Some of you may remember that on July 22nd of last year, I stated I've never read the Bible straight through. That day, I began a 360-day reading plan in order to fix that situation....whiiiiiiiich means I am less than a month away from completing my goal. Admittedly, I didn't always read EVERY DAY, like I was supposed to. But, I managed to keep plugging away and remain on target to finish on time. It feels really good to keep a resolution for once.
On the other hand, the day after I wrote that post, I wrote about my desire to find a mentor and make more friends in general. This is a goal I have NOT kept. And--a year later--I'm still praying for more chances for fellowship. In fact, now that I'm home with the baby 24/7, I'm even more aware of my social deprivation! Man, it is so hard to develop friendships outside of college.
The GOOD news is, God has begun to work out a few of the issues standing in my way a year ago. (Follow the link to read specifics!) I wrote I'm highly critical of people and often dismiss the possibility of a relationship before one even has the chance to form. I have unrealistically high expectations of people. And, I didn't feel I had much in common with the acquaintances I already had.
Thankfully, rather than continuing to be critical and hard-to-please, I think I'm finally concentrating on the positive things in life, starting with the small things. This is thanks to a small, diaper-wearing "thing," which has taught me to appreciate each moment. She's growing FAST, and I can't afford to waste time being negative. I can't afford to measure each minute against my perfectionist standard, when it means ignoring the potential for JOY those minutes offer. I've committed to seeking out the good things, and that goes for when I'm forming opinions of other people, too.
Also, I'm finally realizing that whether I think I have something "in common" with another person is a moot point. And, really, I'll never know how similar I am to another until I start investing in a relationship in the first place. When it comes down to it, my REAL hang-up has little to do with whether a person is "right" or "wrong" as a companion--and it has everything to do with an aversion for how much work it will take to find out! Getting to know someone is hard, and I think I'm just lazy...
I've always been that way. I distinctly remember a conversation with Luke when we had been dating about 4-5 months, in which I started crying over how difficult intimacy was. I told him: "I want to be known soooooo badly. I want you to understand the REAL me--not just the me I show to the world. But...but...we have to spend time together for years before that will happen."
It sounds like a "duh" kind of statement, but I was standing at the starting line with a boy who--at the time--wasn't much more than a total stranger, and the task seemed daunting. I honestly couldn't imagine being known by him the way I desired. Now that no one knows me better, I realize it just takes time and effort. All relationships take time and effort.
So, I think I'm ready to get on the starting line with a few people and start working toward friendships. I've already made the first step, since Luke and I bought a few board games and I've promised myself actively to seek out time for fellowship. Also, I'm planning to send a message to all of my Facebook friends from Fort Wayne letting them know the McKinney's are interested in hanging out as well as asking about small groups in the area. (Fort Wayne friends: you have been warned.)
Am I being too forward? I hope not. Is there potential to make some people, including me, feel a bit awkward? Possibly. But, it couldn't be more awkward than CRYING in front of your new boyfriend because you "have to" work on the relationship, right? And, of course, my good friends will discover I'm awkward at times anyway. It's part of the "real me"--which I usually try desperately to hide from the world.
For these reasons, I'm done analyzing how people might respond to my new quest. Now that my Bible reading goal is almost complete, I'm in the market for a new mission. I want community, and I'm ready to take chances...
So....how about you? Want to be my friend? :)
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Before You Steal From My Mother...
For my short-attention-span readers, let me just say: I know this post is long--but it's worth sticking through it, especially if you plan to commit petty larceny in my mom's neighborhood at some point.
First of all--a quick explanation of my TWO week silent streak. My parents' 25th anniversary was last week, and I've been busily scanning, organizing, and printing photos for a small reception I was planning in their honor. It was a surprise to my mom, so I decided to avoid the internet quite a bit the last few days rather than risk accidentally spilling the beans.
On top of that, Luke's computer contracted a virus, so the only working one we've had is my old one--the one with HUGE black spots all over the screen from when I dropped it on the floor. It gets us around the internet for now. But it's extremely inconvenient for writing/reading things. (We have to keep moving the windows to the clear spot on the screen. Sorry if there are typos in today's post. I literally can't see them!)
But, all the trouble of using this computer is worth it! This story MUST be told.
But, all the trouble of using this computer is worth it! This story MUST be told.
So, Luke and I were in Kokomo over the weekend for his sister's wedding reception on Saturday afternoon AND for my dad's comedy show Sunday night, after which I had the anniversary reception planned.
I think everything went really well (although Cami had gas bubbles and kept us from an ideal amount of sleep), and we stayed Sunday night (last night) with plans to drive home first thing in the morning.
It was about 5:45, just an hour before my alarm was set, when I heard my mom yell, "Are you kidding me?! Are you freaking kidding me?!" Mind you, she wasn't talking to anybody in particular. She was just exclaiming loudly to herself before storming into her bedroom, waking up my dad, and saying several things I couldn't hear except for-- "YES. A guy on a bike just sawed off my pool pump!"
She dialed her phone immediately and told the police dispatcher the same thing: "I heard water and thought it was raining. But, when I went outside to check my car windows, I realized it was the pool leaking and the pump was missing." Underneath the mangled hoses, in a rapidly-growing puddle of water, there was a saw which had come from my parents' garage. Apparently, mom had seen someone walking a bike away from the scene before she realized she'd been robbed, and she was sure this person was the guilty party. So sure, in fact, that she jumped in her car to go look for him as soon as she hung up with the cops.
By this time, everyone in the house (except my sister) was awake. While Mom was gone, a police officer came and gave Luke and I the case number for insurance purposes. A few minutes later, Mom came back for her inhaler because she was all keyed up. That's when she told us she'd seen the bike and a gas can, abandoned behind a house down the road, but no perpetrator. Dad climbed in the car with her and left for a second sweep around the block, but this time, the bike and gas can were missing.
Eventually, they figured out that the bike AND the gas can had come from their garage, too. So, they reported those items stolen, and Mom spent quite a bit of time looking through the garage for more missing items. She also remembered that she had seen a WOMAN walking in the alley with a gas can before she saw it behind the house with the bike. Now she was looking for a red-headed female, who probably wasn't on a bike after all, because Mom knew every, single bike from HER garage had flat tires! (Again, all of these details were reported to the police.)
About 45 minutes went by. Dad was holding Cami, and Luke and I had packed the majority of our stuff in the car for an earlier-than-expected trip home. We were talking about how rough the day was going to be for Mom, and how we wished for a happier ending to the anniversary weekend. (She has asthma and diabetes--so we assumed her breathing and blood sugar would be off for several days.) Anyway, it was just as Luke and I were thinking about heading home when Mom yelled through the back door: "JOHN! JOHN! I see the redhead! Bring my keys!!!!!"
Dad practically threw Cami back at me and raced outside with Mom's keys. It was cold this morning, so I didnt follow them. The only thing I knew was Mom was trying to chase down somebody. But my brother, Luke, and I started laughing about the whole situation right away. My brother said, "Watch! The next thing that happens is Mom will pull up outside with a girl duct-taped to the roof of her car yelling, 'Look what I caught!!!" None of us really knew what she planned to do if she ran into this supposed pump-stealer, but none of us really thought she'd find her again anyway.
HOOOOOOOOOOOOONK.
