regret a decision or legislation you supported, explain what changed and how you would do it differently now. Don’t deflect (“but he’s much worse”) and point fingers (“well, he did it first”). Take responsibility, share what you’ve learned, and move on.

Life’s not fair, so stop pouting about it.  My daughter knows that she doesn’t get every toy in Target just because they’re there. That’s not how it works. Sometimes (but most definitely not in all circumstances), her right choices bring rewards. Other times there are disappointments–and we are teaching her that she has control of her reactions to those and even those trying times can bring blessings.

Follow Christ. Several of the candidates claim they are Christians, yet, sadly, many of their actions are antithetical to the truths taught about Him in God’s Word. The fruits of the Spirit (love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, self-control, etc.) are scarce. I pray all the candidates would open their Bibles and seek Him–our Creator, our Savior, and our Lord–first and foremost. Because without Christ, even our righteous actions are filth in God’s eyes and our good works are meaningless; but through Him, He provides redemption for all.

We’re often told that the president of the United States is the leader of the free world. So grow up, guys. Lead. Be an example.

There will be consequences if you don’t.

 

“Poverty and disgrace come to him who ignores instruction, but whoever heeds reproof is honored.” (Proverbs 13:18)

 

 

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Why I’m glad I’ll never be a pro at parenting

It’s 7:46 p.m., and I’ve been snuggling and rocking my second-born for over an hour.

I’m listening to her soft snorts as she breathes out her nose, silently willing her to just. go. to. sleep. as she fights it with every fiber in her now overly tired body. As I stare at her features barely visible in the dim light of the nursery, I wonder how I could find something so sweet still so incredibly … terrifying.

 

baby held by God not us

Her life is not held in our hands.

 
It’s been more than three months now since she entered our lives. A span of time that has mystifyingly stood still and yet passed so fast. The terror I speak of started the morning of her birth. Well, I’m sure it started before, but that was the moment it became so real that I wanted to run screaming from Labor & Delivery triage.

“I don’t want to do this,” I sobbed to my husband, who looked at my tear-stained face completely bewildered, as I lay shaking on the hospital bed in preparation for my scheduled c-section. 

“Can we just go home?”

He paused a second before carefully responding.

“Hon, I think it’s a little late for that.”

This was not how I pictured the birth day of my second daughter. I had thought we would talk and laugh and wait in excitement until they walked me back to the OR. Instead, my stomach was a tangled mess of knots and my heart was thudding and my mind was spinning. I don’t think I had ever been so nerved up about anything more in life. 

I wasn’t scared of the surgery. Or of the recovery pain I knew was coming. What had me so horrified was what I had wanted every day for nine looooooong months: the thought of this new life entering into the world.

This new life we had to bring home. To care for. To raise. For at least the next 18 years, Lord willing.

And it absolutely freaked me out.

I didn’t feel this way before the birth of my first; at least, I don’t remember feeling it so strongly. Maybe it was because I now knew what I was getting into and the significance of it all. 

My husband was right–there was no turning back. And as scared as I was, when the time came, I didn’t run. Actually, once I scooched my very pregnant self onto the operating table, I was at peace. 

Minutes later, at 9:01 a.m. on September 15, sweet Aurelia Ruth made her debut.

 The minutes and days and weeks that have followed already have blended together into an indistinguishable twist of time, as we try to figure out how to best meet the needs of this precious little soul.

Our second-born is definitely more challenging than our first, but that is not saying much, because I think I somehow birthed the World’s Easiest Baby with her. I have joked that wolves could’ve raised Olivia, and she would’ve turned out the same. So when it has become clear that I don’t have all the parenting answers (not that I ever thought I did), the terror starts creeping back in to lurk in the corners of my heart.

But that terror, I have learned, also cracks open a door to turn to God. To seek Him, instead of run in fear. To cling to truth, instead of listen to the lies of the Great Deceiver. To realize finding the “right” answer doesn’t rest on me, or in some book, or on some mommy blog, but in the Creator and Provider. For if He cares for the lilies of the valley and the birds of the air, He surely cares so much more for my children. And for our marriage. And for me.

That’s why I am glad I don’t know it all when it comes to being a parent. If it were totally easy, it would also be easy to think “hey, I’ve got this,” puff out my chest, and leave little room for God. 

