Just ASK.

I like mysteries.

Give me Netflix, a rainy day, no kids (when does that happen?), my leaf blanket, and my comfy couch, and I can go for hours without getting up- watching real life mysteries and trying my best to solve the crime before the 45 minutes are up. In fact, some of my best memories are of me and my sister (who was in middle school at the time) watching Unsolved Mysteries together, but only in the day time, because if we watched them at night, the missing serial killer would for sure end up in OUR yard and wreak havoc on us with his hook hand and creepy mask. (Oh, I should add here-- when my sister was in 7th grade, I was 22).

Perhaps the most frustrating thing for amateur sleuths like me is when there's just no answer to be found. I. Hate. That. It's frustrating to me that no one knows where the heck Jimmy Hoffa ended up. What's the deal with the Bermuda Triangle? Was Natalie Wood killed or was her drowning accidental? How the heck do those crop circles happen? But perhaps the greatest mystery of all comes in the smallest package.

Children.

We are given these children at the end of the arduous task of pregnancy and delivery. Our bodies are taxed, pulled, strained, and torn for ten months and then we endure the 8+ hours of weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth known as labor-- only to go home with THIS revelation.

I have NO idea what I'm doing.

Life quickly becomes a riddle that apparently only the baby holds the answer to-- and the little booger won't talk. Is he too hot? Too cold? Gassy? Teething? Does her ear hurt? Is that tag itching her? Does she need to be held? Put down? Does he hate green beans or is he just not hungry? Is he behind for his age? Will he every walk? Why does he make that face every time he sees me? Is he scared of the dark or just protesting bed time?

Then, as they find their words, the mystery deepens and the plot thickens. Does "oosh" mean shoes or juice? Does "bah" mean ball or bye? When she says "ah dah... ah DAHHHHH" does that mean "all done" or "you better move before I throw this random ping pong ball into the toilet out of rage"? Does "dee-dah" mean anything at all? And if not, why the HECK does she say it all day long? Why does she eat sweet potatoes like they're going out of style for 6 weeks, until suddenly she acts like they taste like sewage and never touches them again? How can the same brand of diapers that he's worn dryly for months suddenly start leaking like the Hoover Dam?

Predictable unpredictability.

Walker has been a pretty easy baby. Granted, weeks 3-7 were, um... NOT FUN. At all. But once he got his bearings and his tummy settled down, this baby has been a literal ball of fun. He smiles, laughs, coos, and chats all day long- really only crying if he's sleepy. He naps well, generally sleeps awesomely, and plays by himself like a champ. Which is why his sudden collapse of personality puzzled me beyond words.

Here's a mystery.

It was a normal Thursday morning. My friend Bonnie and I took Walker and Legend to the library and then to Walmart. Hunky dory, fine. Bought groceries. Came home. Fed Walker. Put a very happy Walker down for a nap. Two hours later, a very. angry. Walker. awoke. This was like Colic Baby, all over again.

For the next 48 hours, Walker cried. He shrieked, whined, fussed, yelled, cried, and agonized. He had to be upright, bouncing, or being carried around outside to function. Every nap, I'd think, "Oh, he'll be better when he wakes up," only to be greeted with a smile and a scream immediately after.

I was left pulling my hair out in question. His ears? He's drooling alot- is he teething? I thought colic was over-- gas drops help? Needs a walk? His schedule is off? Did he nap enough?

By the second full day, I was in tears as I rocked my baby in the dark quiet of his room. I sat holding my miserable baby and all I knew to do was what I should have done the first very hour of the ordeal. I prayed these words- "Lord, I've done all I know to do. Show me what his problem is so I can fix it."

I promise you, it wasn't even two minutes later when it hit me.
We had changed his formula.

Since the Colic Baby days, we had him on the Target brand of Similac Sensitive. Because of the convenience of being at Walmart that day, I grabbed their store brand of the same formula, thinking- hey, generic is generic... what's the difference? (Even though my friend Bonnie, who was with me said it was a bad idea). I fed him a bottle of that formula just before his nap on Thursday. He awoke fussy and it went downhill from there. The next 48 hours, he ate the bad formula and was in sheer misery the whole time. After the nap when I had prayed this prayer, I remembered I had a tiny container in my diaper bag with a couple of scoops of the Target formula in it. When nap time was over, I fed him that formula, and Happy Baby returned.

He's been here ever since.

There's a verse found in James 1:5 that says If anyone lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives to all men liberally. Let me tell you something. I am convinced that there is no more genuine, no more sincere of a prayer than the one a mom prays for her child. And I'm convinced a mother has an audience with God that is unlike any other audience He gives-- after all, it's been said that a mother's love most closely mimics His. And whether it's unexplainable crying, a rash that makes her miserable, or sending your child off to college, that moment itself is real. And it's legit. And it's tangible.

