And Then There Was Light

Recently, like every other Latter-Day Saint woman and their dog, I went on a 10-day Social Media fast, as encouraged by our prophet. I knew it would be a good experience, like most of us, deep down, knew it. How many hours a week do we waste scrolling? A lot.

But to me the focus was on fasting from media that brought negativity, too. No more late night John Oliver or Colbert Reports with my husband. I was fasting from all of that, too. (Instead we watched Runaway Jury and had another Lord of the Rings marathon, which was totally legit.)

I've been back on social media for two days, now, and, like returning from my mission, I feel like I can see with new eyes what I was blind to before. I don't mean to run around "holier than thou." Please don't misinterpret. But it started my thinking.

Social Media is my number one bringer of "doom and gloom." On a day to day basis, I can safely say that I don't have many social interactions with people that make me feel like I might get nuked, brainwashed, or shot in the next week. On Facebook, it took me about 2 minutes to feel like that just might happen.

I'm not saying it's good to be blind to current political tensions, goings-on, or public discussion. It's really good to be an aware human being. Being aware makes smart choices. Knowing there's a scary white van driving around Elementary Schools in Herriman makes me make safer decisions. Knowing Saudi Arabia assassinated an American resident, and our President doesn't feel like calling them out on it, because of billions of dollars of "business" helps give me insight into the importance of voting for good candidates next month, and, on a more personal level, makes me evaluate if I have ever taken a more "comfortable" position, to protect myself and my self-image. Thought provoking.

There is plenty of good that comes from being aware. But I also feel more strongly now that pessimism is the beginning of the end. Pessimism brings hopelessness and despair. Being swamped with routine, habitual negativity drives out faith in God, frankly, and His love. It limits our vision and scope, and instead focuses our energies on worry, rather than on the Mr. Rogers mentality of looking for the Helpers, or of being the change that is needed, in the world.

When you spend more time talking with people, rather than reading the extreme, popular negative view, you come to find out that your day to day people really are genuinely good and kind. Yes, the world is full of issues, but when you talk to people instead of type at them, you come to conclusions, rather than insults and distrust.

I got caught in a Facebook conversation. (Dude, if you know me, YUP.) A friend was upset at something that was said in General Conference. They felt that Elder Oaks' talk was insulting to the Singles in the Church, and that "this kind of thing" is what is driving people away. Now, it might just be because I'm happily married, but nothing Elder Oaks said upset me, and I had no idea people were upset about it until after my Facebook fast. They felt that when Elder Oaks said that "many" are delaying marriage and family, he meant it as a personal attack on all single people, irregardless of whatever reason for their singleness. What one person felt negative about was blown up in a blog post, misinterpreted and misconstrued to fit with their own personal feelings of offense, when simply put, Elder Oaks was simply saying that we should be less caught up in the things of the world, and trust that family life is the way to happiness. (I'm sorry, but even if you're single or childless, you should still recognize that children and spouses are what God intends for us - yes, even EVENTUALLY - for our eternal happiness.) Their negative interpretation and bias was then spread for mass production, leading many readers to vaguely agree, "Why yes! I am single, and I don't like being told that I am wrong!" Motives and situations are completely ignored, while the negativity is spread.

This happens ALL THE TIME. Everything! And frankly, I'm kind of sick of it. Social Media almost proves that we would rather be unhappy about SOMETHING, then happy about literally everything else. I honestly do think that the Depression we see has a lot of root in social media. Frankly, if we didn't have someone suggest the possibility for offense or upset to us, would we be offended about half of the things we are offended or upset about? For my part, I can safely say no. Honestly, I wouldn't be. And our prophet is warning us against this danger of social media - primarily to the youth! I don't think he's warning them against it because he wants to brainwash them, and keeping them away from social media blinds their eyes to the evil that is their Church. No, honestly, I don't think that's what it is. I think our prophet wants our youth to get off their phones and experience life for themselves, and see the hope that is in the people and the lives around them.

If I'd opened my mind, been susceptible, and believed everything I'd read on Social Media in the last two days, then most men are shallow, sexually perverted, easily manipulated and corrupted. I'd believe that my church wants LGBTQ individuals dead, and doesn't care if they all kill themselves. I'd believe that the local school district doesn't give a dang about me or my kids, and that they are ignorant and stupid for changing the local boundaries for our Elementary schools!!

There are literally always two sides to a story. Talking to people, REAL PEOPLE, is the only way we will ever really know what the truth is, and in talking to those people, we'll likely find that our worst fears are highly exaggerated. I don't doubt some men are sexual predators. I don't doubt some members of my church have been hateful and despicable to the LGBTQ population. I don't doubt that I'm going to be terribly inconvenienced by where my children need to go to school, once they get there.

