Life Lessons from my 17-month-old

Sometimes I wonder who is learning more about life right now, me or my seventeen month old son? Rafferty sees the world as his to conquer. He is learning new words, including primary colors, the names of his cousins, and foods. Yesterday's words: thunder and kombucha. Today's learning project: legos.

Oh boy.

We bought him a small pack of the challenging toys, hoping to stimulate our big boy into problem solving. This new purchase has thrown our son into a love-hate relationship with America's favorite building block. He clearly loves the legos, as they are the first thing his chubby hobbit feet run to out of the crib. He also apparently hates the impossible game as he has now learned to grunt in frustration even before reaching for one.

I know he is still young to figure this type of toy out on his own, so I sit and help the sausage fingers line up the holes and make a match. Over. And over. And over . . . and over.

My son, "The Thinker", as my dad calls him, dresses his face with the most concentrated of expressions, and he is determined. I tell him amidst each frustrated screech, "it is okay to struggle, you can do it." His look in response resembles doubt and he signs please for some help. Another cycle of over and overs and "There! You did it!". He claps and is the conquerer of the world as he set out to be.

I don't desire to conquer the world, so much as to simply stick with my own hard stuff, put on my most concentrated face and keep going to completion.

Even as I doubt my ability to accomplish much, the nearly much of life isn't the fullness I crave. I want to finish what I set out to do, the little things building the bigger. I speak of struggle to my baby, yet I flee from it myself, be it mental pursuits, household battles, spiritual harvests, or taking on the post-baby fat held on by too many late night sweets.

Perfection, my ever lurking enemy, tells me I must never fail (the Liar whispers that failure marks me unlovable). This is not realistic or encouraging. I simply pray for the maturity and discernment to know which learning projects I should pursue, and finish what I have started. The best choice at times may be to put aside what I started, if my priorities are not being met, but I shudder at becoming the woman who cuts loose all efforts because I have sweat on my brow. Rewards come with the sweat.

Learning to stack legos is a little thing, but this battle of struggle to success is a mountain at seventeen months! Thank you, baby boy, for teaching your mommy. I look forward to my next lesson.

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This is Today.

Dustin hits snooze three times. I finally obey, not by my own good sense, but because Cosy is hungry, demanding food.

Sipping coffee, we sit on our comfortable living room furniture, watching the cotton candy clouds spread thin over the mountains. Last night’s rain had brought in a cool morning and we are cuddled with blankets and baby girl. She coos louder today than we have yet heard, and we each read our own Bible and study.

Rafferty is up with loud “Hey!” exclamation, so sweet. His “bear hug” onesie hugging his belly tight and he sucks his paci with all his might. Oh, that paci. He plays, we read and sipped coffee, then breakfast. Soaked porridge with blueberries from “Nourishing Traditions”, starting our day with nourishment to our bodies. I think we shouldn’t pray for breakfast to bless our bodies if we know it isn’t truly nourishing. We can pray in good conscience, here.

The bananas I bought yesterday have vanished. Not in the pantry, the car, the fridge... I bought two bunches all gone.

Dustin closes himself into his office to work, I place Cosy in the crib as Rafferty and I play and pick up in his room. We read from his picture Bible for twenty minutes, he holding my arms tight and sitting in my lap. I think he is hearing the Word of God.

We do his flash cards, body part vocabulary, and he signs for “more” after the first run-through.

A beautiful day to play on the porch, watch hummingbirds, skip morning naps (Rafferty is becoming a one-nap-a-dayer), and try our first brew of kombucha. It is sweet and fizzy and dances on our tongues and makes Rafferty snort and cough. He “mmmm’s” and sips on.

I take everything off our kitchen counters so they can be professionally measured for the new counters to be put in soon. Our friend installs our new dryer (hallelujah! ) as I occupy Rafferty to stay out of everyone’s way. He still finds a way to run up to the counter man and shout “hey!” over and over. The man ignores him completely, setting a very awkward scene for me, who’s child is oblivious to the fact that not every adult is fascinated by him. Cosy screams for the awake time too drawn out and I think wow, this is hard with two under two. I’d better write this down before I forget this moment.

Lunch is leftovers and spinach cooked with butter and salt (a happy new discovery for son) followed by a welcomed nap for Gifts 1 and 2.

I take this time to gather a bunch of wildflowers to grace our table. I stick a daisy in my ear, then remove it after the second bug dares to come too close. I see a prehistoric looking lizard and think to capture it as a pet for Rafferty. I toss a bowl over it then thinking what do I do with this creepy thing, now? I let it go free. It just sits there, staring at me with dinosaur glare.