I am sure there will be bigger challenges ahead than how to get my baby to sleep. And I pray He uses those challenges to keep me humble and on my knees, asking for His direction and help. 

As I lay my finally dreaming babe ever, yet ever, so quietly and carefully down in her crib and tip-toe backwards through the darkness of her room, fingers silently wrapping around the doorknob, I am not leaving the terror behind. I am simply choosing to let the Almighty wrap us both in His powerful arms.

He is there in the darkness.

He is there to conquer my doubts.

He is there in the late-night feedings. In the cries that cannot be soothed or explained. In the exhausting yet oh-so-rewarding moments that each new day brings. 

He.

Is.

There.

And I’m so grateful He’s got this, not me.

gift of a  child

Thank you Lord, for this most precious gift.

“My help comes from The Lord, who made heaven and earth.” (Psalm 101:2)

A prayer for my daughter on her big promotion

It’s been 730 days now that we’ve had the blessing of knowing your little face–your brow that’s crinkled in concentration from the very beginning, your wide eyes that have since shifted from deep blue to greenish hazel, your perfect button nose in the middle of those soft, cherubic cheeks, your bouncy waves ever-increasing in thickness, your sunshiney smile that could light all the darkness.

It’s been more than a million minutes that we’ve had the honor of seeing into your little soul–how you study and observe and analyze something until you feel confident enough that you won’t fail if you try, your methodical way you go about completing a task, how you find security and contentment in routine, the way you wear your emotions on your sleeve, just like your mom, and how there’s a constant song in your heart that dances freely off your lips, just like your dad. 

 

One of your favorite pastimes, cozying up to a good book.

 
Today marks two years we’ve had the privilege of being your parents. 

In the last year, you’ve gone from crawling babe to toddling beauty. You love animals and flowers, music and stories, walks and swims. You can count to 10 and sing your ABC’s, name colors and shapes, and put together a puzzle like it’s your job. You speak in two- to three-word sentences, but can sing nearly all the lyrics of many songs on your own, your small, sweet voice often drifting from the back of the van during a drive. You can’t start the morning off right until you’ve “read” your stack of books we keep at the foot of your bed. You enjoy watching Daniel Tiger, Mother Goose Club, Kipper the Dog, and Super Why. And at the end of the day, you love to “dance in the shower,” whisper “I lub you” and blow kisses, and find solace before slumber with your papi and Nu.

You’ve grown so much in the past 12 months–it’s clear you are a baby no more–but this next year brings your biggest milestone yet. In fact, in just a few days, you’ll relinquish your spot as only child and step up to the role of older sister.

It will be a challenge and will stretch you–and us–for sure. One that we can only tackle with the Lord’s help. And so I am praying for you, my dear daughter, as we prepare to welcome our next.

 

I’m praying you’re open to what’s ahead.

 
I’m praying you’ll look on your sister with love, and your smile will spark hers. That you’ll wrap her up in hugs and tenderly kiss away her tears. That you’ll share hours of endless giggles. That after you fight, you’ll forgive easily and move on effortlessly. 

I’m praying you’ll encourage her when she tries something new. That you’ll lead by example. That no one will dare mess with her when you’re by her side.

I’m praying we’ll face years to come of finding the two of you sneaking into each other’s rooms after dark, whispering secrets and swapping stories. Because no one else will quite understand. Because you share the same blood.

I’m praying she’ll desire Jesus because she sees you do. That you’ll grow in grace together. That you’ll openly share what God is teaching you and be honest about your failures and show compassion and understanding for hers. 

I’m praying that you’ll have a relationship that extends beyond these walls and your time spent with us. That she’ll be the one you call from college to tell about your adventures and stresses, first dates and heartbreaks. That you’ll choose to spend free time together, even if it means traveling hundreds of miles. That you’ll stand by each other on your wedding days. That you’ll hold each other’s babies with love bubbling forth like they are your own. That nothing in this world will make your dad and I prouder than the two of you.

Yes, this next year will be big. And it may seem scary and confusing and maybe overwhelming at times as you settle into this new space. But as the days go on and the decades pass, I pray you’ll look back at this year as one you’ll cherish the rest of your life. Because it’s the year you met your best friend. 

 

Such an exciting time to come with so much to celebrate!

 
” … Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you live, I will live. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God.” (Ruth 1:16)

What to do when waiting robs your joy

It’s amazing how quickly you can turn to despair when you are physically spent.

