My Apprehension

So, for 39+ weeks now, I have been begging God to make time go as fast as possible so that we could get to that blessed 40 week mark and I could be done being pregnant. The problem is, I was so focused on the "not being pregnant" part that I really hadn't been preparing myself for the "having another child" part. This fact hit me a week or so ago, and quite frankly, I'm scared to death.

I never thought I'd say this, but I sort of want to stay pregnant for a little while longer. My mind is now being bombarded with memories of those first few awful weeks of bringing home a newborn (a fact that no one warns you about, by the way). The pain. The sleeplessness. The hormones. Trying to figure out this new little creature that you have to take care of for at least 18 years. Of course it gets better, and of course I love being a mom, and of course I'll love my new daughter. But still, I'm freaking out.

But alas, the end is near. My prayers have finally been answered, and the 40th week is only a week away. I could use some encouragement, and some tips from those who have survived having multiple children. And prayers, please. Lots of prayers.

Probably the next time I post something it will be an update on my new little baby girl. When I say that, I get excited.

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My Lost Innocence

Since becoming a mom, I have become convinced that children are more in tune with the spiritual world than grown-ups. I believe their sweet innocence and purity allows them to see and experience things that we adults can only imagine and dream about.

Since Andrew started talking, it's been amazing to hear from him the things he sees. For example, often when we are standing in church, he'll look up, point to some obscure spot on the ceiling, and cry out delightfully, "Birdie, mommy, birdie!" This has happened several times, in several churches. I truly think that the birdies he sees are the angels. I like to imagine them playing peek-a-boo with Andrew, or tickling his cheek. He gets so excited when he sees them that they must be paying him some attention.

The other day we were driving past a cemetery and Andrew suddenly said, "Hi Jesus!" A few days later, driving past a different cemetery, it happened again. The next time we drove past a cemetery, I pointed to it and asked, "Andrew, who's over there?" and immediately he said, "Jesus. Hi Jesus!"

Even as I write this, I find myself thinking, "People are going to think you're strange if you say you actually believe your child sees Jesus and the angels." And sometimes I even catch myself trying to rationalize what Andrew is saying. Like, maybe he saw a shadow in the ceiling rafters that looked like a bird. Or maybe he saw a statue in the cemetery and he just thinks it's Jesus. But wait. Don't I say that I believe that angels are among us? Don't I say that I believe that Christ is alive and actively involved in our lives? So why is it so hard to actually BELIEVE what I say I believe?

In my 27 years on this earth I have become more cynical and disbelieving than I care to admit. As each day passes it seems I go farther and farther from that beautiful innocence I had as a child. How I wish I could see the angels!

This past week, a priest dear to my heart died very suddenly and without warning. As I was sitting at his funeral service, for one brief second I was overcome with an unexplainable emotion. I looked around at the icons of the saints who have gone before us, and at the living who were surrounding me, and the newly departed priest laying in the middle of us all, and as I heard the choir begin to sing the beatitudes,"...blessed are they who morn, for they shall be comforted....blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God..." I felt, for the briefest of seconds, that I was experiencing a tiny taste of what heaven would be like, and the awesomeness of Christ's presence. I began to cry uncontrollably, I think mainly because I wanted that feeling to last, and I knew it wouldn't. And it didn't.

I'm sure I could find some neat and tidy way of wrapping up this post. Some sort of over-arching lesson about how we should strive to have the faith of a child so that we can experience more of Christ's presence in our lives. And although that's a valid point, it feels somehow too neat and tidy. Too easy. So I'll just leave it here. I'll go to bed now, say my meager, yet heart-felt prayers, and hope that Andrew sees his angels for as long as possible.

My Impatience

The stress of parenting an almost two-year-old has begun to wear on me. Lately I have found myself dreaming of that mystical time in the far-off future where Andrew and baby #2 will be happy, healthy, and more importantly, SELF-SUFFICIENT. That magical time where my husband and I can take our kids to a nice restaurant and not have to worry about them yelling for french fries and then when they finally get the darn fries they mostly just eat the ketchup...at least that 50% of ketchup that actually makes it into their mouth. I dream of a time where I can take my children to church and actually STAY in church for the entire service, with no worries of the tantrums that inevitably follow when mean ol' mom won't let them knock over candle stands or run screaming through the sanctuary. I get very excited when I think of going on a vacation and not having to think about diapers and strollers and pack-and-plays and car seats and baby food and baby toys and nap time. And the idea of visiting someone's house and being able to sit relaxed and visit without having to worry about my children eating something they shouldn't or breaking something expensive seems like an absolute dream. I've actually caught myself counting the years.