That's my best recreation of what we heard next--my Mom LAYING ON THE HORN at 7:00 in the morning as she sped down the block in front of our house. I'll admit, I was a bit dazed, and it took me a second to understand that I also was hearing the sound of squealing tires. So, by the time I followed Luke, Andrew and Dad outside, Mom had already spun a donut in the street, backed up, and headed THE WRONG WAY down their one-way road--again at top speed. And now, from the front porch, I could see why: she was in pursuit of a young, red-headed female, wearing a pink top and running for dear life from the crazy woman she stole from!
I'll pause to fill in the details I only learned later. Earlier, Mom and Dad had noticed a package of cigarettes at the end of their driveway and left them there. Mom was keeping an eye on that spot as she inventoried the garage, just in case the person came back for them. And the poor, unintelligent creature DID come back. Mom came out and made eye-contact with the girl--which caused her to jump and run. If she wasn't sure before, the sudden fleeing helped Mom determine that was the suspect, and she yelled for her keys immediately.
Picture: gray Neon with the pedal to the floor keeping up with a desperate woman on foot as Mom corralled her into a three block radius, yelling orders to us on the porch every time she drove by:
"CALL THE POLICE!" (Vroooooooom SQUEEK!)
"WHICH WAY DID SHE GO?!" (SQUEEEK! VROOOOOOOM!)
"CATCH HER! CATCH HER!"
And, not only that, but we could hear my mother screaming threats at the top of her lungs after the woman, too.
"I KNOW WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE AND I'M GOING TO CATCH YOU!"
"YOU MIGHT AS WELL STOP RUNNING!" (vroooooooooooom!)
I am not making up any of this. My dad dutifully pulled out his phone and called the police as instructed, telling the operator: "We called earlier to report some property missing and--well--now my wife is....chasing the person who did it." I'm SURE the operator could hear all the commotion in the background.
Dad: "Yes, she's in a gray Neon. The woman is on foot in a pink top....and she's trying to keep her sighted."
The woman managed to duck behind some houses and stay out of vision for a little while, and several police cars showed up in the meantime. We gave each of them the description in turn and pointed to wear we'd seen her disappear, and Mom kept driving around, too. A few minutes later, she pulled up next to the house to tell her story to one of the officers, but only managed to say, "She was in a pink top" before yelling "THERE SHE WENT, BEHIND THAT HOUSE!" and taking off again,.
Well, now we had about 6 cop cars and my mother patrolling a mere ONE block area--and Luke, Dad, and I couldn't help but run over there on foot. We stationed ourselves at the corners, and kept in touch with the others through phones and walkie-talkies. Another ten minutes went by when I decided to walk into a neighbor's yard and see if I could scare up the suspect, and I just happened to see, four or five houses away, someone look around nervously and move out of my sight quickly. But, THIS red-head was wearing a white tank top.
I flagged down one of the policemen and spread the word that we were looking for a different color shirt now, and one of the officers finally pulled her out of some bushes about 15 minutes later. (We were worried they were about to give up, but when we saw all the officers converge on a single spot down the street, we all ran over there, too.)
They had my mother identify the woman (who was repeating, "What am I being accused of? I don't understand!" Just like on TV! haha.) And then--get ready, my friends--the male policemen had ME doa quick pat down of the female suspect. I had to peek down her pants, too.
Apparently she dropped the "clueless" act at the police station and agreed to tell them several places she had ditched her loot. So, my parents ended up getting the majority of their stuff back. And, the rest of us are left to marvel at how a little bit of luck, a stupid criminal, and my semi-crazy mother can work together and create one very memorable morning.
And let that be a lesson to all you pump thieves! Mrs. Branyan is PSYCHO! Don't steal from her. :)
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Feeling Like Myself, but Hoping Against It
In the week since I posted last, I've had several really bad days and two great ones.
Thursday night, while Luke and I were watching a movie, I started to feel anxious again. My heart palpitated for no real reason, and I couldn't shake the sense of dread. This return of symptoms had a depressing effect on me as well. Since Luke didn't have to work, he took the baby and let me sleep it off.
Unfortunately, he worked the next night (Friday), and my concern that I wouldn't be able to sleep without his help became a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Every time Cami drifted off, I climbed back in my own bed, squeezed my eyes shut, and thought "Okay, relax relax relax relax relax." But, as half-hours turned into hours, I realized I couldn't unwind! Every few minutes, I'd go through a hot flash, and then my sweaty feet got cold due to the air-conditioner. Plus, I kept imagining I heard Cameran cry. Just before I'd cross over that line into "asleep," I'd get another wave of adreneline, look at the clock, and think: I'm running out of time before the baby will need to be fed again!
It. Was. Miserable.
That's why I REALLY didn't want to repeat the experience on Saturday night, when Luke worked again. But, worrying about it, combined with the fact that I was already overtired caused me to get even less sleep! There were storms in the area, which have always kept me awake. AND, even if my exhaustion forced my brain to shut down for a few minutes, I kept waking again in no time. By the time Luke walked through the door Sunday morning, I was frustrated to tears. I had taken a shower and begun getting ready for church because I HAD to get out of the house--but my arms and eyelids felt like lead. Cameran was wide awake and wanting to be held, but I didn't have the energy to get both of us ready. So, Luke helped by bathing and dressing her, and then he sent us on our way...
I felt pretty low at that point. I kept thinking What's the point of this trial?! I feel like I'm losing my mind, and the Divine purpose is....what?!
Of course, everyone at church gushed over how adorable my baby is, and they kept asking how she's doing. I answered honestly: "She's doing fine! It's her Mom who needs prayer." I tried not to be annoyed when some of the women heard me say I was tired and gave me knowing smiles. Yes, all new mothers are a little sleep deprived. But, not all knew mothers are awake 57 out of 60 hours. I specifically told everyone who asked to pray for my thyroid, so I can take advantage of the fact that my baby is an excellent sleeper... But, since I had been praying almost nonstop the last two nights, I didn't feel much relief even when my brothers and sisters agreed to speak to God on my behalf.
But then, at worship time, everything seemed to make sense.
We sang "Lord, I give you my heart. I give you my soul. I live for You alone. Every breath that I take--every moment I'm awake--Lord, have Your way in me."
I glanced a couple rows ahead of me, to a man in our church who has several disorders, including anxiety, obsessive compulsion, and depression. He had his hands raised and was praising God. I wondered how many hours of sleep he had gotten the night before--but I could see it didn't really matter to him. He was there, asking God to use him, regardless of the situation.
My mouth was so tired I literally had trouble singing the rest of the songs. But it was the best heart-worship I've experienced in awhile. "I'm trading my sorrows. I'm trading my pain. I'm laying them down the for joy of the Lord." Joy isn't dependent on amount of sleep. "Behold He comes, riding on a cloud, shining like the sun, at the trumpet call." Celebrating Jesus' return with my brothers and sisters isn't dependent on amount of sleep.
As the service continued, I felt more and more relaxed--more confident that God is in control, not me. And, I also felt more tired!
When I got home, I put Cami down for a nap--and I slept for two hours myself! For the first time in over a week, the sun was shining, and I was able to appreciate my bed instead of fearing it. Luke and I went to the store later, joking and holding hands while we shopped, and I started to feel sleepy again! I've slept well both nights since, and I realized today I'm starting to feel like myself again.