And right then, it's all that matters in the heart of God.

So how then? In moments of fear or in areas of indecision, how do we hear the heart of God? It's simple, really. We ask. And then, we listen. To our "intuition". To common sense. To the process of elimination. And if we still have no answers, we quiet our minds and hearts and let the Peace of all peace take over until logic is out of the way.

And we take comfort in the fact that God loves our children. More than we can or ever will. And He holds the answers to all dilemmas. Especially ones that concern us or our babies.

He cares about the birds that fly. And the flowers of the field. And the brand of formula that makes your baby's tummy hurt.

If you find yourself scratching your head and unable to solve a mystery that has your heart in turmoil and your children in misery, how about you turn on Jack and the Neverland Pirates, park your little ones in front of the TV with a bowl of Goldfish crackers, and sit in silence. Listen to your heart. In the quiet, He speaks.

You may find the answer to two or three questions. If you'll just ask.

Fathers vs. Daddies.

So, this Sunday is Father's Day.

I am well aware that while one of my favorite Sundays of the year brings me delight every time it comes around, I am also keenly aware that when the sun rises this Sunday, the holiday holds the power to peel scabs off of wounds found in the hearts of many men, women, boys, and girls.

I love to see men following the blueprint God designed for their lives. And I love daddies. Let's be clear. Daddies are different from fathers. Anyone who knows someone who is "just" a father knows exactly what I'm talking about. In fact, the difference between fathers and daddies is as vast as comparing the Grand Canyon to a pothole. Apples and oranges. Cats and dogs. Boys and girls. You get the point.

What's my wish for this particular blog post? Oh, my wish is simple today. My wish is that this blog will be printed out and distributed to men who have the opportunity in front of them to right some wrongs. Men who maybe need a pat on the back for a job done well. Men who haven't fathered or daddied anyone yet, but have the blank canvas of parenthood in front of them.

But it's mainly to put a spur in the saddle of any man who finds himself being less than all his kids need him to be, and more importantly- less than he was designed to be.

A father shares his "seed" in a moment of passion- whether genuinely or selfishly motivated.
A daddy steps up when the moment is over.

A father works overtime to make extra income for the family.
A daddy knows when quality time is the extra income his family needs.

A father cares about his last name being on the birth certificate.
A daddy gives his name to a child he didn't create.

A father comes home after a long day at the office and puts his feet up.
A daddy comes home and gives Mommy a break- because her job isn't 9-5.

A father raises his children and starts the second half of his life.
A daddy realizes only one phase of his job is over at graduation.

A father may have a hard time with giving affection.
A daddy realizes that if he's not affectionate with his daughter, she'll find someone who will be.

A father sits in the stands and criticizes his son's every effort.
A daddy takes him out for ice cream and then home for one-on-one practice.

A father may have to travel for business.
A daddy makes sure his presence is felt in his home, whether he's there or on the other side of the planet.

A father carries a picture of his kids in his wallet.
A daddy has a story to go along with each face he shows off.

A father's eyes may wander.
A daddy trains his eyes to look at one woman for the rest of his life.

A father hopes his kids aren't looking.
A daddy lives the same life whether they are looking or not.

A father gives instructions.
A daddy models them.

A father demands respect.
A daddy's very life commands it.

A father makes his own choices because he can.
A daddy filters every single decision through the filter of what his choice will mean for his family.

A father builds a retirement account.
A daddy makes sure there's good memories to accompany the funds.


Twice in this life, I've known the love of an earthly father. Once from my own sweet childhood- from a daddy who didn't get it right every time, but always did in the areas that count, and who is pretty much as perfect as perfect can get this side of eternity. And again from viewing the love of my husband for his children. The pure, unadulterated affection that can't help but spill from his every move toward them. I am convinced that inside every man there is a part of himself that only awakens when he becomes a father- and that part of him turns into a daddy the first moment he holds his child.

The other day, Rod's heart was broken by our sweet girl when she chose not to kiss him goodbye for one of the first times in front of her friends. I ached for him as I saw the literal rejection he suffered in an innocent moment of growing up. I wish I could let him see the future as I have lived the past- how there will be times that Big Strong Daddy will be an embarrassment and an eye-sore... that his very presence, while representing the safety and security our kids crave and desperately need, will also represent boundaries and rules they will hate. I wish I could assure him that the very arms Abi rejected will be the ones she will collapse into when a boy breaks her heart. That she will love her husband with all her heart, soul, and body- but she will take a person out with one arm tied behind her back if someone messes with her daddy. That when she's 30-something and raising her own children, there will be times when she will catch a whiff of her daddy's cologne out in public, and her heart will melt.