HOWEVER, I also know, from actual conversations with MEN, that most guys are actually pretty normal, like most girls actually, and have concerns, weaknesses, and faults, like most girls actually, and, for the most part, don't spend their free time thinking about how they can molest me or my children just for fun. I also know that my church believes in loving everyone. I know that in the past they have said some terrible things, pointed some blame in unjustified directions, but also know that they are trying very hard to fix those negative aspects of the past. Yes, they made mistakes, and stupid proud people have made mistakes. But they are trying SO HARD not to, now. As for my school boundaries issue? I know Herriman is going through crazy growth. I know the school board doesn't "have it out for the Lisches." I can trust a little bit more, and choose to be more optimistic, and grateful that I don't have the job of trying to make everyone happy.

Being positive and hopeful is a choice - and that's how I'm choosing to make my Social Media habits, now. I would invite anyone to join me! Yes, I'm not saying I won't post when my baby pees on the floor, and Julian screams and kicks me in the store, and life happens. Heaven knows, I might need advice, or an ice cream date. Sometimes things suck. But there is ALWAYS something to be happy about, which makes the down sides of life mere momentary inconvenience.

A few weeks ago I wrote something. It was a feeling I'd been struggling with for awhile, and the only way to express it, and give the troubling thought due credit, was to write it out. I didn't share it - only with my husband, who asked. And frankly, I'm glad I didn't. Because it's no longer relevant. The things I wrote I wrote in confusion and anger. I wrote them with tears streaming down my cheeks, and an empty upset in my chest. But over the next few weeks, the questions I had got answers, the unfairness I felt was consoled, and I came to a point of understanding and patience.

It is too easy to speak without thinking. It is too easy to post without care. Heaven knows, social media is the perfect outlet for such thoughtless, blind moments. But thoughtless, blind moments are not what we should live for, and fill our days with. Our days should be filled with family, growth, and God. So if that means less browsing of social sites, to keep that perspective, that's one option. Being more picky about the posts and individuals you follow is another. But all in all, I was grateful for the reminder of perspective.

That's awfully introspective for a Thursday.