Dinner is prepped with chicken legs marinating in lemon and garlic with olive oil. I read “L’Abri”, by Edith Schaffer, hopeful to glean wisdom for building community for our own semester program here in Pagosa. Baby girl awake, nurse, spit up, coo, nurse some more. Wash diapers, fold laundry, do dishes, think didn’t I just do the dishes?, write five more thankful moments on the counting list, even the cheerful print on the hanging dishtowel, and see blessing after blessing.

Just an ordinary day. But is any day ordinary when we are alive in Chirst and living with children miracles and feeling those feelings of “this is so so good”? I am tired and have many hours left . . . but I’ll gladly welcome each one.

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Media on Motherhood

Dustin and I were excited to finally enjoy a movie together. We had decided on Disney’s Secretariat, a family film about a famous racehorse and his housewife owner. We were let down by the acting and undeveloped plot line (it paled in comparison to Seabiscuit), and I left the couch that night bothered as if a pesky fly had managed its way in my ear. The movie had had a message. The message was true to today’s common view on motherhood, womanhood, and the significance of it all.

Without spoiling the movie’s entire story for you (I wouldn’t recommend it, anyway), allow me to lay the scene:

Housewife and mother of four, Penny, had just lost her mother. Her dementia ailed father and family horse farm was left for her to manage. Penny’s childhood love for racing horses was rekindled while she managed the farm, and she decided to raise up a winning racehorse just born. The horse farm, located in Virginia, kept Penny a far distance from her husband and children, who lived in Denver. The story of horse training, cunning business skills, and the usual ups and downs that make up a movie continued, but I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed with the “hidden” message running through the script.

Penny was depicted as one to be held in the ultimate esteem. Her choice to sacrifice three years of raising her children for a horse was heroic. She would proclaim, that like a racehorse, she had to run, race, and win.

In one bothersome seen, she was home for the weekend talking with her obviously neglected husband. An eavesdropping teenager heard her mother reflect on all of the sacrifices she’d made to have a family, now just having to go forward what was in her to do. This same teenage daughter was throwing herself into the world of hippies, an impressed upon adolescent, in desperate need of a steady mother’s influence.

Just as you thought that maybe Penny’s desire to win was motivated by love for her ailing father, we were reminded of her personal desire to win and have her own way in this world.

The Penny-praise acclimated when her husband, who had “taken sides against her” throughout the film, came around and tenderly shared with her that she had shown her daughter’s what it means to be a real woman.

I gasped.

A real woman? To abandon your husband and children for three years to chase after your own desires? To be so dissatisfied with the daily duties of being a housewife, that you willingly trade the hearts of your children for momentary gain?

In the film (based on a true story) her four children remained unscathed by her neglect. Her hippie daughter followed her heart’s desires, which is pronounced right above all. The film even declares that Penny lived “happily ever after”.

The fly in my ear, the question I couldn’t ignore was, would Penny have been less of a real woman had she chosen to stay devoted to her family alone? Would her steadfastness to her commitment as a housewife been insignificant, making her life trivial and forgettable?

There is tremendous value in womanhood and motherhood. It is with sadness I see our culture, often through media, contort motherhood into a job for the week, boring, and uninspired. God has designed motherhood for the strong, adventurous, and creative! Media tells us it is a real woman who aspires to something greater, God gives us opportunities to serve wholeheartedly, hard work and life abundant, for His glory and the lasting benefit of our children.

I understand there are those who are unable to be home with their children, stuck in jobs for pay check’s sake. But choosing our own ambitions over guiding and investing? As mothers, we have opportunities to incorporate our passions into our homes and everyday lives. Must we be taken away from our families to pursue the “could-haves” and “would-have-been’s-if-it-weren’t-for-these-inconvenient-kids”?

Oh, Media! See the significance of a mother!

...They (mothers) have been maligned, goaded, blamed, and ridiculed in recent years, but most have stood their ground. Quietly and confidently they have continued to love and nourish their children and prepare them for a life of service to God and to mankind. There is no more important assignment on the face of the earth...

-Dr. James Dobson, his book dedication to mothers in “Parenting Isn’t For Cowards”

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Yelling Fever

There are certain things I can't stand.

I can't stand should-have-been-amazing movies now unwatchable because of the never ending swearing.

I hate cold food, that was intended to be served hot.

I am sickened by my overgrown cuticles.

I loathe flossing.

But one thing I truly despise is hearing parents yelling at their children. I am not referring to life saving screams of "Watch out!" before little feet hit the car bound pavement. Or the life training rebukes in raised tones of "You do not speak to me in that manor, young lady." (Thank you, Dad.)

The yelling, that as you listen and watch the scene, you can see the child's face fall in despair.