I just pray I only feel like "myself," and that I haven't actually returned to being the exact same person I was before. I want to be a more positive "self"--smiling even when I'm tired. I want to be a more empathetic "self"--recognizing and feeling for the pain of others, like the man in our church with the anxiety disorders. And I want to be a prayer-crazy "self"--testifying every chance I get as to its power and ready to share the trustworthiness of God's promises whenever I can.
Thursday night, while Luke and I were watching a movie, I started to feel anxious again. My heart palpitated for no real reason, and I couldn't shake the sense of dread. This return of symptoms had a depressing effect on me as well. Since Luke didn't have to work, he took the baby and let me sleep it off.
Unfortunately, he worked the next night (Friday), and my concern that I wouldn't be able to sleep without his help became a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Every time Cami drifted off, I climbed back in my own bed, squeezed my eyes shut, and thought "Okay, relax relax relax relax relax." But, as half-hours turned into hours, I realized I couldn't unwind! Every few minutes, I'd go through a hot flash, and then my sweaty feet got cold due to the air-conditioner. Plus, I kept imagining I heard Cameran cry. Just before I'd cross over that line into "asleep," I'd get another wave of adreneline, look at the clock, and think: I'm running out of time before the baby will need to be fed again!
It. Was. Miserable.
That's why I REALLY didn't want to repeat the experience on Saturday night, when Luke worked again. But, worrying about it, combined with the fact that I was already overtired caused me to get even less sleep! There were storms in the area, which have always kept me awake. AND, even if my exhaustion forced my brain to shut down for a few minutes, I kept waking again in no time. By the time Luke walked through the door Sunday morning, I was frustrated to tears. I had taken a shower and begun getting ready for church because I HAD to get out of the house--but my arms and eyelids felt like lead. Cameran was wide awake and wanting to be held, but I didn't have the energy to get both of us ready. So, Luke helped by bathing and dressing her, and then he sent us on our way...
I felt pretty low at that point. I kept thinking What's the point of this trial?! I feel like I'm losing my mind, and the Divine purpose is....what?!
Of course, everyone at church gushed over how adorable my baby is, and they kept asking how she's doing. I answered honestly: "She's doing fine! It's her Mom who needs prayer." I tried not to be annoyed when some of the women heard me say I was tired and gave me knowing smiles. Yes, all new mothers are a little sleep deprived. But, not all knew mothers are awake 57 out of 60 hours. I specifically told everyone who asked to pray for my thyroid, so I can take advantage of the fact that my baby is an excellent sleeper... But, since I had been praying almost nonstop the last two nights, I didn't feel much relief even when my brothers and sisters agreed to speak to God on my behalf.
But then, at worship time, everything seemed to make sense.
We sang "Lord, I give you my heart. I give you my soul. I live for You alone. Every breath that I take--every moment I'm awake--Lord, have Your way in me."
I glanced a couple rows ahead of me, to a man in our church who has several disorders, including anxiety, obsessive compulsion, and depression. He had his hands raised and was praising God. I wondered how many hours of sleep he had gotten the night before--but I could see it didn't really matter to him. He was there, asking God to use him, regardless of the situation.
My mouth was so tired I literally had trouble singing the rest of the songs. But it was the best heart-worship I've experienced in awhile. "I'm trading my sorrows. I'm trading my pain. I'm laying them down the for joy of the Lord." Joy isn't dependent on amount of sleep. "Behold He comes, riding on a cloud, shining like the sun, at the trumpet call." Celebrating Jesus' return with my brothers and sisters isn't dependent on amount of sleep.
As the service continued, I felt more and more relaxed--more confident that God is in control, not me. And, I also felt more tired!
When I got home, I put Cami down for a nap--and I slept for two hours myself! For the first time in over a week, the sun was shining, and I was able to appreciate my bed instead of fearing it. Luke and I went to the store later, joking and holding hands while we shopped, and I started to feel sleepy again! I've slept well both nights since, and I realized today I'm starting to feel like myself again.
I just pray I only feel like "myself," and that I haven't actually returned to being the exact same person I was before. I want to be a more positive "self"--smiling even when I'm tired. I want to be a more empathetic "self"--recognizing and feeling for the pain of others, like the man in our church with the anxiety disorders. And I want to be a prayer-crazy "self"--testifying every chance I get as to its power and ready to share the trustworthiness of God's promises whenever I can.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
This Post is Not About the Baby (Volume Two)
When I first got pregnant, I promised not to submit post after post of baby-news, pictures, and other items typical of an expectant mother in the blog world. For the most part, I think I did a good job keeping baby updates on Facebook and reserving this space for musings on marriage, education, politics, and the like...
But, when I spent about two weeks on the couch dealing with morning sickness and had nothing else to talk about as a result, I published a piece I titled "This Post is Not About the Baby"--in which I thanked Luke for being a great partner during my nauseated, moody stage.
Well, folks, I've reached another phase in my life where--if I'm going to post at all--it HAS to be related to the baby. Obviously, she kind of dominates my days now. But, as with "Volume One" of the posts "not about the baby," Cameran only plays a supporting role in my musings today. As I expected, the drastic change she caused in my life has taught me much more about myself than anything else.
In just three weeks, Cami has rocked my world completely. I no longer decide whether to work on one project or another based on how many hours are in the day. Now, I have to figure whether those hours are truly "available," or likely to be spent feeding, rocking, or otherwise caring for Cami. No longer can I count on a full night's sleep just because I put myself to bed at a decent hour and have nowhere specific to be the next day. Now, it all depends on how long Cami sleeps... And, for a control freak like me, this has been hard.
At first, the majority of the New Mommy Stress came from my haywire hormones. I experienced intense anxiety, trouble sleeping, and a sense of loss for my "old" relationship with Luke right off the bat. One night, while he was at work, I was sitting in the middle of the nursery floor, feeding the baby, with tears streaming down my face for no discernable reason except that things were different. Eventually, I recognized body chemistry was a big factor in my feelings. AND, I knew a good way to preserve a part of my "old" identity was to keep writing. So, I journaled all those emotions. Here is an excerpt:
It’s been hard the last few days… This is what “they” mean when referring to the “baby blues,” I think. But it feels very similar to every time I turn a big corner in my life. Big changes tend to throw me for a loop, emotionally and spiritually. Combine that tendency with the fact that my hormones are out of control, and you can imagine a very tear-filled, fear-filled start to motherhood.
I Googled “Postpartum depression,” and almost every, single site said something like, “If you have thoughts of harming yourself or your baby, get help immediately!” Good Lord, I’m not that bad! But things feel kind of unpredictable right now, leaving me anxious, uncertain, and more-than-a-little-weepy.
When I went through puberty, I had somewhat of an identity crisis. I put a lot of pressure on myself to figure out whether I was athletic or brainy, tomboyish or girly, funny or serious—and I distinctly remember breaking down a few times when I couldn’t settle on certain categories. It seemed crazy not to be sure of who I was, and yet I struggled to “pick one.”
Similarly, when Luke and I started dating and I realized it was getting serious, I panicked while trying to define the relationship. Will we or won’t we get married eventually? If not, why continue to date? (And yet, I hated the idea of a break up.) If we will get married, then….yikes! That’s a lot to think about at 17. How will this affect our college plans? How will we support each other? What does the average couple need to make, per year, to survive? Would this union please God?