A Bad Mom

Having a bad mom day. I woke up Depressed. I have Depression. This happens. I made breakfast for the toddler, and made a bottle for the baby, then sat down on the couch to feed Thing 2 while Thing 1 ate at the table.
The toddler finished quickly, and announced, "Done!" If I don't retrieve him from his booster seat soon, he gets grumpy, and heavens knew I didn't want that. I put the baby down, who proceeded to cry, from being interrupted, while I cleaned up the toddler and instructed him to "Go play!" with a smile on my face.
I proceeded to feed the baby. He's been teething, I think, so is exceptionally grumpy, and gave all the cues that he wanted to go back to sleep, shortly after finishing his bottle. I laid him down, and sleep he did not. He only cried, while his eyes rolled back tiredly. While I'm checking on the baby, the toddler is attempting to enter the baby's room, while loudly talking, yelling, and crashing things. I proceeded to close the door behind myself, from then on, while checking on the baby, which made toddler jealous and angry. I would leave the baby alone to cry, for a time, to follow the toddler around wherever he wanted me, but when I would inevitably get up to check on the screaming baby again, the toddler followed behind with a loud whine.
I got a notification I had a grocery pickup ready at WalMart, so I grab the baby, who never slept. He screams on the floor while I throw shoes and a jacket on the toddler. I drag the toddler outside, and attempt to put him in his carseat. He sits with his bum at the edge of the seat, lazily staring at me. I try to lift him back, to correct his bum, but his stuffed dog is in the way. I throw one of his arms through the seatbelt, chuck the dog on the floor, and get his other arm through, with effort, while he screams at me over being restrained, and over the missing dog. I return his dog when I'm done with the seatbelt. (The baby, fortunately, gives me no grief, and is quite cute.)
By the time we're home, the baby is still yawning, rubbing his eyes, and has started screaming again. The toddler has removed his shoes, thrown his dog on the floor again, and is whining about it. I carry the baby in the house, and go back for the toddler. I grab a gallon of milk to carry upstairs with him. He leans over, intent on carrying the milk himself, resulting in his near falling out of my arms while we're up half a flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs I'm barely holding him under his armpits. I set him down, and thankfully, he heads for our door. He complains the ground is cold, and, while I'm opening the door, he attempts to run to the neighbors door. I catch him in time, and herd him inside.
The baby is screaming on the floor. I throw the groceries down, lay the baby in bed, then head back to the kitchen to put food in the refrigerator. The toddler wants milk. Somewhere along the line half of his toys escaped their toy boxes, and are all over the floor. I give him milk. The mess is getting to me. The toddler is trying to grab a toy he can't quite reach. He's yelling. I help him reach the toy, and put on Clifford. This calms the toddler down enough that I can clean up, and put everything away.
We watch Clifford for an hour. I try to sit and breathe, and actually feel like the day might get better. I eat some chocolate. Toddler gets some too. 11:00 rolls around, and I'm thinking about what to make for lunch. I'd put away a can of Spagetti-O's, but I'd also put away a pizza dough mix. I want to be a good mom. I go to make the pizza.
The toddler begins whining. 'The TV is off, because I don't want him getting too much screen time. I was trying to be a good mom. He's mad that mom is in the kitchen, and not currently playing with him. He's also now starving hungry. He sees me shredding cheese, and begins screaming for cheese, thus waking up the baby. I leave the baby to cry while I finish as quickly as I can, wiping the cheese crumbs into a bowl for a yelling toddler.
I get the baby, and decide to give him some pear, because I haven't given him anything besides formula today, and I really do need to get this kid some food. It's a perfect time because the pizza is cooking. I put him in his high chair, and begin to feed him pear. The toddler finishes his cheese, and decides this is a great time to climb the high chair. He knocks over the tray, he jolts the seat, scaring the baby, and earning himself a scolding. He feels unloved by mom, and begins playing with toys while crying.
Mom finishes feeding baby, places baby with toys on the floor, and baby begins to cry. Mom gets pizza out of the oven, and cut into pieces. She feels guilty for only having pizza for the toddler, so cuts up a tomato as well, and pulls together some pineapple chunks. Baby is still crying. Toddler is yelling because he knows food is in the kitchen, and does not have the cognitive capacity to understand that it is for him. Mom hauls him to his booster seat and straps him in. She runs to the kitchen and makes a bottle of formula for the crying infant who wanted no more pears, but perhaps wants formula? Mom throws a couple slices of pizza on a plate for herself as well, props baby in her arm and feeds him, while taking bites of pizza for herself.
Peace for a second.
The toddler is done, after eating four bites, maybe. I put the baby down to clean up the toddler. The baby cries from being interrupted. I throw the toddler's leftovers in the sink. I sit down to finish eating, myself, and feed the baby more. The toddler is angry I am not playing with him. I attempt to explain to him that I am still eating. He throws more toys around recklessly.
The baby spits up all over himself, and me. It is already his second shirt today. (There was another spit-up in there somewhere.) I move over to the couch with him, when I've finished eating. The light from the window reflects off my watch, casting a glowing orb over my side table. The cat attacks, and knocks my books over. The toddler grabs the books, and begins pulling on the pages with far from delicate hands. I'm telling him no. I'm trying to keep him from grabbing my Diet Pepsi. The baby isn't actually drinking, only arching his back and still crying and crying.
I know the toddler just wants attention. I try and talk to him about his toys, and his playing, while bicycling the baby's legs, assuming he has gas. This works for a couple precious minutes. Baby still crying. Toddler running towards the front door, saying he wants to leave. Obviously tired. Not going to happen. Toddler stands on the rug and, before I know it, has gagged himself with his finger, until he throws up on the rug. (I thought he'd grown out of this attention seeking thing with the vomit.)
I'm frustrated. I set the baby down, who cries, from being interrupted. I strip the toddler, who has vomit on himself, and put him in his room while I clean up. He smells like poop, but there's vomit on the floor and a crying baby. I let him loose in his room.
I clean up, then open the toddler's bedroom door to let him out. Baby wants to try drinking again. I give him more of the bottle. (He's still only had 2 ounces in the last hour that he's been awake.) The toddler climbs onto the couch, and I see the poop escaping up his back. I immediately put the, screaming again, baby down, and take the toddler to change his diaper. He has poop on his fingers and under his fingernails, from obviously investigating his dirty diaper, while he was alone in his room. I clean his fingers with a wipe as well. He accuses me of biting him. I want to bite him! I don't.
I'm feeding the baby again, who's still not eating, but still not happy. He doesn't want to lie down and play. He doesn't want to talk to me. He doesn't want to eat. But he is happy lying on my chest, so I let him do that. The toddler is not happy about this. The toddler is not happy in general, and really needs to go to sleep, but I don't have the time to help him lie down, without disrupting the baby again, which I don't want to do, and is the toddler drinking my Diet Pepsi? Stop it! Why can't he have mercy on me?!
At some point toddler places a megablock on my foot, and tries to stand on it! "Stop it! Just stop it!" I yell at the toddler, shoving him away. I begin to cry, and it's not just my foot. Tears falling down my face. Two people in audience, and do either of them care? Nope. Nobody cares. I'm never alone, but I'm completely alone. "Cry." the toddler notices. Thank goodness, I think. Maybe he'll be nice to me now. He climbs up on the couch next to me, and... proceeds to poke at my face. "Eyebrow."
I have to go to the bathroom. I lay the baby on the bathroom rug, and keep the door propped open, so the toddler can come in if he wants to. He tells me, "Bye bye," and closes the bathroom door, successfully locking himself out. I want to smile. The baby is happily chewing on a foam letter. I hear the toddler in the hallway trying to climb into the baby's walker, which happens regularly. He's stuck, yelling "Stuck!" and crying. I feel smug about it, very much thinking, "I told you so." But then I imagine him trying to get himself out, re-breaking his femur, and so I hurry and finish to go and save him.
He's fine. He got out on his own. I lay the baby down in the living room to continue chewing on his foam letter. It's a mess. I know I'll feel better if I can clean it. Someone knocks on the door. Are my eyes still red from crying? Still have spit-up all over my shirt?
I open the door and step outside, closing the door behind me, to keep the cat in. It's the Spanish Elders. I tell them who in the building speaks Spanish, and let them know that if there's anything we can ever do to help them, we will.
The baby is finally ready to go to sleep, so I put him down. I convince the toddler to help me clean up. He picks out a book, and I read it to him in bed, as is the routine. He always screams when I close the door for him, like it's a surprise, every single time.
It's blessed naptime. I wrote this, and yes, the baby has just stirred back awake.
And I have work tonight.
No rest for the wicked.