After about a week’s reprieve from the nausea and vomiting that returned at the 32-week mark of pregnancy, I was completely caught off guard when it came roaring back yesterday. Add this on top of my already-depleted energy from 3- to 4-hour stretches of contractions less than 5 minutes apart for the past few days, and I rapidly spiraled downward.

I have just two weeks left at most in this pregnancy, and yet, it’s as if time was standing still. And it’s like the lack of physical strength in my body also drained any mental capacity I had to cast reason and perspective on my present circumstances.

My thoughts grew increasingly dark and hopeless as the hours dragged on, knowing that it’s not exactly going to get any easier dealing with a newborn, toddler, and c-section recovery once this uncomfortable gestational period was over. While I knew I had many things to be grateful for–an incredibly helpful husband, a generally easy-going toddler, a healthy baby growing inside me, and the end of pregnancy just around the corner–it was like I could only focus on what I couldn’t do. That I couldn’t get off the couch and play “get you” with my girl. That I couldn’t muster enough strength to make it to the grocery store. That I couldn’t enjoy our last days as a family of three the way I wanted. That I couldn’t make the clock go faster.

Behind the smile, I’ve been masking my despair.

As I laid there wishing away each overwhelming hour, desperately wanting to be done with this miserable stage of limbo, I knew I was being short-sighted … and yet, too exhausted and numb to change my thoughts. Even that seemed like too much.

But I also knew my despair, anxiety, and impatience was destroying any ability to see the joys of each day. I never have cared too much for the well-meaning phrases of “it’s just a season” and “this too shall pass,” because I know that when you’re focused on simply speeding to the end destination, you can miss many moments of wonderful along the journey.

So I started to pray for The Lord to renew my thoughts, instead of just replenish my strength, and I knew others were praying too. This morning, I woke in a haze after a night of intermittent sleep to find this Scripture someone had shared on Facebook as encouragement, and it was just what I needed.

“Let all that I am wait quietly before God, for my hope is in Him. He alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress where I will not be shaken. My victory and honor come from God alone. He is my refuge, a rock where no enemy can reach me. O my people, trust in Him at all times. Pour out your heart to Him, for God is our refuge.” (‭Psalms‬ ‭62‬:‭5-8‬)

As I meditated on His Truth, I prayed that God would help me wait quietly during this time of turbulence and calm my soul enough to see all that is praiseworthy. I got up, turned on the bathroom faucet, and immediately the lyrics of “Great is Thy Faithfulness” filled my mind: “strength for today, and bright hope for tomorrow.” Yes, Lord. You promise that. And I can cling to it.

Pretty much all I want to do these days …

Instead of solely focusing on how tired I felt and how much I wanted to crawl back in bed and for the day to already be over, I decided to write down every time I encountered a blessing, starting with the fact that the sun was shining on this first day of September, the month we would welcome our new daughter into this world. I didn’t want the moments of wonderful to pass me by, unseen and uncherished. As my list quickly grew, I saw just how much I had to be thankful for.

  • A toddler who slept in
  • Coffee
  • Greetings of “mommy, up?” when I entered her room, her invitation to come snuggle in bed and read a book
  • Her sweet request to read “Sister,” and how she talked about the different ways she can help with baby after we read each page
  • Her polite, sing-songy “all done” when she finished with breakfast, followed by a request for a “cloth cloth” to wipe her crumbs
  • Daniel Tiger (!!!)
  • Her eagerness to help me make banana bread and the feeling of her small, soft hands wrapped in mine as we stir, stir, stir
  • The songs that bubble freely and tenderly from her tiny voice
  • Feeling baby girl stretch inside, despite the discomfort it brings
  • Her spontaneous chorus of “clean up, clean up” as she puts the Play-Doh back into the container
  • Her quiet, steady breathing as she concentrates on transferring popcorn from one cup to another
  • Witnessing her imagination at work as she mixes and bakes in her play kitchen 
  • Opportunities for me to learn patience and show grace when I instruct her after she throws her toys on the ground in frustration
  • The way she crosses her ankles while she eats peanut butter and jelly in her booster seat
  • When she goes potty without any protest before nap (over a month now without an accident, though I may’ve just jinxed that … )
  • Carrying her to the bed with her head cradled on my shoulder as I hum a verse of a lullaby and rub her back
  • The privilege to read her a story from God’s Word (today about the boy king Josiah)
  • Kissing her soft, smooth forehead and thanking The Lord she goes down for a nap easily 
  • A long shower while streaming my favorite Getty hymns station on Pandora and praising God for helping me get through another morning 

Clearly, my blessings were bountiful, and this day was only halfway done. I knew I would long for mornings of these magical moments in the years to come. How could I wish this away? 