But tonight, as I was getting ready for bed, I did my nightly check of Andrew to make sure he's warm enough and sleeping well. I went in there and just fell in love with him all over again. Those chubby cheeks that were stuffed with french fries earlier today. Those little hands that innocently reach for the pretty candles at church. That padded little bottom wrapped in the thousandth diaper I've changed, sticking up in the air as usual (see photo). And his beautiful face, so filled with curiosity whenever we go somewhere new, just wanting to explore the world.

I reached down and put my finger in his hand, and even though he was fast asleep he grabbed onto it. I suddenly realized that this moment, this very moment, should be cherished and enjoyed. I need to stop dreaming about the future and start appreciating the moment. I'm sure that day will come all too soon where he won't want to hold my hand anymore. He'll grow up and be self-sufficient soon enough. For now I think I'll enjoy being needed.

Remind me of this tomorrow when he's screaming in church.
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My Girl

'Nuf said.

My Meltdown

Today I had a meltdown. I'd like to say it was my first one during this pregnancy, but it wasn't. I'd like to say it will be the last, but it probably won't be.

Have you ever been really motion sick? Imagine that feeling lasting all day and all night for five months. Now add the fact that you are throwing up pretty much every day, even though you are on anti-nausea medicine doctors give to chemo patients. You are also constantly tired, your body aches all over, and you have a toddler to take care of. Finally, imagine someone telling you that this will probably last for three to five more months. I bet you'd have a meltdown too.

Now, please know that although small, there is still that rational part of me that keeps telling me things could be a lot worse. I could have a life-threatening illness, or, God forbid, my children or husband could be horribly sick. I KNOW that eventually this will all go away, even if it takes the full nine months. And I KNOW that the end result will be worth it. But knowing all of this still doesn't take away from the fact that right now, I feel pretty darn miserable. Being slightly hormonal and irrational doesn't help either. Okay it's more than slightly. But you get the idea.

Last week I had a really good day. I didn't have to take my anti-nausea medicine, and I hardly felt sick at all. I thought to myself, "This is it! My prayers have been answered! Maybe I'll have at least half of a pregnancy that is normal!" I was very excited. I should have known better. By the end of the week I was back to feeling miserable.

So today, while I was throwing up the wonderful breakfast my husband had made me, my meltdown began. I just felt so frustrated. And exhausted. And defeated. The thought kept creeping into my mind: WHY isn't God answering my prayers?? I've been asking Him to make me feel better for over five months now. WHY isn't He listening to me??

And then, as with most hormonal women, the irrational thoughts began. Maybe God is mad at me? Maybe God just doesn't care? Maybe I'm not praying right? Maybe I should just stop praying?

Yet through the hormones and tears and sickness a verse from the Bible came to me. It's from the Apostle Paul's letter to the Corinthians. He is discussing a physical ailment that he has and says:

"Concerning this thing, I pleaded with the Lord three times that it might depart from me. But he said to me, 'My Grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in needs, in persecutions, in distress, for Christ's sake. For when I am weak, then He is strong." (2 Cr. 12:8-12)

I'm pretty sure that Paul's relationship with Christ was light years away from mine as far as maturity and depth, and yet God didn't answer his prayer either. He learned instead to be HAPPY in his infirmities. He knew that the only way he could continue was by the Grace of God, and that this complete and utter dependency on God glorified Him in Paul and to others.

Wow. Easier said than done. The bitter and hormonal thought eventually crossed my mind, "Yeah, well Paul was never PREGNANT," but I quickly pushed that aside. The fact of the matter is that Christ's strength is all I have left and if I refuse to accept His Grace now because I'm bitter that things aren't going MY way, I WILL NOT be able to make it through to the end of this.

I would like to say that once this revelation came to me, I was immediately and miraculously healed. However, still had a pretty crummy day. But leaning on Christ's strength at least made it bearable. For now, that's all I've got.