The Memory of Moments

You’ve been thinking of memories

Of a place that you’ve been –

A place that, unfortunately,

You’ll likely never get to again.

Little flashbacks, you’re having,

Of inconsequential things.

Walking out of a grocery store off main,

Down the road from construction, and doors.

It’s dancing in a living room one night

On a faded brown carpet

With a large singed portion

Which the Elders burned before your time.

It’s mounting a snow heap,

Feeling victorious in heavy snow boots,

Laughing through wind blowing sideways

Just before a dinner appointment.

It’s feeling your fleece lined leggings

Underneath your skirt,

Remembering the feeling of heavy socks

Worn over top, and up the calf.

It’s a cathedral on a hill,

Dinner in an Indian restaurant,

Waiting in line at a Subway,

Discovering Bulk Barn for that first time.

Buying stamps and looking at cards

Down the road from the poutine joint.

Seeing the weather broadcasted in Celsius

To the apartment lobby in the morning.

It’s eating lunch under that tree.

It must have been a Saturday,

Because there were no kids at the school.

We took our shoes off. I wanted to cry.

It’s that centipede we found in our apartment.

That frog I caught in my scripture case.

Our umbrella flipping upside down in the rain,

And our running back for home and the car, laughing.

It’s that conversation with that bus driver.

It’s that first day emailing home in the library.

It was discovering a new city,

And pushing cars out of snowbanks.

It’s that vague recollection of ringing a buzzer

To see if someone was home.

They weren’t. We left.

But I remember ringing that buzzer.

These are memories that I cannot share.

No one will know

The places that I have been.

The feelings that I have had.

I long to visit the places of the past,

Though I fear that this longing

Will never be satiated,

As I will never be right there again.

It will never be quite the same.

I realized this in the middle of the night.

A crying baby needed me.

A bottle was given.

A diaper needed changing.

I placed him on a changing table

And stretched, my hands to the ceiling.

He stretched too,

An exact mirror image of me.

I will never be here again.

These moments no camera will record.

The moments that open your eyes,

When you experience things deeply.

My past is just that. My own.

It will never be known.

I can show you the streets, but to you,

They will only be fresh, new things.

I can’t show you my heart.

I can’t show you the fog that rolled in.

How surreal it was when I wrote it

In a dark room, under its immaterial glow.

They are memories of moments.

They are unknowable, but to me.

The longing ache I feel for that past

Can never be fully redeemed. 

Hanukkah for Christmas

I hate Christmas - for the same reason I hate multi-level marketing schemes. Intense feelings of guilt and obligation, with only the minority of people actually getting anything out of it. But frankly, I think it's because we're doing Christmas all wrong.

Christmas is, hypothetically, supposed to celebrate the birth of Christ. It's a time to imagine your god in infant form, unable to ask anything of you, and only there to give you warm feelings - warm feelings which you MUST feel! It's the season! He doesn't judge. He doesn't speak. He's the easiest Christ for all the Christians in the world to get behind. But you know what? That's not all bad. I actually am okay celebrating Christ's birthday. That's okay. He was born in April, though, but why not take the Winter Solstice and make that commemorate the birth of Christ...

With Christmas trees. Because Christ, born in Bethlehem, would have loved himself a nicely decorated tinsel pine tree with holly berries. Mmmm... And gingerbread. Because that was his favorite food, definitely, when he was an infant. The holy family all gathered round that manger like that. With hot chocolate. And cider. 

And candy canes. Because he was the good shepherd, and candy canes are shaped like a shepherd's staff, right? Thank goodness we can make some kind of a religious tie there, without resorting to paganism... Every time I see those candy canes, I think about the red and white stripes which symbolize all kinds of stuff about Jesus. Candy canes. Jesus. Thinking about Him every time. 

SANTA. Oh my goodness. Can I tell you how much I just love everything Santa? Sticking his jolly fat face in the middle of everything. Seriously. He brings gifts, like the three wise men, who, actually, weren't even there for a couple of years, and....

Just stop. Stop. Everything. Stop it. 