She can’t wait to meet her baby sister.

Yes, this month may get harder. And I imagine it will, with sleepless nights, and surging hormones, and cries that won’t easily be comforted. But I’m praying that God will not help me survive it–that He’ll instead show me His goodness and sustain me with His grace. That He’ll quiet my heart enough to see His beauty and blessings. That I won’t be able to deny the waiting was all worthwhile.

“My health may fail, and my spirit may grow weak, but God remains the strength of my heart; He is mine forever.” (‭Psalms‬ ‭73‬:‭26‬)

Today’s parenting struggles won’t seem as bad tomorrow

I have been lying here for over an hour, desperately wishing for sleep that won’t come. It goes without saying that it is incredibly frustrating when you get the chance to rest, but you can’t. And so I am thinking and meditating and praying through my jumbled thoughts amid waves of nausea.

The last two weeks have been hard.

This pregnancy has not been without its challenges, though nothing abnormal when it comes to what growing a human for 40-ish weeks might entail. First, it was the nausea and vomiting that hit the day after I took my pregnancy test at 4 weeks–but anti-nausea meds helped me manage that until about 20 weeks. Then, at 26 weeks, I started having sciatica pain, at times making it extremely difficult to walk, sit, or sleep.

Just as that started not to be an all-day, every-day kind of thing, my old friend from the beginning of pregnancy dropped back in for a visit. Oh, hi, nausea. No, I really didn’t miss you, but thanks ever so much for stopping by. Unfortunately, the vomiting quickly led to dehydration, which led to contractions that came every 8-10 minutes for hours, which led to a trip to the hospital for IV fluids at 32 weeks. I am now 34 weeks, and the nausea and vomiting seem like they’re here to stay, regardless of the medicine this time around.

And so I’m tired. And sick. And just want to get up and go play with my daughter when she reaches and calls out “Mommy, hand? Outside?” No, baby, not today.

girl on swings

My baby girl is learning to let go, and so am I.

Instead, I am focusing on just getting through each day, and most days, each hour. I am trying to not grow weary, though the hormones admittedly cloud my judgment, and I cry over the box of spaghetti noodles I accidentally spilled across the floor.

The one thing that helps is to know that my present challenges are temporary; they have an end date. This storm will pass. In less than five weeks, I will be holding my baby girl. And I am positive I will like her a lot more on the outside than in.

Since I’ve spent much of the past two weeks lying down, lost in my thoughts, trying to distract myself from the nausea, I’ve been reflecting on the past two years as a parent and the challenges that don’t have an end date marked on the calendar, when you don’t know when the cloudy days will cease. And how soon, we’ll be revisiting some of them. How there will be days of struggles and weariness with no light piercing through the fog at times, and how it will be easy to get discouraged, if we take our eyes off the Master.

First, it may be the rollercoaster of feeding and sleep with a newborn. Trying to navigate the twists and turns of latching correctly, getting her fill, eliminating those pesky gas bubbles, and hoping she keeps at least most of it down. For as “natural” as feeding my firstborn was proclaimed to be, I was shocked by how physically difficult it was. Natural yes, easy no. I remember one night, a few weeks in, sitting on my bedroom floor with her, uncontrollably sobbing and sweating and miserable while my bewildered husband stood by, wondering what he could do to help.

And while sleeping for Liv is perhaps what she’s always done best, the initial weeks of disrupted cycles can easily leave you in a haze, regardless. But since we’ve only known a sleeper, it’s quite possible that our second daughter could turn our world upside down.

girl on slide

Parenting is quite a ride, full of twists and turns and the most exciting outcomes.

The weeks will pass, and then the developmental milestones will be upon us. I’ve seen these consume otherwise-stable moms with concern: When will she roll over? Sit up? Eat solids? Crawl? Teethe? Walk? Talk? For most of these, Liv was on the later end. She didn’t crawl or get her first teeth till 9 months; walk till 15 months; talk more than a few words till 20 months. I quickly learned that focusing on these too much was pointless, unless there was a medical reason to do so–eventually, she would do them.