My Karma

Today I spanked Andrew and he laughed at me. So I spanked him again a little harder (he was also naked at the time, so there was no diaper to soften the blow) and he laughed at me again. Hm. Quite the interesting turn of events.

I don't spank often, and when I do, it's either because he's doing something dangerous, or he's being completely defiant. However, I'm starting to think that this approach may not work with his personality, since apparently he equates being spanked with being tickled.

Now, I don't believe in karma, but my mom seems to think that this strong-willed, rebellious little boy I'm raising is precisely what I deserve since I was the same way. She laughs a lot when I tell her things that Andrew does that frustrate me. This doesn't help.

So what should I do? I suppose I should start trying time outs, positive and negative reinforcement, and such like that. Oh, it would be so much simpler if he wasn't like me.

My Husband the Priest

This past weekend my husband was ordained a priest in the Orthodox Christian Church (for those of you who may have never heard of a married priest, let me assure you we're not breaking any rules. In the Orthodox Church the clergy can be married, as long as they get married BEFORE they are ordained). As I stood there watching the Archbishop pray for and lay his hands on Jerry (now officially "Father Herman"), I was struck by how far he and I both were from our original plans for our lives...

Although I've always wanted to be a mom and wife, for me the biggest difference of where I am now to where I was five years ago is the fact that I joined the Orthodox Church. I was raised in an evangelical, Christian home and had never heard of the Orthodox Church until my sister Jennifer converted to it while she was in college. I remember at the time most of my family and I thought she was joining some sort of cult. But gradually as we learned more about it we realized she was still a Christian, and accepted her decision. Fast forward a few years to when Jennifer and I were both living in Chicago. I began going to church with her and her husband simply because I had nowhere else to go. Slowly I discovered a depth and beauty in the Orthodox Church that I had never experienced anywhere else. After much studying and praying I made the decision to be chrismated into the Orthodox Church on Pascha (Easter) of 2005. I could go on and on about the life-altering experience becoming and Orthodox Christian has been, but I'll save that for a different post.

As for my husband, he had a few different goals five years ago as well. He was raised Orthodox, and was still planning on getting ordained, but he was also planning on being a monastic, or celibate, priest. Plans were underway for his ordination when he began having dreams of a wife and family. He started feeling uneasy about getting ordained so he decided to put the plans on hold for a while. A few months later I started going to church with my sister, the same church where Jerry was directing the choir. Our eyes met, the heavens opened, and we were struck by Cupid's bows. Okay, it didn't really happen like that. Let's just say he noticed me, it took me a few more months to notice him, we developed a friendship that quickly became romance, and rest is history.

So there I stood last Sunday, watching my husband take the step he'd been waiting to take for so long, thanking God that we'd both been willing to accept His will for our lives over the future we THOUGHT we wanted. It saddens me to think of what could have happened if we hadn't listened to that still small voice inside of us.

So here we are. Priest, wife, son, baby on the way, and lots and lots of plans for the future. Right now we have a pretty specific idea of where we want to go and what we want to do. I hope and pray, however, that we both remain willing to listen to God and His bigger plans for our lives, and if those plans are something we didn't expect, that we still embrace and accept them. After all, some pretty great things happen when you least expect them to.

My Confession

I hate being pregnant.

There. I said it. Even as I type those words, I feel almost a tiny bit of shame, like perhaps somehow I'm not a good woman or mother, that I am doomed for unspeakable horrors because I've uttered the four words that many women find completely shameful. But the larger part of me (metaphorically now, people; I'm not talking about my ever-widening hips and rear), the hormonal, nauseas, completely exhausted part of me, couldn't care less what other people think. I guarantee you that if you had to go though what I'm going through you'd hate being pregnant too. And thus I write on.

Now before I go on I must confess that there are two really wonderful parts about being pregnant: feeling the baby inside of you, and the end result. My precious Andrew, who is almost 20 months now, also caused me a great deal of misery during his time inside my uterus, and just one look at him now and I know I'd go through nine hundred more months of sickness for him. And I know that for this second child I'll feel the same way. But right now I just feel lousy.

First of all, whoever coined the term "MORNING sickness" was an idiot. For me, the nausea lasts all day and all night. And the authors of all those stupid magazines and books that I've read that say that by the end of the third month this "morning" sickness will go away are also idiots. With Andrew, I was sick (literally throwing up every day) for eight months, and by the looks of how things are going now, the trend will continue for baby #2 (I'm a little over 4 months along).