I had managed an outing with my two kidos this past week to Hobby Lobby for craft inspiration and time passing. Cosette asleep in the Becco carrier and Rafferty sitting in the cart's seat, pointing endlessly at the lights and exclaiming long "ooooohhhhhh"'s. As we weaved in and out of each craft filled aisle, we heard an angry mom letting out steam.

Her words were as follows:

"Knock it off!"

"You are driving me crazy, stop it!"

"Shut up, I'm talking!"

"Leave it. Move! Move!"

This continued for several minutes. All I heard from the small child were cries of "Mommy!". When our paths crossed in an aisle, I saw the little boy standing, arms stretched out to his mother, desperately wanting to be comforted. He may as well have been crying to a wall. He was clearly not going to be embraced by this woman.

What impacted me the most was my fifteen month old son reacting to these despairing words. He would turn his head to find the sound with each exclamation and frown, understanding something was not right.

I do not know if this woman was having the worst day of her life. I do not know if her son has been misbehaving, or maybe his presence alone was just too much. But I do know that his face was pleading for attention and comfort.

I am learning (having two babies in thirteen months will help one learn) how hard patience can be to come by. Self control seems a mythical super power, certainly not something attainable by me, in this impossible situation. Yet knowing how our Heavenly Father views children, my children, I am given what I need to close my mouth and open my arms.

How easy it is to yell and tear down in times of stress. How life giving instead, to hold tight and instruct. Comfort first, then speak truth. God meets us when we need comfort, disciplines us in love, and is everlasting arms held fast. May I reflect these attributes to my own children so they may grow knowing His character.

Psalm 145:8

The LORD is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in love

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Saint Stuff: Am I there yet?

I am a little kid, whining "are we there yet?" every fifteen minutes on our family's fifteen hour road trip. I am anxious to get there, to get out of the cramped car hot and sticky, to stretch out my legs and shake off the car-sick feeling inside. I had not considered the trip, only the destination.

I am turning 24 tomorrow, yet still feel like that whiny kid discontent and ready to arrive. I long for maturity and the things of a godly woman, a saint who's pores sweat Christlikeness.

My desire to "arrive" often leaves me discouraged and overwhelmed. I have so far to go! The road to "there" is forever away, an endless road. In my romantic head I picture my life full of cheerful kidos and loving husband, daily adventures of Bible reading, people loving, music playing, dreams and beauty. But in the reality of the moment, with two under two, a husband at work, loving less and seeing only chaos and my sin, my feet seem unable to take a single step down the road to sainthood.

Deep breath, see the cross.

God is about sanctification. I am not there yet, only a work in progress, His work at work. I can practice, sweat out sin, forgiven, given opportunities to change out of this old self. I can enjoy this journey, even amidst the seemingly imperfect moment, for it is in this moment where saint stuff happens.

I have been made a saint. Now I can grow because He is the grower of good things and He has made me new.

My 24th year will be one made of saint-moments, I pray. Moments of choosing to bear Spirit-fruit instead of sour tasting wasted blessings because I was slow to see Him there amidst it all.

And He is here.

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Birth Story, Cosette Liberty

When I think of a worshipful time, I think of sitting on a wooden porch, gazing at golden sunbeams shooting through stretched thin clouds over mountains. Acoustic hymns are singing softly behind me, melodies gentle and inspiring. I think of a living portrait right before my eyes and ears, too beautiful to comprehend like my Lord.

I do not think of childbirth.

When I think of romance, I think of walking down the aisle with a smile reaching further than it was made to because of who I walk towards. I think of an embrace that catches me off guard, feeling those little tingles raging through my body making me warm and electric. Sweet words and treasured date nights eating and recalling favorite memories.

I do not think of having a baby.

Yet as I look down at my new baby's dancing eyes and remember the birth, the two words I cannot escape are worshipful and romantic.

My water broke the late morning of April seventeenth, just a slow trickle of fluid. I called the midwife on duty and began to make preparations for leaving home, and more significant, leaving my thirteenth month old son. I should have known it would be game day. The night before brought massive thunderstorms that had my belly dancing with the vibrations. Just like with my first birth, I had yet to feel any real contractions. So after being checked at our birth center we left to walk the mall. By the second hour of walking, my contractions were five minutes apart and difficult to stand through. Heading back to the birth center had me full of remembrance of what I was going to have to do. Oh no. Here comes another one.

We slow danced in our birthing suite, which looked much like a comfortable bedroom with heavy floral design. The birthing ball proved useful for a time, and then I met my sweet relief: the hot tub. I put on a bikini and lay in the tub, the room dark but graced with candlelight. We played my favorite Pandora radio station: Sovereign Grace Music. I lay for what may have well been two hours, focusing through each rushing contraction.