Then there’s the meat of the parenting struggles: the instruction, correction, and discipline. The wondering if they’re ever going to get it. When “no” becomes the word you say most and you feel like you repeat the same handful of phrases day in and day out. Where you have long stretches where no noticeable progress is made. And you wonder if anything you’re doing really matters.

But then, as with all of these challenges, you’ll wake one day and realized your baby slept through the night. You’ll put away the bottles for the last time. You’ll walk in the door, and your baby will run into your arms. You’ll prepare to move on to the next task and realize she is cleaning up her toys behind you, unprompted. You’ll sit down to a meal and distractedly begin eating, while your little one folds her hands and begins to pray.

And the storm clouds of yesterday will seem distant and fleeting, quickly fading in the rear view mirror of life as it speeds on ahead.

I had this moment recently with my nearly 2-year-old daughter. In a span of just a few months, she went from a baby sitting in a highchair, shoveling fistfuls of food into her mouth, largely dependent on us for everything. Now, as I watched her seated at her own kids’ table, she carefully and methodically stabbed each strawberry with a fork and asked for a wipe when some juice dribbled down. I passed her a napkin and wondered where my baby girl had gone. This precious gift that once curled inside my belly was a (mostly) potty-trained, sleeping-in-a-twin-bed, thoughtful and sweet little girl. As I paused and looked deep into those breath-taking hazel eyes, I saw a tiny person staring back.

Tomorrow was here, and it had brought a rainbow.

I know there will be new parenting challenges ahead, paling at times in comparison to yesterday’s struggles, but I also now know that today’s seemingly insurmountable obstacles won’t seem that bad tomorrow–if we keep our eyes fixed on the One who controls the present storm, the One who the winds and waves obey. For if we do, before we know it, He’ll have guided us over the turbulent waters into the safety of the boat. If we consistently keep treading water, He’ll keep our heads above it. And when the waves start to swell again, and we brace for the crash ahead, I want to remember to stop and be still. And wait for His peace to wash over me. And remember the beauty that waits at the end of the rain.

reading Bible in chair

“Reading” her Bible in her new big girl room. I hope I have many years of catching her doing this.

“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” (Lamentations 3:22-23)

Mom-guilt and its second-guessing demons are from Satan

Before kids, I belonged to the confident, self-assured group of people that thought I wouldn’t let having children change who I was in any respect.

Then an 8-pound, 4-ounce bundle was placed in my arms. And my confidence was destroyed. Self-assuredness thrown out the window.

Nearly two years later, I’ll be the first to admit–I am not the same person I was before I became a parent.

The woman who could walk in the office of a CEO and boldly propose new ideas now stares inside the diaper bag, frozen in fear over whether she packed all the right things to cover any potential crisis that may arise during the hour-long trip to the grocery store. Do I have enough toys for distraction? Will she eat this snack? Do I need to bring a sweater? Should I grab some Tylenol? (You know, just in case she spikes a sudden fever.) Oh wait, Tylenol is “bad,” right? Do I have some more-natural Little Remedies?

Every time before leaving the house: Food? Check. Coat? Check. Hat? Check. Giant diaper bag? Check. And then ... is she too warm? Should I take off her coat? Is that too big of a snack before dinner???

Every time before leaving the house: Food? Check. Coat? Check. Hat? Check. Giant diaper bag? Check. And then … is she too warm? Should I take off her coat? Is that too big of a snack before dinner???

Every decision is questioned. Analyzed. Pitched to other moms on Facebook for their input. Hey, I’m all for research and preparedness and doing things as safe as possible; there’s nothing wrong with that. But then, once the decision is made, I wonder if it was the right one. I see another mom has made a different choice, and I start to measure mine against hers. Perhaps her decision was better? Am I doing the wrong thing? Am I ruining my children for life??

With the second-guessing comes the guilt. The feelings that I should’ve done better. That I did indeed make a bad choice. That my decision will have a detrimental and devastating impact on the future and well-being of the littles entrusted to my care. And this guilt can really mess with your mind.