During my first pregnancy, I had a doctor tell me that my sickness was a "learned behavior." Looking back on that I really wish I would have told him to go carry his own child in his uterus for 9 months and then get back to me.

Now, I know a lot of you who will read this have had perfectly wonderful pregnancies. But to be honest, I sort of hate you right now, so please don't leave me any comments about the wonderfulness that I'm missing out on. What I COULD use, however, is a note of encouragement, a reminder of the wonderful end result, and many, many prayers.

And so I shall end this rather melancholy post with something a bit brighter: the first ultrasound photo of baby #2. It was taken several weeks ago, and I'm not sure what exactly we're looking at, but I DID see a little heartbeat, and have heard it many times since. What a beautiful sound.

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My Messiness

"Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the sidewalk before it stops snowing." -Phyllis Diller

At some point before I had a child I heard that a messy house is good for a child's brain development. Now that I have a child I refuse to actually look that fact up to see if it's accurate because I don't want to find out it's not true. At least now I have a good excuse for the perpetual state of disarray my home is always in.

I can hear my mother now: "I raised you better than this! How did you learn to live like such a slob?" And to my mom's credit, she really did try. Growing up, I remember all the fights we had about cleaning my room. Now days, she loves to tell the story about how she found a glass of moldy milk under my bed and had to throw the cup away. And the story about how I had fleas in my room for a while. That's always a crowd pleaser.

Now don't get the wrong idea. It's not that I purposely left that glass of milk under my bed. I just forgot about it. And the fleas were from my cat! I swear! And they were quickly eradicated by the best flea bomb money can buy.

But I AM just a tad bit messy.

Going to college really didn't help my messiness. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on who you were) my roommate Leana had a similar tolerance for disarray so we lived quite happily in our filth. Other friends thought differently, though. I still remember the day my good friend Brooke came into our bathroom armed with rubber gloves and a bucket full of chemicals, because she "just couldn't stand it anymore." When she was done, I was surprised to find out that our sink and counter were actually WHITE, not that pasty gray-brown we'd been living with for so long.

Okay, before you get TOO nauseous, please know that I have gotten better. Half way through college I began realizing the error of my ways and started making a concerted effort to change my bad habits.

But bad habits die hard.

Poor, poor Jerry. I married a man who does not share my love of clutter. We're so different in how we clean, in fact, that a year into our marriage he admitted to me that when we first got married, he would re-wash the dishes that I had already washed after I went to bed. We definitely have butted heads a few times over this topic, but I think it's fair to say that we're starting to meet more in the middle. He doesn't rewash the dishes any more (at least not that I know of) and I....well, I just keep trying.

I like to think that when we have a bigger house, I'll have more storage space for all the clutter that seems to always find its way back to the counters, tables, floors, and chairs. But realistically, I know that a bigger house will just mean a bigger mess. So what's the solution?

Those of you who are not like me are probably thinking right now, "Just get off your lazy arse and clean your house already!" But for some reason it's just not that simple for me. Am I lazy? Maybe just a tad. But it goes deeper than that, I think. It goes to the core of my personality, of who I am. I don't mind clutter. I don't mind a little dirt here and a few crumbs there. In fact I think there's a small part of me that actually LIKES it. Does this make me a bad person? A bad mom? A bad wife?

I have to believe that I am a good person despite this flaw. That perhaps this flaw of mine is actually a blessing. God knows I spend much more time playing with Andrew than I do cleaning up after him. That's got to count for something. And when the kitchen is hidden under mounds of pots and pans and splatters of food, at least I have a good meal to show for it. And when I decided to just sit and hold hands with Jerry and watch TV in the middle of a cluttered room, I know he wouldn't want me to be doing anything else.

So I shall console myself with these thoughts, while still trying to motivate myself to do a little better. With God's grace (and Jerry's) I'll succeed.

My Tears

I am sitting here in tears, grieving over the death of someone I never knew. Through a friend's facebook page, I found a group that was dedicated to praying for a woman named Sonia and her family. She was young...only 32...and apparently died rather suddenly. She left behind a husband who is a deacon in the Orthodox Church, and a young son named Andrew.