I had to give my husband a disclaimer before I married him, that I was not going to be the woman who celebrated Christmas. I wasn't going to lie to my children, to sell them into the materialism of it all. The only trouble, though, is knowing HOW to celebrate. Because, unfortunately, such a huge deal is made about Christmas, that you can't NOT celebrate it. 

How depressed would my children be if they went to school and had to listen to their friends talk about all the STUFF they got for Christmas, if they didn't get anything? How would they feel? As a child, I would feel ridiculously jealous, because STUFF. Stuff is golden. And that's what Christmas ultimately turns into, for kids. Because they're kids. Kids love Jesus, but unless Jesus is bringing them that push-bike, he's going to come in second. You can't blame their testimonies. Santa is huge and loud, and Christ doesn't intrude. He's an infant, for heavens sake.

I don't want to confuse my children. But to an extent, no matter what I do, they will be confused. If I played along, they would be confused about Santa vs Jesus - a matter I'm not willing to negotiate on. (Thou shalt have no other gods before me.) If I don't play along, which I am choosing, I have to explain to my children why all their friends and cousins are believing in this red fat man who sneaks into their house in the middle of the night with flying reindeer. I have to explain it to them, and somehow convince them not to ruin it for everyone else.

Bless my heart! What to do? This has been a source of confusion and angst for me for years. (I wrote an essay on it, my first year of college!) I want my children to be happy, but I also want them to know what's what, and what's really important. What matters!

And I think I've come to an answer.

We're Jewish. Not SUPER technically, but enough, that we can make this work. My great (great?) grandparents, on my mother's mother's side were married in a British Israelite wedding. It's the mother's side that counts, which makes me Jewish, as well as my children. (My daughters' children can claim the same privilege, but not my sons' children.) (They are also uncircumcised, and we're eating pork for Thanksgiving from now on, so obviously we're not very good at this.) BUT! Hanukkah doesn't play Santa. Hanukkah is religious. For real. I admire them deeply, and hope my desire to join them isn't an offense. Because they don't cloud their holiday over with secular garbage, and religion is all I want out of my religious holidays.

Hanukkah is a celebration otherwise known as the Feast of Dedication. It celebrates the Jewish re-dedication of the temple, after reclaiming it from the Greeks, who had desecrated it with unholy sacrifices, etc. There's a whole bunch of additional story about the Jews relighting the menorah in the temple, but only having enough oil for one day - though the menorah miraculously burned for 8 days. There is no scriptural evidence of this event, in the Maccabees, however, and it may very well have been made up - as it also changes the shape and form of the original menorah to incorporate 8 days, which, to me, is questionable, as it is for several Jewish sects, who don't agree with the story as well. Yup. But that bit's not important for me.

But the Feast of Dedication. We know Christ celebrated it. It is full of delicious symbolism. Plus, nothing wrong with celebrating reclaiming your temple and re-dedicating it to God. And I realized, that's very much how I feel about Christmas. Just substitute "Santa" with "Greek" and you might see what I see. So I will choose to dedicate my home, once again, to Christ, for Christmas. We'll do gifts. Perhaps we'll do one gift a night for 8 nights, by candlelight. It'll be calm. No wrapping paper flying. Not 8 big gifts, because that's not the point. 

We're still working through the details - mostly just how to get everybody on board with ALLOWING us to celebrate Christmas in the way that we feel is most appropriate. It's eclectic. It's a work in progress. But there you have it! Be warned!

If Jesus Was a Gun-Owner

If Jesus was a gun-owner,

Would He have one gun, or three?

Would He have a Smith and Wesson,

A Remington, or Benelli?

Would Jesus open carry,

Or would He carry securely hid?

Would He tote it under arm, or hip,

Or thigh, just to be hip?

Would Jesus take up hunting,

Or prefer to target shoot?

Would He go out with friends, a drink or two,

Or to the desert, someplace offshoot?

Would He join the NRA,

Or host a class for concealed carry?

How often would He clean his gun, buy bullets, or...

Hold up, Nelly!

I don’t profess to know Him,

But I know a thing or two.

I’ve read the book a few more times,

And there’s something He wouldn’t do.

He wouldn’t own a gun, of course,

Designed in lethal taste.

He’d turn His cheek again

Before boasting about His “place.”

He’d be the last to argue

Fighting for civil defense.

“My rights!” He would not shout, but more,

“Trust God. He’ll do what’s best.”

He wouldn’t hunt. No, not for fun,

Or sport. No, I don’t blame Him.

He taught compassion, love, and, yes,

He loves them ‘cause He made them.

I’m not saying He’s vegetarian

Or vegan. No, just prudent.

His heart would take no pleasure

From killing for amusement.

He’d see the damage that guns cause

To life and pride in that market.

As our Prince of Peace and hope for man,

He wouldn’t own. Cathartic.

So if Jesus were a gun-owner,

I don’t think I’d recognize Him.

We could follow his example...

No? Alright. It’s just a whim.