I want my husband to know that while I find him irresistibly attractive and handsome- every time I see him playing "doopies" on the floor with Walker, or hear him on the baby monitor changing a diaper while talking softly to our baby boy, I fall head over heels in love with him all over again. Everytime he's headed out the door to pick up Abi from school and he grabs her favorite snack and a cold bottle of water for her, I notice. When he talks to Abi about the shade of green her eyes are, I want to kiss him. And when he's hurt her feelings and he apologizes, I smile. When we're in public and I see other people observing the tenderness that my Grizzly Man unashamedly shows his wife and children, my heart swells with pride. What a man.

As I am writing this, Walker is sitting in my lap, trying to get a yellow highlighter into his mouth, unaware that in the next room, the ticket to his manhood is working at his own desk on Sunday's children's church lesson. Unaware of the deep laughter they'll share. Oblivious of the heart-to-heart talks that will keep them up into the night. Unseen are the ballgames, campouts, and fishing trips- the mysteries they will solve about women, the inside jokes that only they will get, the straight lines they will walk together through adolescence and young adulthood. Walker is unaware that his father- the one who gave him life- will also help him make his life worth living.

His father is a daddy.

That makes all the difference.

The Adjustment

So, I'm into the groove of this two-kid thing. It's quite different than one. And the bigger challenge is having two kids in two different time zones of life. I've had the moments of "What the HECK were we thinking" when I reflect on how before February 26, I had a child who could make her own PBJ, wipe her own bottom, and clean her own room. Now, I have one who thinks she's 16 and one who can't sit without blankets and towels wedged around him, and whose chubby neck has to be daily cleaned out of milk junk.
I adore them both.

Alot of people ask me how Abi is adjusting... How we are ALL adjusting to the 8 year gap between my babies. Well, aside from the 2.935 days that passed between their births and how very, VERY much the world has changed in those almost 3000 days, here's a few differences we're experiencing.

Abi loves him.
He loves her.

I am adjusting to the fact that:
One kid can count coins.
The other is just now able to get a toy to his mouth 50% of the time.

One kid gets into our bed at 3:00 am.
The other one gets some milk and goes back to his own bed.

One kid isn't crazy about hugging her parents in front of her friends.
The other loves us so much, he spits on our clothes.

One kid watches old re-runs of Full House.
The other one watches me like I'm his favorite show.

One kid turns acrobatic flips in the air on her trampoline.
The other one arches his back in an effort to get down all the time, even though he has no ability to do anything but lie there if he does get down.

One kid gets an Adele song stuck in her head and sings it for days at a time.
The other one says, "Ummmm blahhhh" and "heeeeeee" over and over. And over. And over.

One kid like to spread out and take up half the bed.
The other one likes to be straightjacketed in a swaddle every single time he sleeps.

One kid would like to be at sleepovers at ANYONE'S house all the time.
The other one likes to be wherever his mama is.

They are total opposites.

Abi never drooled. Walker drools and bubbles all the time. Abi hardly ever cried. Walker had pretty nasty colic for a few weeks. (Thank GOD that's over). Abi melted at the sight of Rod. Walker is a puddle for me. Abi ate 3 ounces of milk until she was about 6 months old. Walker eats 6 ounces of cereal and milk every night and he's only 3 months. Abi ate every 3 hours or so until she was close to 10 months old. Walker sleeps all night most nights, or wakes up for one quick feeding.

These two will not be on the same page for many years to come. She will be driving a car and he will be in 2nd grade. She will be graduating and he won't even be in middle school yet. She'll get married and he will be trying to figure out where he wants to go to college. She will be settling into motherhood and Walker will be studying for college exams or (my dream) playing football for Auburn.

But somehow, along the way-- they will become friends. It happened to me and my own sister, who is 10 years younger than me. And though my kids have such vast differences and will for all their lives, they also share some great commonalities.

They both were prayed for and waited on for seven years each.
They both have magical eyes that dance when they smile.
They both consume my thoughts, my decisions, and my consciousness.
They both were created out of love.
They both have the ability to make me feel like I'm losing my mind while at the same time making my heart explode with thankfulness.
They both gave me a purpose I never knew I had.
They both are so freaking beautiful, it hurts my eyes.
They both laugh from their souls.
They both bring love and life wherever they are.
They both make me realize I wasn't living before they came.
They are both MINE. And I will love them until my last breath.
And most importantly, they both are loved with the Love of all loves... and were handwoven by His hand for His pleasure.