This is especially true when you make a decision that varies from whatever’s considered the mainstream or “superior” standard: formula feeding vs. breastfeeding, back sleeping vs. tummy sleeping, organic foods vs. convenience and cost, staying at home vs. working, pro- vs. anti-vaccinations … and the list goes on. The guilt can grip your soul so tightly that you feel the need to justify and explain and even apologize for the decisions you’ve made–when you’re not crying about them. Even when health and finances and your personal household demand a decision that differs from the norm. Even when what seems “bad” to others is truly what’s best for you and your child.

Moms, I say this with all due respect: just who do we think are?

Do we actually think our actions will add one second of a day to our child’s lives? That if we had “just done this” we would’ve had the power to change an eternal outcome?

I'm so glad this little life does not depend solely on me.

I’m so glad this little life does not depend solely on me.

I’ll never forget Liv’s first serious sickness. I had to leave on a business trip right after she came down with congestion that led to a double ear infection. We had taken her to the doctor, and she had started a course of antibiotics. She was well cared for with my husband and other family members while I was away. But she wasn’t fully recovered by the time I got home, and because of a slight condition she was born with called laryngomalacia, her breathing–which could sound raspy when healthy–seemed particularly labored through the congestion.

I knew in the back of my mind that this was normal and that her pediatrician had told me she would sound worse when sick. I also knew she was getting better, and her fever had broke. That, yes, she was sleeping a lot, but she was happy, though not back to herself, when awake.

Yet the sounds of her heavy, squeaky, rattly breathing as she approached her 14th hour of sleep were too much for this momma’s heart to bear. My fears knocked me flat. And I crumpled into the floor of my closet and sobbed.

I shouldn’t have left. I should’ve been there for her. I have failed her. Another mom would’ve done it better.

The guilt was oppressive.

It stopped me in my tracks. It pushed aside my logic. It silenced conversation with my Heavenly Father. It was all focused on me.

See, I think, if we truly admit it, we moms start to believe the lie that the control abides in us. That this burden and challenge of raising children is ours alone to bear. That the weight of making the right decision is on our shoulders.

And we forget God.

We elevate our importance and ignore His power. We become blind to His leading and teaching. We think His grace for our finite, fallible human ways must not apply in this situation.

And instead we allow the great deceiver to flood our thoughts and take the reins of our fears. Oh, how he must love to replace our trust in Him and His divinity with terror and doubt.

I wrote in my last blog post about how Our Creator formed us to be fearfully and wonderfully made. But the psalm doesn’t end there. It goes on to say “You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.” (Psalm 139:16)

You see, the days of these little lives don’t rest solely on us; they’ve been planned out and purposed by Him. If we are putting God in the center of our decisions, we can move forward with confidence in them. Despite how you feel those decisions may look to anyone else outside your household. So fill that bottle with formula with your head held high, knowing you are nourishing your child. Head in for another day at the office, knowing it’s what God’s called you to do. Research and prepare and pray–and then leave the decision in His hands.

And on the days when you feel your choices truly weren’t the best, don’t give Satan a space to fill your heart with guilt and guessing. Instead, turn to the Almighty One who knows the beginning to the end. Ask Him for wisdom for the future–or forgiveness, if needed. Be consumed by His care. Thank Him that it’s not all up to us. And press on knowing that He’s gone before.

 

“Trust in the LORD with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding. Seek His will in all you do, and He will show you which path to take.” (Proverbs 3:5-6)

Why this c-section mom has no regrets

In less than three months, I plan to go under the knife.

It will be a surgery with the most beautiful outcome I can imagine, resulting in the birth of our second daughter. I can’t think of a better reason to be cut open.

As it looks, birthing by cesarean section will be all I ever know. And (this may be hard for some to understand) … I’m totally OK with that.

Make no mistake, it will be painful. It will be messy. 

But it will be perfect.

You may wonder how I can say that. It’s not that I set out to have my babies by c-section. In fact, to be honest, the thought of a c-section never seriously entered my mind when I was pregnant with my first daughter. Sure, we’d attended a birthing class, and I’d read through “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” so I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that it was an option. 

And unbelievably, as a notorious over-planner, it’s not like I went into labor with an elaborate birth plan either. My plan after 40-plus weeks of carrying this little life was pretty basic at that point–please, please, PLEASE, just get this baby out of me! Yet, I still assumed she would take the southern route.

However Olivia–and God–had other plans for her debut.