Your Birth - Dexter

I wrote a blog about Julian's birth, for when he wants to know, and figured I should write something for Dexter. Here goes:

Dexter.  You were due on 7/17/17, which was terribly exciting for me, even though that wasn't the day you ended up coming. You came into the world during a time a great anxiety for us. But I get ahead of myself.

Your brother was 6 months old, and amazingly adorable. I needed another one. And so you came to pass.

My pregnancy with you was a breeze. Perhaps it was because I was so busy chasing Julian around that I didn't have the amounts of time I had with my pregnancy with Julian to sit around and feel sorry for myself. I was up and running! And you were perfect. There was never anything concerning during the pregnancy. Everything was always "just right." You were healthy. You were perfect. And I really appreciated that! I was working full time while your brother went to daycare, up until the month before you were born.

I took that last month off because we were moving. (And I wanted to be home to help Julian out with all of the transitions that would happen in his life - new brother, new home, Mom being home all the time, etc.) When we'd found out we were pregnant with you, your father and I decided it was time to buy a home - a place with three bedrooms, instead of continuing to rent the two bedroom townhome we were living in. We bought a place that was being built, and scheduled to be completed just before you were born. They pushed the deadline back a lot, but then, holy heck, our mortgage company...

We were supposed to sign towards the end of June. We were supposed to be able to move into our new home on June 29th. But the date ended up getting pushed back, and pushed back, due to our incompetent mortgage company. (That is such a long and frustrating story, I won't even go there. It's still too fresh for me.) But because we didn't close before the end of the month, we had to leave our townhome, and enter... homelessness... until we could officially move in. Our stuff went into storage, and on the night of June 30th, after a full day of moving, we packed ourselves into Grandma Read's second and third bedrooms.

Your father was exhausted. I was emotionally spent, despite having spent a large portion of the day at Grandma's house doing nothing but watch your brother. (I was upset about the mortgage company and being homeless until who knew when, living with my mom.) I was too pregnant to move anything, and we were supposed to be keeping me "calm," so I wouldn't go into labor, which is why I had minimal work to do for the move. I'd spent the night watching the first episode of Call the Midwife, while Julian slept and the rest of the family finished cleaning up our townhome, till well after dark.

Grandma and your dad rolled in around ten o'clock. We sat around talking for awhile, and your dad and I retired to bed pretty late. Your dad grumbled about being tired, while trying to assure me that everything was fine, and I didn't have to worry about a thing. I worried about a few things, like a restless, confused Julian, and my homeless, pathetic pregnant state. I remember finally pulling up the covers, rolling onto my side in the dark and thinking, "This bed is sort of uncomfortable with this pregnancy pillow... And I'm going to have to sleep like this for the next five nights?"

As if you took that thought as a sign from above, my water broke, just then. I remember feeling it and thinking, "Oh, that can't be what I think it was..." Your father later told me that at that time he was rolling over in bed thinking, "This would just be the WORST time for her to go into labor."

"My water just broke." I told him, as I jumped up and sprinted for the bathroom. (Didn't get the bed wet at all. Score!) We rushed around as quietly as we could, and I went and woke my mother, briefly, to tell her we were going to the hospital, and that she was now in charge of Julian. Surprise!

When we got there, your dad went to park the car, and I stood around feeling completely disgusting. Like I was peeing my pants and just kept peeing. It was marvelous. They ushered us back to a room - the same room I'd given birth to your brother in, to be exact, and the waiting began. The nurses were friendly, and all was going well.

Your father was exhausted. He'd spent the entire day moving an entire house in the sun, and had also taken a Trazodone to help him sleep. And so sleep he did! Nurses came and went, hooking me up to devices, giving me an IV, etc, and your father slept. Lights turning off and on, and he slept.

I made him wake up when they sent for the epidural man. I didn't want to do that part alone. Getting the epidural with your brother was exceptionally easy. I bragged that it was easier than the IV was. (It was.) Your epidural... not so much. It hurt quite a bit. It took a long time. It was hard to get through. I went from lying on my side in the fetal position, to sitting at the edge of the bed, grimacing and just downright hurting. This time, the epidural was the hardest part. As I sat at the edge of the bed, I noticed your dad starting to turn whiter and whiter, so I mentioned calmly, "Dad's going to pass out." for the nurses.

The nurse made your dad sit down, and gave him snacks to eat. (Royally unfair for the woman who could eat nothing.) She continued to hold my hand, and saw me through the last two minutes until my epidural was in place, and working. (Later, Dad said it was the blood that got to him. Glad I didn't see that. It was bad enough.)

And then Dad slept again, and I actually got about 4 hours of sleep myself. (God bless epidurals.) In the early morning I texted your Aunt Hannah, and told her I was in labor. She expressed an interest in being there, and, with your dad still asleep and struggling to stay conscious as he was, and with his difficulty with blood, at the time, I thought it would be nice to have another support person. And I thoroughly enjoy your Aunt Hannah. I knew she would be a great partner to have along. She'd keep the mood light, and keep me laughing. When Dad woke up and gave me permission to do so, I invited her to be there.