And one day, when we get to Heaven, I want to see the DVD of the momentS those precious hearts started beating. I am convinced that those two moments were God's very favorite ones since Creation.

I know they are mine. Both of them.

Walker's Earth Assignment

So, this little guy is a riot. Not like "life-of-the-party-rolling-on-floor-laughing" riot... More like, old-soul, been-here-before- riot. Like, you expect him to philosophize on the weather or gas prices with his wrinkled forehead. Also like "I know more than I'm telling you" riot.

I laugh at him all the time.

Let me clarify. Now that we are past the constant colic screaming days, I laugh. He is so utterly adorable, and his persistent seriousness makes his rare smiles and coos even more delicious.

He carries an air about him that he is tolerating us mortals- that he is just trying to figure out why the heck he was sent here, and how he's going to best cope with the arrangement he has been given. So, to laugh at this funny little man of mine, I have decided to share some of his most hilarious photogenic moments, along with the fitting captions of Walker's thoughts on his earthly assignment. (caption below its appropriate picture).



Day One: They have laid me with some creature five times my size and irritatingly loud. I don't like this creature they call "Legend." Pretty sure he's trying to eat my head.




Day Two: The older female seems nice enough, though she does put her lips on my face quite a bit. The younger one is also nice, but I'm not sure she thinks I'm real. I seem to be some kind of novelty item to her. Anyway, the man who took this picture called my name and I went along with it, just to entertain them for a while.




Day Five: My captors seem to like this strange item in my mouth whenever I get angry at them. They think I'm oblivious to the fact that there's no liquid coming out of it, but I am not. Again, I go along with their silly game to keep them happy. The bright light in my eyes startled me here. I'm not sure I like this place as well as my last home.




Day Ten: I am being wrapped up like a burrito when the sun goes down. Every. Single. Day. I don't know what I've done to inflict this type of punishment upon myself, but it must involve my arms, as they are constantly being tacked down to my sides.




Day Twelve: I am being held hostage in a cocoon of some sort. These flailing items they call "arms" are always in my way. I have thought about gnawing them off, but I think they will be valuable to me later on in my assignment. For the time being, I am stuck with them by my head when I lay in this bed/cocoon thing.




Day Fifteen: The Bearded Man is very kind. His voice is soothing and gentle, much like the Man I previously lived with before I started this assignment. I have a feeling the Bearded Man and I will be friends for a long time. He lets me lay on him and that makes me really happy inside.




Day Twenty-three: The woman that feeds me most of the time talks to me like I'm uneducated. However, every once in a while, she gives me something to think about.




Day Thirty: The Bearded Man has some wisdom. So far, I've been most impressed with what he has to say versus the females in my residence.




Day Thirty-two: The older female, which I'll call the Feeder Woman in my residence seems to think I am a danger to myself just because these things they call "fingers" scratched my face up and made me bleed. I am very disturbed that I have been strapped into this box/seat mechanism, and have my hands wrapped up just because of a few minor incidences.




Day Thirty-three: Does anyone see this? HELP! TOO CLOSE! TOOOOO CLOSE!




Day Thirty-four: I snapped today and had a moment of weakness, which they call silliness.




Day Thirty-six: I was trying to show the younger female that out "there," is a world we can escape into without the Bearded Man and the Feeder Woman trying to make us do things we don't want to do. Somehow the Younger Female hasn't quite learned my language. But she's catching on a little at a time.




Day Thirty-seven: Why are they always strapping me down?



Day Thirty-nine: I have hope that I will one day be able to hold my head up on my own, without wobbling.




Day Forty-one: The Bearded Man and I had some time alone without the females. I think he understands me. Again, I am happy. And again, I have the milkless nipple in my mouth. I'm onto them.




Day Forty-two: The large people call this a "family" and apparently I am part of it. That's okay with me. Most of the time.




Day Forty-three: At least I have these friends to keep me company.




Day Forty-three part 2: I long to go outside and wait for the mothership to come take me back.


GOSH, this boy is an adventure already! Stay tuned for more Adventures from Walker's Earth Assignment. I'm so glad to be his mom. And so glad to document this wild life for him!

The Birth of the Boy.

So, obviously, I lived through bedrest. 8 weeks of it, to be exact. And now, I'm 3 weeks postpartum, and figured now is as good a time as any to tell you the story of our second miracle. Sorry it's taken so long... thanks for asking, and some of you-harassing me to write it out.