About 14 hours after arriving at the hospital in labor with her, it was time to push. And push I did for over the next two hours. I was making progress and the RN was describing Liv’s full head of dark hair to me, but something wasn’t right. Liv’s head was transverse. I remember my OB made several attempts to turn her head as I pushed, but as soon as the contraction was over, her head would turn right back. It must’ve all been very stressful on her, because her heart rate kept decelerating. And so my OB gently told me that she felt the best option for a safe delivery at that point was to quickly move to the OR. 

What happened next struck me as so odd.

Everyone in the room, from the OB, to the RN, to the resident who had been observing my labor, began apologizing to me. “I’m so sorry,” they all said, with tilted heads and sympathetic gazes, as they began prepping me for the c-section to come.

“What are they sorry for?” I thought. “It’s OK,” I reassured them, as I struggled then to NOT push with each contraction as instructed. “I just want whatever is best.”

Less than 30 minutes after the decision for the c-section was made, Olivia Annmarie entered the world. But her experience of trying to find a way to greet it had taken its toll. She wasn’t breathing. Several minutes passed, and we didn’t even realize she was out of my body, let alone being bagged and worked on. I remember asking the anesthesiologist hovering at my head if she was almost out yet, and she replied that she was already out and over at the table. Then, we heard her tender little cry. 



Liv spent her first couple hours hanging out in the NICU.



After a brief look at her, she was whisked off to the NICU with David following. But thankfully, after those first few moments, she rebounded quickly and had no further issues.

I’m not going to lie–my recovery from her arrival was long and hard. It took many weeks to start to feel somewhat normal again. But through the pain, I would look at my sweet baby girl and nothing else mattered.

She was here. She was perfect. (Even with the little “conehead” she initially sported right above her ear where she had gotten stuck.) 



My perfect view while I recovered.



Not long after I got pregnant with our second, the questions started coming. Those who knew I had a c-section with Liv started asking, “So, do you think you’ll try for a VBAC with this one?”

I didn’t mind the question, and I knew the inquiries were well-meaning. But the answer is no, I am not.

Turns out, after discussing with my OB, that I have a slim chance at a successful VBAC. Liv’s birth revealed I have a misshapen pelvis, and it’s likely that if I labored again, it would end with the same result. And so, without hesitation or any regret, I scheduled my c-section for Baby No. 2.

What’s surprised me in the months since my first c-section is that I’ve learned my lack of regret regarding it is considered somewhat … abnormal. I’ve heard other moms describe how they’ve grieved over this method of birth and felt they’d been robbed of a different experience. How they’ve longed and hoped and prayed for another option. How they’ve felt their bodies failed in some way.

I’ve heard other completely well-intentioned moms cheer on those whose chance of a natural delivery is diminishing with mantras of “your body was made to do this!” Except, sometimes, it isn’t. And there should be no shame or guilt associated with that.

Because I believe that the verse we often quote regarding our tiny miracles applies to us mommas too: “I will give thanks to you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made … “ (Psalm 139:14)

If God’s ways are perfect (which they are), then I am also perfectly designed, just as He intended. And since His way is perfect, I can say with confidence that my children’s entrances into this world, whatever shape that may take, are part of His perfect plan as well.

So why did my medical team feel the need to apologize as I headed to the OR? Why the shame and the guilt and the regret expressed by so many? Just because your body doesn’t “do” something–be it a natural birth, breastfeeding, or the ability to bear a child on your own–doesn’t mean you have failed … because wouldn’t that be saying that God has failed in His plans for you?

To me, a life coming into this world–and the nurturing and growth of it–is miraculous and amazing any way it happens. What’s “best” may look different for each mother and child, but that doesn’t change the perfection of God’s design for you.

So to the mom who’s pushed out that child without any medical intervention at all, let me share the truth from God’s Word: you are fearfully and wonderfully made.

To the mom who bears the six-inch scar near her bikini line: you are fearfully and wonderfully made.

To the mom who nurses her babe for 18 months: you are fearfully and wonderfully made.

To the mom who prepares bottles of formula for her bundle of joy: you are fearfully and wonderfully made.

To the mom whose child was placed in her arms by another: you are fearfully and wonderfully made.

There’s nothing to regret about that.

“God’s way is perfect. All the Lord’s promises prove true …” (Psalm 18:30)