She showed up about twenty minutes to show time! It was perfect! My doctor was working that day, a Saturday, and was there for my delivery. Another bonus was that my doctor was Aunt Hannah's aunt-in-law. So the room felt royally unrighteous, fun-loving, and light-hearted. The mirror was brought out, and I was told to push.

I actually forgot what I was supposed to do and how to do it. Was I supposed to hold my breath, or breathe through my nose? I wasted a contraction, and we laughed and shrugged it off, while the doctor reminded me what I was supposed to be doing. Dad held my hand while Hannah stood in my line of sight next to the mirror. Yes, I had a mirror there. I remember how much easier it was to push with a mirror there, when I had Julian, and requested it again. For your birth, however, no one stood in the way of the mirror, and I saw the whole thing!

It took two contractions and a half to get you out. As Grandma Read would put it, "After you have one, the rest are like shelling peas." You came easily. But with the most impressive cone-head the world has ever seen. Unlike your brother, who was rushed away by the NICU ladies, they plopped your little wriggling body into my arms, and you were perfect. (This is disgusting, but I intentionally kept some of your goop on my forearm for the rest of the day, until I realized I was being disgusting and overly emotional, and that I had YOU, for goodness sakes. I didn't need your goop.)

We all smiled and laughed. I had a first degree tear, which was nothing like the third degree tear I had with your brother. You had some trouble breathing, to be honest. You didn't really cry, and your breathing was fast, enough so that they called a NICU nurse to come down just to look at you. I remember looking at Aunt Hannah, the nurse, hoping she would tell me if your breathing was something to worry about. She just kept smiling and saying that everything was fine - that you were good. I didn't believe her, and continued to worry, until they packed us up and sent us upstairs. (Once again, I was put in the same room I'd been in with your brother. What were the chances!)

In addition to a fantastic cone-head, you also came out with a fantastically bruised face - to the point that they put a little sticky note on your bin, saying "Bruised Face," so the nurses wouldn't see you and assume you were low on oxygen. That had mostly cleared up by the next day, though.

I kept you close. The first night I slept on my own, but the second night, when I was fully rested, I kept you by my side the whole night - even though we were doing formula, not breastfeeding. (I'd learned my limits well enough from my experience with your brother. I wanted to bond with you, not wrestle with your disappointment and frustrations.) I remember sleeping with you in the bed next to me, waking up when the nurse did her rounds, and kindly pushing off any offers to help. I was so glad to be with you, and you gave me incredible feelings of hope and energy. I napped with you at every opportunity.

And then we took you home! Oh, wait, no. We were homeless. We took you to Grandma's. (Several nurses had heard our sad tale. I thought it was hilarious that you had come just in time to live at Grandma's. Really? You didn't want to wait just one more week?) 

Julian was obsessed with you, and still is. (You're five weeks old, now.) He's just waiting for you to grow up and play with him. One of his favorite things to do is kiss you. 

Overall, you've been an extremely pleasant baby. Very lazy, I might add. You didn't open your eyes until the third day, and I took a video of it, just to prove to your dad that you did actually have eyes. When you were FOUR WEEKS OLD, your Grandma asked if we'd had your eyes checked out, because she thought there was the possibility that you were BLIND, because you never had your eyes open for her! (She has since seen your eyes, and knows that your vision is fine. But it's not like Grandma hasn't been around a lot. You're just lazy!)

You still wake up like clockwork to eat every three hours, and have finally reached the point where we don't have to torture you awake to finish a bottle anymore. You are now motivated enough to eat. At your 2 week appointment you were in the 14th percentile for weight, but we're anticipating you'll catch up to average or above average in no time. 

You're a good buddy to keep me company while your brother naps, screams, throws tantrums, etc. You're pretty chill. (Actual picture of right now.) 

On Sunday, aka yesterday, you were blessed at church. Your father blessed you, with Uncle Patrick and Uncle Oliver and Grandpa DeMill there. He said that you were born at a time that the Kingdom of God was in great excitement. He mentioned that you would be a steward and a teacher in the Kingdom. He mentioned that you would have trials, but that you would be able to teach others how to overcome their trials, because of your experiences. 

Sorry, you moved, and now it's cuter.

I'm proud to be your momma. You make it difficult to get out and have fun, when you demand food every two hours, but keeping that eternal perspective makes me forgive you for your starvation-induced drama. You were named Dexter Martin Lisch. As with our family traditions, we name your first name after whatever the heck we want, and your middle name after a historical hero of ours. You were named Dexter after Dexter's Lab. (Don't judge us.) But you were named Martin after Martin Luther. Not the black Martin Luther King, but Martin Luther, the hero of the reformation. 