January 3, I was put on bedrest due to early dilation, losing my mucus plug, and lower pressure that was concerning my doctor. I was on pelvic rest for weeeeeeeeeks, and sorry, but my motivation to write or do just about anything else was at an all time low. Fast forward to 36 weeks pregnancy... I thought I was in the clear and went to my doctor's appointment ready to celebrate using my legs again.

It didn't happen.

Suddenly, there was protein in my urine and my blood pressure was very high. Headed to hospital for monitoring... not pre-eclampsia, but grounded to my recliner AGAIN. Bummed out beyond words.

Move ahead to 38 weeks. We had just had our annual leadership conference at church. I had just had a house FULL of men for the week, was up and around with normal blood pressure, hoping my water would break at any minute.

Sunday, February 26, I got up to shower and get ready for church. For the men who read this, I'll spare you the gory details. But when I went to the bathroom, I was bleeding, and knew this was it. I called Rodrick, Mom, Lori, and Dad. They were all in church but had their phones on alert in case the call came in. I called the doctor, explained the situation, and was told to meet her at the hospital within two hours. So, my team descended into the house and to the hospital we went.



I wasn't having any contractions, my water never broke- just bleeding a bit. I get to the hospital, unsure if the verdict was baby or no baby. When Dr. Chait came into the room, she didn't even examine me and said, "You're staying. We're having a baby today." Cheers erupted from Mom and Lori. Here we go.



The nurses start Pitocin (which, after our first birth I swore I'd never do again.) Dr. Chait broke my water (yucccccky). The contractions started within fifteen minutes. This was around 3:00 pm. My room was filled with my family and close friends. The mood had been light and exciting. But let me tell you-- when the contractions hit, the games were over. My contractions were hitting me every two minutes and it didn't take long for me to ask for my epidural. (Yep-- I "chickened out" and proud of it.) The epidural started working pretty quickly. But it also was clear pretty quickly that it wasn't enough to mask the now minute-and-fifteen-seconds-coming contractions... not even close. So, I got a booster in my epidural, and magic happened.

Around 7:30, my nurse Stacy (ADORED HER) came to check me. By now, the booster had worn off and I was hurting like a beast in a field being pecked to death by vultures. Mom asked her to guess how long she thought it would be until Walker's arrival. She estimated midnight. I started crying because I just knew I couldn't do another five hours with Pitocin contractions. At about 8:00 pm, I was hurting even more, so Stacy said she wanted to check me again and see if anything had happened. Now- keep in mind that at 7:30, I was 50% thinned, 5 centimeters dilated, and Walk was at a -2 station still. At the 8:00 check, as she was actually checking me, my Mom asked if I was having any pressure.

MOM- Are you having pressure?
ME- No. But horrendous pain.
STACY- Are you sure? Because you're ready. Give me a small push and let me make sure.
ME- (small push)
STACY- (yells) STOP!!! Get Dr. Chait and get Rod back in here. (Poor guy had JUST stepped out to eat).


Nurses flew in like birds. Carts whirling in. Monitors starting. Checking. Contractions. Pain. And I'm laying there like a specimen, legs in stirrups- waiting. Rod was obviously at my side and I was holding on to him for dear life. Mom and Lori were at the foot, watching. My sweet Dad was in the corner behind my head. And finally- Dr. Chait makes her entrance.

She literally walked up to the bed, said, "When you're ready..." and at my next contraction, I pushed.

And within seconds, literally seconds- my son's voice filled the room. Walker Rodrick Allen Windham made his entrance at 8:31 pm, weighing 6 lb 2 oz, and measuring 19 inches long. My one-push-wonder. Mom and Lori were cheering. My Dad, silent and strong, crying. Rod and I hardly able to breathe from the pride and the moment we have waited for- for seven long years finally in our reality. Stacy later told us that ours was the only delivery she's ever cried in, and she had to look away to keep her composure in those last moments. It was a room filled with pure, unadulterated love.








So, here we are, three weeks later, and our magical boy is still wowing us every day. He is without a doubt angelic... hardly cries- but when he does, you better HUSTLE. He sleeps like a champ (now), eats like a Green Bay Packer, and has made it very clear that he's a mama's boy already (happy sigh). He squeaks like a mouse, hisses like a snake, and chirps like a bird.






The funny thing is being in this stage of our lives where we aren't believing God for a baby. We've been married for 15 years. For 13 of those years, we've been trying to conceive somebody. So, to be able to close this chapter of our marriage has been surreal. And we are absolutely, 110% DONE. To be able to hear Abi laughing at her shows, while hearing my little squeaker chirping in his swing has to be the best feeling in all the world. Because these two kids are each testimonies to the goodness of a gracious God who desires more than anything else for our hearts' desires to be fulfilled and overflowing. They are living, breathing examples of the integrity of the God we serve. They are exhibit 1 and 2 of favor, mercy, and pressing toward the prize even when you feel like giving up totally.