Each song playing on the radio had been sovereign indeed. Lyrics naming the attributes of God and melodies I knew well but had never heard with these laboring ears filled the room. I found myself approaching a new contraction feeling defeat, only to remember the victory I have in Christ. I felt exhaustion and the deep desire to quit, then being sweetly reminded of new life and redemption promised. The gospel, the gospel, the gospel, the gospel. It was the pulse of the room, the beat I contracted with. I found myself engaged in full worship of a faithful God.

I remember thinking of how strange this was, being so worshipful throughout so much pain. He was giving me a precious gift, full experience of what childbirth can be. Full experience of his beautiful design.

And then He gave me more. My husband sitting next to the tub. Just sitting, not really doing much at all. But with each contraction I gripped his hand tight and would moan deep, then grip tighter. I would meet his eyes, then back to the colorful tile lining the walls. It passed. I released my grip and allowed sleep to take me until the next rush. And with each one, his hand, the candlelight, the moans deeper still, his eyes, all over again and again.

I felt sexy laying there in my bikini with swollen body and legs painted with stretch marks. It was me and my husband, embarking on this adventure that like it or not, we had to get through. It was me and my husband and my God, embracing, not running, from this great challenge. And I loved them both. Never have I felt such romance. God was present, and he had fashioned this man for me and to be the earthly father for this baby. I felt loved and that love was a lifeline. I clung to it and reaped confidence. I could do this, I thought. I am loved, I knew.

Finally, when the urge to push began to overtake me, I bid farewell to the hot tub and lay on my left side, leg high. I so wanted to stay in the atmosphere of worship and romance, music and candlelight. But this baby needed out and I fought the fear of pushing. My midwife told me that I'll probably have to push a little, after I told her I didn't want to. The deep, low, productive moans that had been my ally in the tub morphed into high, ugly, screeches as I pushed. I hated the sound and wasted breath and fought even harder to bring back the cow like moans.

My husband's hand, the nurse and midwife's instructions and encouragements, and my baby. I wanted to see my baby. I saw and felt the little head full of hair almost born. A second bag of waters splashed over everyone, bringing a more intense pushing sensation. I talked to the little life, asking for teamwork. I thought, surely by now the baby should be out. A few more pushes and my husband pulled the already screaming baby out. Just as I saw her for the first time, the music sang a climactic chorus of hallelujahs, as if an ordained score written for the blessed event.

Are you sure it's a girl?, I asked the midwife. I'm pretty sure that's what a girl looks like, she answered. How could she be a girl when I was so certain of a boy? What a fun surprise.

I wept. Wept for the joy of a girl, for being done, for the pain I felt between my shaking, tired legs. Wept for the gifts I had received. The gifts of motherhood crying on my chest. The gifts of womanhood, surging with hard earned pride and empowerment. The gifts given by my Father, of meeting him in surrendered worship. And loving Him and the man he gifted me in a remarkable night of romance.

Psalm 145:6 (The Message)

Your marvelous doings are headline news; I could write a book full of the details of your greatness.

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April: A Month to Celebrate New Life

Nothing compares to the joy of welcoming a new life. Jizmejian baby number two made her grand entrance into the world on April 17th at 8:25 pm. We named her Cosette Liberty, Cosette meaning victorious. She was born on Palm Sunday, a special day preceding Easter, reminding us of the victory Christ has over death. Victory over death and new life are the ultimate reasons to celebrate! We are overwhelmed as a family, to gaze upon the depth of beauty in both the grave conquered and our sweet baby girl's face, both owning the title victorious.

April, 2011 will always be a month remembered as the month we had our second baby, our first daughter. I love how our family history is being written before our very eyes, always being enriched by God's good gifts.

April reads:

I spent a lot of my free time in April reading and rereading a lot of birth books. Most of them I had read while I was pregnant with Rafferty and I used this time around to be refreshed and reminded of how the whole "having a baby thing" works. I didn't read any cover to cover this time around, but they sure were helpful to have brushed up on!

I also read One Thousand Gifs by Ann Voskamp. I had heard and read quite a bit, all positive, about this book. I read it for myself the week of having Cosette. Can I give an enthusiastic Amen! to all I heard about this book! It is beautifully written and a challenge to live in active gratitude. A practice in thankfulness for the ordinary life, and a hands on approach for having your life changed by growing in a heart fueled by thankfulness and ultimately, communion with God. I am beginning my own list of one thousand gifts, hopeful to watch my own life become quick to give name to God's gifts. I loved loved loved this book.

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