For a third example of a change-induced-crazy time, I struggled right after we got married—and right after I started working at the special needs daycare. I found myself reeling from all the “different” surrounding me. We moved out of our parents’ houses, and both of us got jobs for the first time (while continuing our full-time schedules as students). I knew I was capable of handling everything, but I still felt insecure and, most worryingly, doubtful about my decisions. Did I REALLY promise this man FOREVER? (We’d been joined at the hip for over four years at this point, and there was no specific reason to question things. But the permanence and the rapid change FREAKED ME OUT.) Eventually, all the newness caused me to neglect my prayer/journaling discipline, and I fell into a year-long downward spiral from “trying to survive” to “nothing-left-to-give-depressed-and-miserable-rut.”
Two things helped me in all of these milestone crisis situations.
1. Back-and-forth communication with God.
2. Communicating with myself through journaling.
In Junior High, I decided to let God define me, and I learned the important lesson that we don’t have to “pick” one personality over another. I discovered I’m girly AND tomboyish, funny AND serious, brainy AND…well, okay, there isn’t much athleticism in me. But, I realized it’s okay to be a walking contradiction sometimes. Different circumstances call for different responses, and I can be lots of different people when I need to be...
When going crazy over my dating relationship, I finally threw the responsibility to God there, too. I told Him to remove Luke from my life—shut the door in an obvious way—if he wasn’t the man for me. But I asked Him to bless us as we sought His will and to fill our marriage with love if it was meant to be.
And my blog was born the day I realized God was missing from my life yet again. I needed a place to express my thoughts. And, though I felt a little out-of-control, I wanted to write to others about how service to God is the highest human calling, regardless of how we feel. That’s how a rather emotional girl began journaling straight-forward, no-nonsense, unemotional selflessness—sometimes offending people with how detached I'm able to appear regarding certain topics...
Eventually, new things become old things. Crisis situations feel more manageable. And…eventually…even out-of-control situations can begin feeling comfortable.
Well, wouldn't you know that JUST as I was starting to adjust to the latest "crisis situation," my little girl threw another curve ball. For the first two weeks, she slept like an angel and literally only made noise when she absolutely had to. That is, if she was near starvation, she would fuss a little. But the rest of the time she only grunted her disapproval of things from time to time. When she wasn't sleeping or eating, she was staring us in the face--apparently reading our very thoughts with those big, blue eyes. And she rarely saw fit to cry.
I think God knew I couldn't handle more stress during those first tender days. Even though Cami was a good baby, her very presence was change enough to make me crazy. But, as I made it over the emotional hurdles through prayer, praise-singing, and journaling, the REAL Cami was unleashed. :)
She still isn't a bad baby. But she has been unusually cranky the last couple of days. I've suspected gas, since she has been extra wiggly and unwilling to let me hold her (unless she's eating)! And I've also thought maybe she's hitting a growth spurt and just needs lots of extra food. Regardless, her daytime sleep has been reduced to less than an hour per nap, and she has done more crying in the last 48 hours than in her first two weeks TOTAL. (sigh)
----
This post is not about the baby. It's about me. It's about the way I will choose to handle this situation. I've already declared round one, battling the Baby Blues, a victory for me. Instead of letting a dark cloud of depression consume me, I looked to God for my help.... But now, round two has arrived. Will I continue to praise Him, over the noise of my fussy baby?
It's difficult to praise when I'm tired and unable to sleep whenever I want. It's difficult to serve my baby girl selflessly when I've gotten comfortable in my selfishness. And, most of all, it's hard to relax and relinquish control of my life to a demanding infant and an invisible God....
But, that's what I choose to do.
But, when I spent about two weeks on the couch dealing with morning sickness and had nothing else to talk about as a result, I published a piece I titled "This Post is Not About the Baby"--in which I thanked Luke for being a great partner during my nauseated, moody stage.
Well, folks, I've reached another phase in my life where--if I'm going to post at all--it HAS to be related to the baby. Obviously, she kind of dominates my days now. But, as with "Volume One" of the posts "not about the baby," Cameran only plays a supporting role in my musings today. As I expected, the drastic change she caused in my life has taught me much more about myself than anything else.
In just three weeks, Cami has rocked my world completely. I no longer decide whether to work on one project or another based on how many hours are in the day. Now, I have to figure whether those hours are truly "available," or likely to be spent feeding, rocking, or otherwise caring for Cami. No longer can I count on a full night's sleep just because I put myself to bed at a decent hour and have nowhere specific to be the next day. Now, it all depends on how long Cami sleeps... And, for a control freak like me, this has been hard.
At first, the majority of the New Mommy Stress came from my haywire hormones. I experienced intense anxiety, trouble sleeping, and a sense of loss for my "old" relationship with Luke right off the bat. One night, while he was at work, I was sitting in the middle of the nursery floor, feeding the baby, with tears streaming down my face for no discernable reason except that things were different. Eventually, I recognized body chemistry was a big factor in my feelings. AND, I knew a good way to preserve a part of my "old" identity was to keep writing. So, I journaled all those emotions. Here is an excerpt:
It’s been hard the last few days… This is what “they” mean when referring to the “baby blues,” I think. But it feels very similar to every time I turn a big corner in my life. Big changes tend to throw me for a loop, emotionally and spiritually. Combine that tendency with the fact that my hormones are out of control, and you can imagine a very tear-filled, fear-filled start to motherhood.
I Googled “Postpartum depression,” and almost every, single site said something like, “If you have thoughts of harming yourself or your baby, get help immediately!” Good Lord, I’m not that bad! But things feel kind of unpredictable right now, leaving me anxious, uncertain, and more-than-a-little-weepy.
When I went through puberty, I had somewhat of an identity crisis. I put a lot of pressure on myself to figure out whether I was athletic or brainy, tomboyish or girly, funny or serious—and I distinctly remember breaking down a few times when I couldn’t settle on certain categories. It seemed crazy not to be sure of who I was, and yet I struggled to “pick one.”
Similarly, when Luke and I started dating and I realized it was getting serious, I panicked while trying to define the relationship. Will we or won’t we get married eventually? If not, why continue to date? (And yet, I hated the idea of a break up.) If we will get married, then….yikes! That’s a lot to think about at 17. How will this affect our college plans? How will we support each other? What does the average couple need to make, per year, to survive? Would this union please God?
For a third example of a change-induced-crazy time, I struggled right after we got married—and right after I started working at the special needs daycare. I found myself reeling from all the “different” surrounding me. We moved out of our parents’ houses, and both of us got jobs for the first time (while continuing our full-time schedules as students). I knew I was capable of handling everything, but I still felt insecure and, most worryingly, doubtful about my decisions. Did I REALLY promise this man FOREVER? (We’d been joined at the hip for over four years at this point, and there was no specific reason to question things. But the permanence and the rapid change FREAKED ME OUT.) Eventually, all the newness caused me to neglect my prayer/journaling discipline, and I fell into a year-long downward spiral from “trying to survive” to “nothing-left-to-give-depressed-and-miserable-rut.”
Two things helped me in all of these milestone crisis situations.