I'm trying to memorize these days. His fuzzy cheek. His tiny tongue, flickering like a lizard's. The way he looks when he's been upset and I get him into my arms-- he magically settles down. His scowls and wrinkled brow. His hands pulling at his face and then blaming me for it. His middle of the night bottle. The way he smells after his bath. Because my tendency is to always be ready to move on to "what's next." I am purposely not wishing these mundane days of newborness away. I know what's next contains mud, sweat, busted lips, amphibians, and *gulp* independence. For now, all I need to know is that twice, I've witnessed the miraculous. Twice, I've given Rodrick a child. Twice, I've rented my body out to let the Lord create masterpieces that this world needs. Twice, I've lost the baby weight (well, almost this time). Twice, I've bounced, patted, and sang a baby into blissful sleep. Twice, I've had the privilege of the pain and sheer agony of labor that ends in a triumph no marathon can copy. Twice, I've looked into the faces of tiny people who make my heart hurt at its core with overwhelming love. Twice, I've discovered what selflessness is about.

I could not ask for more.

And for the first time in fifteen years-- I won't.

Lessons From the Recliner.

This has become my view. For about 10 hours a day. Seven days a week. For a month, plus a little more. For those of you who haven't heard what's been going on with us, I have been put on the B word.

Bedrest. Me, myself, and I are on bedrest.

Short synopsis of why, and then I'll get to the good stuff. A couple of weeks ago, I had some light spotting/bleeding on a Tuesday night. There was some the next morning as well, so I hauled it to the doctor's office. Upon examination, my doctor said I had started to dilate and had indeed lost my mucus plug. Due to the craziness of our lifestyle and schedule, I was immediately restricted to my recliner and bed, to keep Walker off my pelvis as much as possible. He was only at 31 weeks old at the time, and we need him to wait until at least 35 for lung maturity- obviously longer if possible. I had an appointment yesterday and have slightly dilated more, but Little Mister is locked and loaded in position, so we gotta make him wait it out a while longer. I do get an occasional trip to the doctor, a wheelchair walk or two, and a push through Target now and then if I behave. My family and friends have become my heroes, as they have cleaned my house, fed my family, and washed our laundry. My husband is my Rock Star- managing a drama llama little girl who only likes her mom's food and is trying to adjust to the major change we've been going through for the past two weeks.

Back to the good stuff.

One of the things about bedrest that I have learned is that after a while, there's only so much TV you can watch, only so much napping you can do, and only so much staring at the wall your eyes can handle. I'm not a person who gets bored easily. I don't let boredom participate as a character in my head now, or ever. I will find things to do to entertain and busy myself, and I have been fortunate enough to work from home, thanks to a super cool laptop and wireless printer. But even more than the work I've been doing, I have purposely determined myself to focus on the task at hand.

Getting this guy here at his very best time.

There is no love like a mother's love. A daddy's love is definitely in a league of its own. Not taking away from it. My husband's love for our kids is like a grizzly bear at the entrance of its cave. It's protective, it's fierce, it's territorial, and it's insanely strong. But a mother's love?

It's a wildfire. And there's not enough water on this globe to quench it. Not even a little bit.

After the shock wore off that this was going to be my life for a while, I went into game mode in my heart. Nothing- and I reiterate NOTHING is more important to me at this point in time than getting this baby here, fully developed and prepared for the outside world. I started finding success stories to read of bedrest babies. I listened to friends talk about being on bedrest for months at a time and the precious outcomes of their sacrifice. I read stories of healthy babies born way early with no complications. But mostly, I talked to myself. Reminded myself of what I know. And of what is certain.

Here's what I've learned.

My family is without a doubt the closest knit family I've ever known. We protect each other, give it to each other straight, and monitor every move to make sure everything is satisfactory in our eyes. I am watched like a hawk continously by loving eyes. And those who live too far away to do surveillance call me, text me, and send their love and orders over the miles.

My husband is my knight in shining armor. Sometimes (and only sometimes) I forget the tenderness his heart possesses. He's a brut of a man in so many ways. But the way he has looked at me over the last two weeks shows me that there's nothing within his grasp that he wouldn't move for me and these kids of ours. I'm a pretty independent woman... but when I hear his car pull into the driveway these days, I sigh with relief. It's the nearness of him that is my touchstone every day.