Martin Luther was a devout man, who wanted to serve God to the best of his ability. But he saw problems with the current practices of his church - the concept that you could buy forgiveness, etc. He risked everything he had to teach that God was love. You couldn't buy His love and forgiveness, but that rather, He would give it. You would never be perfect, but God would accept you, and through his grace, claim you His. Obviously, you should still be a good person, but remember that God has claimed you His, if you will accept His taking you. He is love, first and foremost. A good thing to remember in a crazy, confused world. 

Stay at Home Mom - Friends Wanted

I've always had a job. Since I was sixteen years old, I have been working. At one point I had four jobs at the same time. I've been a party-host, an interpreter, a librarian, a dispatcher. I've worked on psych wards and in care centers. I've made tables worth of bread sticks, I've wiped bottoms and sold books. I've even worked security, and encouraged drunk concert attendees to stop urinating in the bushes.

As life circumstances would have it, however, I have become... a stay-at-home mom. I won't lie to you. It's work. There are times when I stare at my screaming son who will not be reasoned with, and will not nap, and seriously consider returning to work. Emotionally, it would be easier. Psychologically, it would be healthier. HOWEVER, I do love him. And the fact that I have the opportunity and chance to be more involved in his upbringing, his childhood, the little moments and learning experiences he has each hour, is too good to pass up. I'm a firm believer that there's nothing more important - no job comes close to compare - than raising your children. For some, this means working full time. For others, part-time - the group I intend to end up in, eventually, for my own sanity! And others, it's being a stay-at-home mom. There are no wrong answers, when you look at individuals' lives.

But staying at home is a transition. It's a terrible one! I've gone from the ultimate of 9-5 schedules, with dropping the baby off, then picking him up, making dinner, bath time, then bed, every night, to waking up when the baby does, eating breakfast, and...

I'm looking for stuff to do. Parks are awesome, but I'm also almost 8 months pregnant and it's over ninety degrees out there. (Shade is cool. Can they make more covered parks?) We have aquarium passes, but you can only go so much before you get sick of it. We could go shopping every single day, but our wallets are not bottomless. We have toys, but this kid is used to playing with a room full of infants every single day.

And that's the hard part. Julian needs friends. I'm an introvert. I can't tell you how happy I'd be to sit on my butt day after day writing, reading, or watching documentaries on the Bible or archaeological digs and discoveries. (These are my hobbies.) But Julian is a baby. He is 100%, certifiably, an extrovert. I didn't think you could tell this early, but with this kid, you can tell. He lives and breathes other people and interacting with them. And he needs friends. And I don't know how else to find them. So here goes:

FRIENDS WANTED:

Looking for candidates for potential friends for a stay-at-home mom and her 14-month old son.

Son is wonderfully cute, charming, and funny. He is precocious in language development, and is just starting to walk. He enjoys cars, other children, and is only mildly afraid of dogs. He can be convinced that they are safe, given time. He takes roughly three naps a day, making his schedule a living nightmare, though naps can be condensed down to two easily, as, when with others, he remains pleasantly exhausted. He is big, and unaware of his girth. He has been known to accidentally step on smaller, more breakable children. It is not intentional.

Mother is an introvert. She is additionally an INFJ, yellow/red personality, resulting in a pleasantly opinionated, friendly demeanor. (Due to being an introvert, the opinionated/bossy will only come out if she's annoyed about something.) She is a religious "bigot," and expresses culturally unpopular, conservative opinions on a regular basis - though she is anti guns and wars, and pro socialized medicine and Muslims. She is not a Republican. Or a Democrat. And she likes it. Her hobbies including reading, writing, and documentaries focused on archaeology, as well as mutually respecting debates on current events, mental health, politics, culture, religion, and Russians. She pretends to enjoy cooking, and once she starts, she really does. But frankly, her creativity and general motivation are lacking. She also does not work out. At all. She calls life her workout.

Looking for friends who have a child, preferably close to the son's age. Friends can have more than one child, though frankly, the mother is terrified of being outnumbered. But just because this is her fear, does not mean that she can't get over it. Looking for friends who understand introverts, and won't be offended if the mother doesn't want to hang out all day long. A couple hours is awesome. Looking for friends who won't try and sell them anything. You can sell stuff. Just not to them. The mother will ask if she's interested. She is anti multi-level-marketing. Looking for friends who have a dark sense of humor, or at least won't be afraid of one. Looking for friends who have religious convictions, but don't shirk at the sight of Mountain Dew, or R-rated movies like Gladiator or Schindler's List. Looking for friends who DO shirk at the sight of anything starring Hugh Grant or Jack Nicholson, or basically most modern comedy/romantic comedy films. They are disgusting.

If you are interested, please contact me. I would love to set up a time we could have a picnic, or an awkward splash pad encounter, or something inside and creative that you've thought up, because I'm plain out of ideas on the air conditioned spectrum. We could always just chill for a bit. My place or yours. We'll figure something out.