1. Back-and-forth communication with God.
2. Communicating with myself through journaling.
In Junior High, I decided to let God define me, and I learned the important lesson that we don’t have to “pick” one personality over another. I discovered I’m girly AND tomboyish, funny AND serious, brainy AND…well, okay, there isn’t much athleticism in me. But, I realized it’s okay to be a walking contradiction sometimes. Different circumstances call for different responses, and I can be lots of different people when I need to be...
When going crazy over my dating relationship, I finally threw the responsibility to God there, too. I told Him to remove Luke from my life—shut the door in an obvious way—if he wasn’t the man for me. But I asked Him to bless us as we sought His will and to fill our marriage with love if it was meant to be.
And my blog was born the day I realized God was missing from my life yet again. I needed a place to express my thoughts. And, though I felt a little out-of-control, I wanted to write to others about how service to God is the highest human calling, regardless of how we feel. That’s how a rather emotional girl began journaling straight-forward, no-nonsense, unemotional selflessness—sometimes offending people with how detached I'm able to appear regarding certain topics...
Eventually, new things become old things. Crisis situations feel more manageable. And…eventually…even out-of-control situations can begin feeling comfortable.
Well, wouldn't you know that JUST as I was starting to adjust to the latest "crisis situation," my little girl threw another curve ball. For the first two weeks, she slept like an angel and literally only made noise when she absolutely had to. That is, if she was near starvation, she would fuss a little. But the rest of the time she only grunted her disapproval of things from time to time. When she wasn't sleeping or eating, she was staring us in the face--apparently reading our very thoughts with those big, blue eyes. And she rarely saw fit to cry.
I think God knew I couldn't handle more stress during those first tender days. Even though Cami was a good baby, her very presence was change enough to make me crazy. But, as I made it over the emotional hurdles through prayer, praise-singing, and journaling, the REAL Cami was unleashed. :)
She still isn't a bad baby. But she has been unusually cranky the last couple of days. I've suspected gas, since she has been extra wiggly and unwilling to let me hold her (unless she's eating)! And I've also thought maybe she's hitting a growth spurt and just needs lots of extra food. Regardless, her daytime sleep has been reduced to less than an hour per nap, and she has done more crying in the last 48 hours than in her first two weeks TOTAL. (sigh)
----
This post is not about the baby. It's about me. It's about the way I will choose to handle this situation. I've already declared round one, battling the Baby Blues, a victory for me. Instead of letting a dark cloud of depression consume me, I looked to God for my help.... But now, round two has arrived. Will I continue to praise Him, over the noise of my fussy baby?
It's difficult to praise when I'm tired and unable to sleep whenever I want. It's difficult to serve my baby girl selflessly when I've gotten comfortable in my selfishness. And, most of all, it's hard to relax and relinquish control of my life to a demanding infant and an invisible God....
But, that's what I choose to do.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Sticking My Toes In...
I'm not ready to jump, canon-ball-like, back into the blogosphere just yet. Very soon I'll post some of the journal entries I wrote while dealing with the Baby Blues and yucky, anxiety-filled sleeplessness. My transition to motherhood has been--as I expected--an emotional one.
BUT, slowly I'm trying to balance the "new me" with the "old one," and I managed to find a minute this morning to visit some of my favorite political websites. There, I found an interesting story: The American Flag is Offensive in Schools. According to the report, a teacher refused to let an elementary student display his picture of the American Flag because the boy next to him was offended. The super intendent says that's not how it all went down, but I appreciate the author's commentary either way. Regardless of whether a boy's civil rights were encroached upon in this situation, the author pointed out the ridiculousness of claiming "offense" as a legitimate qualm in ANY case:
"The thing I find most irritating about [the American Flag Story] is the ridiculous idea that "offensiveness" should be a guide for anything. And it not only shouldn't be...but it cannot be.
This is because offensiveness is completely relative and subjective: most everything offends someone and most everyone is offended by something. Yet we won't prohibit everything. Would we kowtow to a child who was offended by sitting next to a black classmate? In short, we have to discriminate among people's feelings. And what will be the yardstick that we use to judge? Unless it is the "feelings" of the given authority figure -- in which case the judgments are completely arbitrary -- the standard of right and wrong must be applied.
Once you recognize this, the offensiveness argument goes out the window. It passes muster only in a relativistic universe in which, without a conception of Truth as a yardstick for making decisions, people use the only thing they have left: emotion. Yet this reduces society to the law of the jungle: we fight, using fists, votes, or words (maybe lies), and those who prevail see their will done. And that higher one, and civilization, are casualties.
The truth is that when people take offense, it's usually just a ploy. They're not really offended. They just don't happen to like what you're saying.
But if they were honest and said just that, they'd seem intolerant. So they try to seize the moral high ground by putting the onus on you and claiming you're "offensive." Yet they usually have neither the high ground nor anything moral. If they had the latter, they'd likely be able to mount an argument as to why you're wrong in a real, absolute sense. Instead, all they're saying, properly translated, is that they don't like how you taste. If they looked to Truth, however, they might find that the problem actually lies with their palate.
Something else that can exist only in a relativistic universe is the spiritual disease that today wears the label "liberalism." Get people to believe in Truth, and this disease will die as surely as will a fungus exposed to the light."
I like how this guy challenges those who are "offended" to explain WHY, with a "real, absolute" yardstick. I like how he talks about standards and spells Truth with a capital 'T.' I like how he points out that too many of our arguments stem from emotional issues and not from a genuine search for right vs. wrong--whatever the "offended" person may claim.
I'm still not ready to compose my next, big, offensive post about homosexuality or abortion or religion or whatever. But, when I do, I hope my readers are ready to discuss specifics and weigh my statements against the Truth.
I couldn't care less if they're just "offended."
BUT, slowly I'm trying to balance the "new me" with the "old one," and I managed to find a minute this morning to visit some of my favorite political websites. There, I found an interesting story: The American Flag is Offensive in Schools. According to the report, a teacher refused to let an elementary student display his picture of the American Flag because the boy next to him was offended. The super intendent says that's not how it all went down, but I appreciate the author's commentary either way. Regardless of whether a boy's civil rights were encroached upon in this situation, the author pointed out the ridiculousness of claiming "offense" as a legitimate qualm in ANY case:
"The thing I find most irritating about [the American Flag Story] is the ridiculous idea that "offensiveness" should be a guide for anything. And it not only shouldn't be...but it cannot be.
This is because offensiveness is completely relative and subjective: most everything offends someone and most everyone is offended by something. Yet we won't prohibit everything. Would we kowtow to a child who was offended by sitting next to a black classmate? In short, we have to discriminate among people's feelings. And what will be the yardstick that we use to judge? Unless it is the "feelings" of the given authority figure -- in which case the judgments are completely arbitrary -- the standard of right and wrong must be applied.
Once you recognize this, the offensiveness argument goes out the window. It passes muster only in a relativistic universe in which, without a conception of Truth as a yardstick for making decisions, people use the only thing they have left: emotion. Yet this reduces society to the law of the jungle: we fight, using fists, votes, or words (maybe lies), and those who prevail see their will done. And that higher one, and civilization, are casualties.
The truth is that when people take offense, it's usually just a ploy. They're not really offended. They just don't happen to like what you're saying.