You really don't know how much your friends love you until something like this happens. I am flooded- FLOODED with help. We have eaten delicious meals daily. We have a clean house from one end to the other. I have had constant fresh flowers to look at. One friend brought me a very indulgent bag of magazines, chocolate, and a candle. My mailbox greets me with cards. Another friend keeps me supplied in my current obsession with mixed boxed chocolates. I have received K-cups for my Keurig, nitrite free lunch meat (LOVE), and a full day's worth of three meals that we could easily prepare from other friend with just a knock on the door and bags sitting on my doorstep. I could go on and on. It makes my heart swell with love.

When your kids drive you up the wall- whether it's your almost-eight-year-old's clothing malfunctions, or the aching hips your unborn son produces... moments like these show you the fierceness of the love you possess for these creatures. These seasons in life are like opening your door on the first cold morning of fall, and the brisk air hitting you smack dab in the face, waking you up.

As tough as you think you are, you're even tougher. As strong as you see yourself, you're stronger. But as mighty as you may be, you need people. Period.

God's love, God's plan, and God's purposes for your life are stronger than logic, more consistent than the sunrise, and more gentle than a spring shower.

And His grace- His ability in you and through you, can enable you to not just tolerate your situation, but to thrive in it.

Moments of weakness, frustration, whining, and pity are normal. They prove we're human. However, whining produces nothing but noise. So get over it.

Sacrifice is worth it. It just is.

The view from your backporch, although the "same" every day, can be the very canvas of life your eyes need to see. There are reminders around you all the time of God's goodness and His creative genius.

There is so very much to be thankful for every day.

Sometimes, life isn't fun. That's just the way it is. But the not-fun times will pass and the fun times are WAY more frequent than the non-ones.

A woman's body is without a doubt the greatest creative force that God has fashioned. Man was created in His image. And then, He made His masterpiece. I'm convinced of it. Within my body, there's an eco-system that is warming him, feeding him, growing him, soothing him, and protecting him. And whether I'm awake or asleep, it's working per Divine orders to finish the work the Creator has started.

Purpose will push you past inconvenience and difficulty. And even when it's hard and you're in the valley of pity, think of your purpose until your emotions change.



I'm just sitting here, in my recliner, looking out the glass sliding doors. I see all of the Live Oaks that provide a nice shady place to sit. I see swings that Rod has hung for Abi and her friends. I see the squirrels climbing everywhere. I see the ferns that I hate blowing in the breeze. But mostly, I see a little boy, climbing those trees with his two cousins. I can hear them laughing and plotting their next adventure. I see him jumping on the trampoline, yelling "Mom, watch how high I jump!" I see them sitting at the picnic table, eating pbj's and Capri-suns with grimy hands. I see those three catching that lizard on the deck and trying to bring it inside.

And that tired mom at the door, making them empty their pockets and take off their shoes? That's me.

Wishing for a few more days of bedrest. :-)

What Exactly Did Mary Know?

"Mary, did you know... that your baby boy would one day walk on water..."
"Mary did you know... that your baby boy would give sight to a blind man..."
"Mary did you know... that when you kiss your little baby, you've kissed the face of God..."

I'm guessing that while Mary did have a general idea of where this thing was headed, she had no idea the gut-wrenching sacrifice she herself would make for the world's benefit. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Ever since I became a mom, the Christmas story has taken on a new dimension. It actually started two weeks after Abi's birth, when I sat in a theater watching the just released Passion of the Christ. There was a point in the movie when I literally felt my heart break like I've never felt before. If you're a mom, chances are, you remember the part well.

Jesus is carrying his cross down the alleyway. At one point, he stumbles. Mary flashes back in her memory to once when Jesus was in a similar alleyway as a child of probably 5 or 6, and he fell while running. In her memory, she ran to Him, scooped Him up into her arms, and soothed Him as only a mother can. In her reality, her 33 year old son fell in front of her, and she ran to Him to soothe Him- only to no avail, as the mission ahead of Him provided no comfort. As I sat there in the theater, I remember a sob emerging from my throat, thinking how she must have felt to have her hands so totally tied- watching while her heart was beaten beyond recognition and scorned for crimes He did not commit.

For her.

Every year, since I became a mom, Mary has become one of my Christmas heroes. (I don't idolize or praise her, so please don't freak out at that comment. Geesh.) Fact is, Catholic or Protestant, we can't ignore the fact that she played a vital part in the Savior of the world bearing my sin. She said yes when she was approached with the offer of an eternity.

I am convinced- She had no idea what she was saying yes to.

None of us do, do we? We get married, decide to have children, and we jump in with both feet into a world we are in no shape, form, or fashion prepared for. Being a babysitter, an aunt, an uncle, a caregiver... none of it prepares you for the massiveness of the task at hand when you can't send the kids home at the end of your day. There's mounds of work, worry, stress, and strain to accompany the tremendous joys. For every high, there's a low, and for every bad day, there are a million good ones. There's feeding, weaning, potty training, sleep training, temper tantrums, busted lips, skinned knees, bruised egos, and broken hearts. There's hugs, kisses, snuggles, hand holding, and silliness. No one prepares you for the endless seasons of monotony when they're newly born, and no one tells you about the unpredictable chaos in the toddler years.

Bottom line- you don't know what you're doing or where you're going when you say yes to becoming a parent.

Back to Mary. How could this girl- whom theologians guess was 13-15 years of age- possibly know what lay ahead of her as a parent, nevermind the parent of the Prince of Peace? She was given a pretty good heads-up that this was kind of a big deal when the angel Gabriel appeared to her and gave her the challenge... and once again when the prophet Simeon said to her that "...a sword would pierce her own soul." But did she really get it?

Did she really know that He would be a stranger in their hometown?
Did she know he would challenge His elders at the age of 12, and tear the temple to pieces in righteous anger as a man?
Did she forecast His daredevil side- that would touch a leper, a woman with a bleeding disorder, and allow a prostitute to wash His feet with her tears?
Did she see ahead of time that her Son would raise a dead girl from her slumber, spit in the dirt and heal a blind man, and break cultural taboos with an encounter at a well?
Did she know He would have a choice whether or not to continue on- and choose to keep going, even when His sweat would turn to blood?
Did she know He would have Heaven's armies at His disposal, and refuse their services?

We have this idea that Jesus was basically a child who never played, never made a mess, never had that twinkle of mischief in His eye... But we forget He came to this earth as a MAN. Not a Deity. He got dirty. He had to learn to potty like everyone else. He spilled His milk and had to wash His hands like any other grimy boy. Know that part of the old Christmas carol- "But little Lord Jesus, no crying He makes?" Um, yeeeeeeeeah. Right. You're born in a barn, lying on a mound of hay, and you're not going to cry? Whatever.

I'm sure there were seasons when to Mary, Jesus was just another child. An active boy with His earthly father's penchant for woodwork. A growing teenage boy with stinky laundry and a messy room. Mary was His mother- the one who provided His lunches, washed His underwear, and packed His bag for sleepovers. But I'm sure with each passing day and especially as each birthday came around, she wondered how many days like these were left with her boy before He fulfilled what He was born to do.

I wonder about my own children. Will Abi be a nurse in an orphanage overseas? Will Walker join the military or play college football on the other side of the country? Is Abi going to say, "Mom, I want to live in LA?" Will there come a time when Walker will only come home for Christmas? **Sigh** Every Christmas morning is one closer to them leaving my nest. Each added candle to their cakes means they are an inch closer to moving out of my arms and into someone else's.

But Mary's Son? He moved from Heaven, to her arms, to a cold and splintery cross for a display of God's love toward a world that would shun Him.

My son may serve with a badge on his shirt. Her Son served by stripping Himself of badges and honor.

My son will have skinned knees and will lose a tooth every now and then. Her Son was beaten beyond recognition to heal my wounds.

My son will be separated from me while he pursues his dreams, and there will come a time when I cannot rush to his side to fix it. Her Son was separated from His Father because He became the sin of the world and when He cried out to his Daddy, there was no answer. This is all so He can always answer MY cries.

My son will grow up in a circle of love and adoration by his family and his peers- constantly affirmed of his worth and his greatness. Her Son was rejected by His own friends and family. He was mocked, ignored, and even the one closest to Him pretended not to know Him in the darkest hour of His life.

My son will love his mama. Her Son died for His.

Her Son couldn't deal with eternity without Walker in it. Her Son gave MY son life.

So, come to think of it- my son is also a key player in this story, isn't he? If he had been the only one to need Mary's Son- the only one to gain from His sacrifice- He would have come for him.

I'm thankful for Mary- for her willingness to say yes to a plan that would rip her open and cause her heart to be both shattered and redeemed at the same time. I'm thankful for Jesus- for His choice to push through sweat and blood, agony and defeat, in order to win the ultimate prize- MY son.

Because of Mary's example, I feel a deeper calling as a mother to give my children to their Maker, 100%. If an unwed teenage girl can pull herself together to raise a child in the Middle East, and then wait with baited breath for Him to take HIS last breath and save the world... Surely I can raise mine to serve Him.

And then summon the strength to let them go wherever He leads them.