But if they were honest and said just that, they'd seem intolerant. So they try to seize the moral high ground by putting the onus on you and claiming you're "offensive." Yet they usually have neither the high ground nor anything moral. If they had the latter, they'd likely be able to mount an argument as to why you're wrong in a real, absolute sense. Instead, all they're saying, properly translated, is that they don't like how you taste. If they looked to Truth, however, they might find that the problem actually lies with their palate.
Something else that can exist only in a relativistic universe is the spiritual disease that today wears the label "liberalism." Get people to believe in Truth, and this disease will die as surely as will a fungus exposed to the light."
I like how this guy challenges those who are "offended" to explain WHY, with a "real, absolute" yardstick. I like how he talks about standards and spells Truth with a capital 'T.' I like how he points out that too many of our arguments stem from emotional issues and not from a genuine search for right vs. wrong--whatever the "offended" person may claim.
I'm still not ready to compose my next, big, offensive post about homosexuality or abortion or religion or whatever. But, when I do, I hope my readers are ready to discuss specifics and weigh my statements against the Truth.
I couldn't care less if they're just "offended."
Thursday, May 5, 2011
You Really Can't Stay Pregnant Forever
My daughter, Cameran Joelle McKinney, was born Wednesday, May 4th, at 10:17am--after much, much, much waiting and anticipation. I can hear my mother now: "Amanda, she wasn't really THAT overdue." But Mom's part in this Birth Story Blog Post will reveal she was awfully excited herself!
True, Cami Jo came in her own “perfect time,” as all babies do. But, this is a story with a pretty steep narrative arc. The night before her arrival didn't feel like we were gearing up for "perfection."
(Reader, beware! I worked on this post all morning, between feedings and cuddlings. It is a shamelessly-long, detail-oriented account. I tried not to use embarassing biological terminology--but I didn't censor in length! Grab a cup of coffee before you try to tackle it.) :)
----
On Monday morning, my doctor told me to prepare for an induction on Wednesday night, if nothing happened on its own sooner. I really hadn't wanted interventions unless necessary, but my impatience and all the things looming on our calendar were tempting me with the idea. (An out-of-state friend's visit and a wedding were the big things approaching too quickly for comfort, if Baby wanted to be two or even THREE weeks late...) I'm not a fan of over-planning every one of life's events, and yet I was ready to have my baby!
Unfortunately, if I let Doc induce me on Wednesday, three out of four grandparents were going to be gone for different reasons and wouldn't be back all weekend! In other words, I needed to have the baby naturally before Wednesday, or go through with the induction and celebrate the birthday without my own Mom and Dad, OR just sit around anxiously for four or five more days hoping baby DIDN'T come until Sunday--all while we inched closer and closer to those big calendar events. Only the first option appealed to me, and I prayed hard my stubborn one wouldn't be stubborn a day longer...
I was absolutely thrilled when contractions started around 2:30am on Tuesday. In fact, I was too happy to fall back asleep, and I spent all day tracking the time between pains and keeping friends/family updated on Facebook. Obviously, I became increasingly uncomfortable, but I couldn't stop cracking jokes and singing to God--who had clearly answered my prayers for miracle timing. When contractions were 5-6 minutes apart and the most intense they’d been all day, we went to the hospital.
These days, I thought the medical community pretty much reduced labor/delivery to a convenience-centered science, for which they have different levers and buttons for different situations and almost ALWAYS provide you with a baby by dinner time. That is to say--I thought sending people away for "false labor" and instructing them to try more natural remedies was basically a thing of the past, particularly since THIS pregnant lady was scheduled for induction 24 hours later anyway. But, apparently it's a different story if your personal OBGYN is off-duty for the day. In that case, they'd rather do what they can to slow the process...
When the nurse examined me, she discovered I was only dilated 1.5 centimeters and 80% effaced. That was exactly what I measured at the doctor's office Monday, before 19 hours worth of contractions! I was devastated my body had done all that work with no external results. AND, I was going on 36 hours with only 2 hours of sleep. The on-call doctor instructed that Luke and I try walking the hospital halls for an hour, to see if I made physical progress. But otherwise they would call it "Braxton Hicks" and send me away.
People, these were not Braxton Hicks, and I knew it. I realize that young, first-time mothers like me have the potential to become over-excited and jump the gun. Or that those with less pain tolerance may be sure they’re dying long before things really get going. But, when I tell the nurse the pain level is at a 5 or 6 (and had been growing all day) I’m not just looking for drugs!
Luke and I decided to oblige with the hall-walking attempt, but I was pretty skeptical an hour would do much good after all day of no progress. We stopped every couple of minutes so I could grab the wall and breath through a contraction, AND we prayed some more… only to have the nurse announce “no change” at the end of the hour.
I was frustrated because the biggest pains I felt were LOW, in my pelvic area, and the monitors weren’t registering that far down. I explained to the nurse where all the pressure was, and she said, “We monitor up higher, because contractions start at the top of the uterus.” Then she declared, “Yours just aren’t hard enough to cause dilation yet.” This brought me to tears. They think I’m just a can’t-hack-it, I thought to myself. And—because I was mentally and physically exhausted, and because I was starving, and because I was in pain, and because I knew I wasn’t going to sleep again that night (yet would be expected to find energy to labor and deliver the next day), I cried. The whole way home, I blubbered to my very sweet, also-tired, also-disappointed husband.
Bitterly, I thought, “So much for miracle timing, God!”
Seriously, I could barely think straight, and my eyes kept closing spontaneously. But then a sharp pain in my abdomen would jolt me up so I could cry some more. (I kept thinking, “We are driving the wrong direction! You’re not supposed to send a woman in labor AWAY from the hospital!!!) They gave me a pain shot and sleeping pill before discharge, but those only allowed me about 2 hours of very rough sleep at home. At about 4:30am, I couldn’t even pretend to sleep anymore. I woke up Luke and said, “We have to do something.” My plan was to go back to the hospital and demand that they simply start the induction a little earlier than scheduled. There was no need to start contractions! So, they could break my water, administer Pitocin, or whatever—I didn’t care.
At first, Luke was hesitant. (He was still tired and didn’t want to make the drive if they were going to turn us down again.) But, while I was standing at the bathroom sink, I had a contraction that lasted at least a minute, and I felt the baby’s head move down about 2 inches. I marched to where Luke was in the living room and said, “I’m NOT having another contraction like that one in this house! We’re going!”
We checked into the hospital at 7:00am, and (praise the Lord) I had dilated to 5 centimeters. I remember getting this news, but I don’t remember much else except the back of my own eyelids, answering a few registration questions, and breathing through very, very frequent contractions. The pressure in my lower abdomen was intense, and I kept thinking “I NEED AN EPIDURAL!” I still thought we had 6-7 hours to go, at least, and I wanted to be numb enough to take a nap and recoup for pushing.
But, as it turned out, the epidural didn’t work like I’d hoped. It only really took the edge off. (The nurse said it “takes out the sting” but “doesn’t always take away the pressure” which had been the worst part all along!) My emotionally lowest point came while I was trying to hold still as he inserted the needle and I had THREE contractions while sitting on the edge of the bed. I could feel Baby’s head like it was poking out already, but I didn't realize that meant delilvery was close!
By the time the medication “kicked in” 45 minutes later, it was time to push! The pressure never went away, but I finally had a job to do besides “try to relax.” I told the nurse I couldn’t handle a long episode of pushing—I was too tired. But she told me if I worked hard for just a little while longer, I could sleep as a reward! That inspired me. Cameran arrived after 20 minutes of pushing, and only 3 hours after we checked in. In fact, the doctor tried to say “okay, stop pushing” once the head came out, but Cammie literally jumped into her arms after that anyway. I was out-of-my-mind exhausted immediately before hand, but hearing her cry was the adrenaline rush I needed.
Luke had a phone in each hand and was taking pictures/texting as soon as she popped out. (Actually, my dad ratted on him because my parents got a text that said, “I see hair,”—meaning Luke was texting even before she was born. Dad intentionally didn’t reply so as not to get Luke in trouble, but I was way too disoriented to notice!) And, within minutes of Cami’s vitals being taken (while the doctor was still cleaning me up) my mom walked in! She had gotten the call we were in the hospital approximately 2 hours earlier. And the drive to the hospital takes at least 1.75….legally. She even missed her exit and had to drive 18 miles out of the way! I have no idea how she did it.
So, I guess there are two morals to that part of the story. One is: despite what you see in the movies, sometimes people don’t get pulled over while racing to meet a new baby. And, two: God’s perfect timing triumphs, all the time.
Anyway, that’s the full-details version of the McBaby’s arrival. Since then, we have enjoyed a very alert, very strong, very happy little girl. She’s a great host—staying awake to look at EVERYONE who comes to meet her. The nurses say they’ve never seen a newborn’s eyes as much as we see hers.
It may take several days, or even weeks, for me to start blogging regularly again.
But I think Cameran is the best excuse I've ever had...
True, Cami Jo came in her own “perfect time,” as all babies do. But, this is a story with a pretty steep narrative arc. The night before her arrival didn't feel like we were gearing up for "perfection."
(Reader, beware! I worked on this post all morning, between feedings and cuddlings. It is a shamelessly-long, detail-oriented account. I tried not to use embarassing biological terminology--but I didn't censor in length! Grab a cup of coffee before you try to tackle it.) :)
----
On Monday morning, my doctor told me to prepare for an induction on Wednesday night, if nothing happened on its own sooner. I really hadn't wanted interventions unless necessary, but my impatience and all the things looming on our calendar were tempting me with the idea. (An out-of-state friend's visit and a wedding were the big things approaching too quickly for comfort, if Baby wanted to be two or even THREE weeks late...) I'm not a fan of over-planning every one of life's events, and yet I was ready to have my baby!
Unfortunately, if I let Doc induce me on Wednesday, three out of four grandparents were going to be gone for different reasons and wouldn't be back all weekend! In other words, I needed to have the baby naturally before Wednesday, or go through with the induction and celebrate the birthday without my own Mom and Dad, OR just sit around anxiously for four or five more days hoping baby DIDN'T come until Sunday--all while we inched closer and closer to those big calendar events. Only the first option appealed to me, and I prayed hard my stubborn one wouldn't be stubborn a day longer...
I was absolutely thrilled when contractions started around 2:30am on Tuesday. In fact, I was too happy to fall back asleep, and I spent all day tracking the time between pains and keeping friends/family updated on Facebook. Obviously, I became increasingly uncomfortable, but I couldn't stop cracking jokes and singing to God--who had clearly answered my prayers for miracle timing. When contractions were 5-6 minutes apart and the most intense they’d been all day, we went to the hospital.
These days, I thought the medical community pretty much reduced labor/delivery to a convenience-centered science, for which they have different levers and buttons for different situations and almost ALWAYS provide you with a baby by dinner time. That is to say--I thought sending people away for "false labor" and instructing them to try more natural remedies was basically a thing of the past, particularly since THIS pregnant lady was scheduled for induction 24 hours later anyway. But, apparently it's a different story if your personal OBGYN is off-duty for the day. In that case, they'd rather do what they can to slow the process...
When the nurse examined me, she discovered I was only dilated 1.5 centimeters and 80% effaced. That was exactly what I measured at the doctor's office Monday, before 19 hours worth of contractions! I was devastated my body had done all that work with no external results. AND, I was going on 36 hours with only 2 hours of sleep. The on-call doctor instructed that Luke and I try walking the hospital halls for an hour, to see if I made physical progress. But otherwise they would call it "Braxton Hicks" and send me away.
People, these were not Braxton Hicks, and I knew it. I realize that young, first-time mothers like me have the potential to become over-excited and jump the gun. Or that those with less pain tolerance may be sure they’re dying long before things really get going. But, when I tell the nurse the pain level is at a 5 or 6 (and had been growing all day) I’m not just looking for drugs!
Luke and I decided to oblige with the hall-walking attempt, but I was pretty skeptical an hour would do much good after all day of no progress. We stopped every couple of minutes so I could grab the wall and breath through a contraction, AND we prayed some more… only to have the nurse announce “no change” at the end of the hour.
I was frustrated because the biggest pains I felt were LOW, in my pelvic area, and the monitors weren’t registering that far down. I explained to the nurse where all the pressure was, and she said, “We monitor up higher, because contractions start at the top of the uterus.” Then she declared, “Yours just aren’t hard enough to cause dilation yet.” This brought me to tears. They think I’m just a can’t-hack-it, I thought to myself. And—because I was mentally and physically exhausted, and because I was starving, and because I was in pain, and because I knew I wasn’t going to sleep again that night (yet would be expected to find energy to labor and deliver the next day), I cried. The whole way home, I blubbered to my very sweet, also-tired, also-disappointed husband.
Bitterly, I thought, “So much for miracle timing, God!”
Seriously, I could barely think straight, and my eyes kept closing spontaneously. But then a sharp pain in my abdomen would jolt me up so I could cry some more. (I kept thinking, “We are driving the wrong direction! You’re not supposed to send a woman in labor AWAY from the hospital!!!) They gave me a pain shot and sleeping pill before discharge, but those only allowed me about 2 hours of very rough sleep at home. At about 4:30am, I couldn’t even pretend to sleep anymore. I woke up Luke and said, “We have to do something.” My plan was to go back to the hospital and demand that they simply start the induction a little earlier than scheduled. There was no need to start contractions! So, they could break my water, administer Pitocin, or whatever—I didn’t care.
At first, Luke was hesitant. (He was still tired and didn’t want to make the drive if they were going to turn us down again.) But, while I was standing at the bathroom sink, I had a contraction that lasted at least a minute, and I felt the baby’s head move down about 2 inches. I marched to where Luke was in the living room and said, “I’m NOT having another contraction like that one in this house! We’re going!”
We checked into the hospital at 7:00am, and (praise the Lord) I had dilated to 5 centimeters. I remember getting this news, but I don’t remember much else except the back of my own eyelids, answering a few registration questions, and breathing through very, very frequent contractions. The pressure in my lower abdomen was intense, and I kept thinking “I NEED AN EPIDURAL!” I still thought we had 6-7 hours to go, at least, and I wanted to be numb enough to take a nap and recoup for pushing.
But, as it turned out, the epidural didn’t work like I’d hoped. It only really took the edge off. (The nurse said it “takes out the sting” but “doesn’t always take away the pressure” which had been the worst part all along!) My emotionally lowest point came while I was trying to hold still as he inserted the needle and I had THREE contractions while sitting on the edge of the bed. I could feel Baby’s head like it was poking out already, but I didn't realize that meant delilvery was close!
By the time the medication “kicked in” 45 minutes later, it was time to push! The pressure never went away, but I finally had a job to do besides “try to relax.” I told the nurse I couldn’t handle a long episode of pushing—I was too tired. But she told me if I worked hard for just a little while longer, I could sleep as a reward! That inspired me. Cameran arrived after 20 minutes of pushing, and only 3 hours after we checked in. In fact, the doctor tried to say “okay, stop pushing” once the head came out, but Cammie literally jumped into her arms after that anyway. I was out-of-my-mind exhausted immediately before hand, but hearing her cry was the adrenaline rush I needed.
Luke had a phone in each hand and was taking pictures/texting as soon as she popped out. (Actually, my dad ratted on him because my parents got a text that said, “I see hair,”—meaning Luke was texting even before she was born. Dad intentionally didn’t reply so as not to get Luke in trouble, but I was way too disoriented to notice!) And, within minutes of Cami’s vitals being taken (while the doctor was still cleaning me up) my mom walked in! She had gotten the call we were in the hospital approximately 2 hours earlier. And the drive to the hospital takes at least 1.75….legally. She even missed her exit and had to drive 18 miles out of the way! I have no idea how she did it.
So, I guess there are two morals to that part of the story. One is: despite what you see in the movies, sometimes people don’t get pulled over while racing to meet a new baby. And, two: God’s perfect timing triumphs, all the time.
Anyway, that’s the full-details version of the McBaby’s arrival. Since then, we have enjoyed a very alert, very strong, very happy little girl. She’s a great host—staying awake to look at EVERYONE who comes to meet her. The nurses say they’ve never seen a newborn’s eyes as much as we see hers.
It may take several days, or even weeks, for me to start blogging regularly again.
But I think Cameran is the best excuse I've ever had...
Monday, May 2, 2011
Christians: Don't Use His Name to Stop My Party
Non-believers are forever asking us, Christians, how we can reconcile a loving God with all the ugly things in the world. Wouldn't a good God put an end to natural disasters, diseases, and other forms of suffering? Why would he stand by, arms folded, while innocent people died?
My answer is: yes, a loving God would put an end to those things. And, in fact, the one true God of Heaven says that once everyone has chosen their teams He will come back wearing a robe dipped in blood and wipe out the evil-doers. He will lock away Satan and anyone who rejected the free gift of salvation forever, and the armies of God will celebrate with a victory feast.
So why, when the brave US military ends the life of a man proud to carry a name symbolic of death and injustice, do the fearful and the pacifists begin raining on this country's parade?
I've heard the one-sentence argument: Jesus loves Osama bin Laden. But, does "love" really let terror reign?
As I've said before, the truth doesn't always make for a cutesy little Facebook status. Sometimes we have to dig deeper. And, when I dig through my Bible, I cannot ignore that God uses military language when speaking of ousting evil. It just so happens I'm reading in Isaiah right now, and it's positively loaded with examples of God's conquesting side. In some circumstances, God used military campaigns to further His will.
For example, when the Isrealites wandered through the desert, they tried passing through the lands of several enemy tribes. Repeatedly, Moses sent word to the tribes' kings: "We want to pass through peacefully." But, each time, those kings would respond with something akin to: "You're going to have to make me."
So, they did. Once the stubborn-hearted kings refused the offer of peace, our justice-loving God commanded the Isrealites to wipe them out. In fact, they were considered disobedient if they let anybody live. When a king used his freewill to make a choice against God, it left God with just one choice of His own.
Likewise, as I've mentioned, the time for choosing to ally ourselves with God will end, and all of His enemies will be eliminated. Those repeating "Jesus loved Osama" are leaving out Jesus' jusice and choosing to ignore the fact that Osama is accountable for his actions. Even if one tries to argue--along with Rob Bell--that no one ever goes to Hell, the fact is that eternal separation from God (or spiritual death) is the only option for someone who rejects that incredible love. Some people simply choose rebellion. And, though I don't understand why, they want nothing to do with my Osama-loving God.
Yes, Jesus loved Osama bin Laden. But Osama himself couldn't care less. When confronted with the words of Jesus, bin Laden scoffed. He heard the pleas of the innocent, the cries for freedom, and the demands that he end is reign of terror, yet he covered his ears and told America where to shove her ideologies. It sounds nobel to say "We shouldn't rejoice! Jesus loves everyone!" or to wonder whether bin Laden's cohorts will retaliate with even greater sins, but I reject both of these options. Bin Laden made his choice.
And now I choose to rejoice because I've witnessed a bit of justice on earth.
God bless the U.S.A.
My answer is: yes, a loving God would put an end to those things. And, in fact, the one true God of Heaven says that once everyone has chosen their teams He will come back wearing a robe dipped in blood and wipe out the evil-doers. He will lock away Satan and anyone who rejected the free gift of salvation forever, and the armies of God will celebrate with a victory feast.
So why, when the brave US military ends the life of a man proud to carry a name symbolic of death and injustice, do the fearful and the pacifists begin raining on this country's parade?
I've heard the one-sentence argument: Jesus loves Osama bin Laden. But, does "love" really let terror reign?
As I've said before, the truth doesn't always make for a cutesy little Facebook status. Sometimes we have to dig deeper. And, when I dig through my Bible, I cannot ignore that God uses military language when speaking of ousting evil. It just so happens I'm reading in Isaiah right now, and it's positively loaded with examples of God's conquesting side. In some circumstances, God used military campaigns to further His will.
For example, when the Isrealites wandered through the desert, they tried passing through the lands of several enemy tribes. Repeatedly, Moses sent word to the tribes' kings: "We want to pass through peacefully." But, each time, those kings would respond with something akin to: "You're going to have to make me."
So, they did. Once the stubborn-hearted kings refused the offer of peace, our justice-loving God commanded the Isrealites to wipe them out. In fact, they were considered disobedient if they let anybody live. When a king used his freewill to make a choice against God, it left God with just one choice of His own.
Likewise, as I've mentioned, the time for choosing to ally ourselves with God will end, and all of His enemies will be eliminated. Those repeating "Jesus loved Osama" are leaving out Jesus' jusice and choosing to ignore the fact that Osama is accountable for his actions. Even if one tries to argue--along with Rob Bell--that no one ever goes to Hell, the fact is that eternal separation from God (or spiritual death) is the only option for someone who rejects that incredible love. Some people simply choose rebellion. And, though I don't understand why, they want nothing to do with my Osama-loving God.
Yes, Jesus loved Osama bin Laden. But Osama himself couldn't care less. When confronted with the words of Jesus, bin Laden scoffed. He heard the pleas of the innocent, the cries for freedom, and the demands that he end is reign of terror, yet he covered his ears and told America where to shove her ideologies. It sounds nobel to say "We shouldn't rejoice! Jesus loves everyone!" or to wonder whether bin Laden's cohorts will retaliate with even greater sins, but I reject both of these options. Bin Laden made his choice.
And now I choose to rejoice because I've witnessed a bit of justice on earth.
God bless the U.S.A.
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