I hate to selfishly turn my thoughts back towards me, but it's hard not to. Since having Andrew, death has taken on new meaning for me. The thought of him growing up, not knowing me except through pictures, makes my heart ache in a way that I can't describe and only a mother would understand. And so I ache for Sonia. I ache for her four-month-old son, who will never again feel the warmth of her touch or the comfort of her arms. I ache for her husband, who now must raise their child alone.

And my tears keep coming.

I believe very strongly that even after someone dies you can still communicate with their spirit, that you can pray for and with them, and they can intercede in prayer for you. I can only imagine how Sonia will pray for her baby as she watches him grow from afar. I can only guess how she is praying for her husband, as she sees him grieve. I will not even attempt to describe her feelings as she joyfully is ushered into eternity with Christ and His saints while at the same time having to be torn from her son and life companion.

And so I will pray for her, that her spirit will have peace. I will pray for her husband, that he can somehow use this tragedy to further the Kingdom of God. And I will pray for her son, her sweet Andrew, that he will always know his mommy, if only in his prayers and in his dreams.

And I will live today appreciating it a little more, thanking God for the blessings of life and love, while working on my own salvation with fear and trembling.

Dear Sonia, may your memory be eternal!

http://soniabelcher.wordpress.com/

My Sleeplessness

"People who say they sleep like a baby usually don't have one." ~Leo J. Burke

I have come to the somber conclusion that I will never again have a full night's sleep. Never again will I blissfully lie in bed oblivious of the world around me, unconcerned about the time, while the only thought on my mind is how warm and cozy and wonderful I feel. Never again.

Forgive me if I sound grumpy. I'm just a little tired.

Today was one of those mornings that coffee can't even help. I got to bed late last night and then this morning Andrew decided it would be fun to shake things up a bit and wake up two hours earlier than normal. It's hard to be mad at his happy little face, all bright-eyed and ready to start the day, so I decided to be mad at everything else. Stupid neighbors with their loud music. Stupid sunshine that came up too soon. Stupid coffee maker that doesn't automatically clean itself and refill itself with fresh coffee beans. Stupid house, that doesn't automatically clean itself when I go to bed. Stupid no sleep.

I've always been one of those people that needs a good 9 hours of solid sleep to function. Needless to say, the first few weeks of parenthood was quite a shock to my system. I remember I cried a lot. I think it was less "baby blues" and more complete and utter exhaustion. Now that that initial shock has worn off, I have begun to prepare myself for the future. The way I see it, for the next 10 years I plan on having babies and small children, so forget about sleeping for the next decade. Once they're off to school, my plan is to go back to school as well, so I won't be sleeping then. Once my kids are older and are able to drive and go on dates, I know I will be the type that stays up on the couch until everyone is home safely. Still no sleeping. Once all of my children are grown and out of the house, I'll be so old that incontinence will set in, and so for the rest of my life I will be getting up three times a night to empty my bladder.

I will never sleep again.

Now, I could sit here and think of a wonderful life lesson that would tie my lack of sleep to some greater good that could propel me towards some sort of spiritual greatness. I could philosophize and theorize and write all sorts of wise things. Quite honestly I'd rather just take a nap.

But alas, I can no neither. Andrew is waking up from his nap, and I can hear him talking to his imaginary friends. I know when I go in there, all grumpy and sleepy, he will meet me with giggles and smiles. And I'll smile back, even though I'm still grumpy and sleepy, and our day will continue.

At least I have incontinence to look forward to.

"Life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep." - Fran Lebowitz


It's hard to stay TOO grumpy when I wake up to this....

My Angel

I never really understood the verse in the Bible that says that women will be saved through childbearing (1Tim 2:15) until I had a child. Although I'm quite positive that there have been plenty of women who received God's grace and mercy without bearing a child, I am beginning to see how Andrew is going to play an intricate role in my own salvation. Not only does he cause me to repent more (like when I lose my temper), he also makes me want to pray more (especially with him) and be more thankful (especially for him).

I blinked and all of a sudden I am the mother of a toddler. The baby that once innocently played with the angels in church and sat quietly wherever I put him is now an ornery little boy with a stubborn streak he inherited from his dad and a rebellious streak he got from me. Although he can be trying at times, there are still those moments when I look into his eyes and I have to catch my breath. It's like God is speaking to me through those big blue eyes, giving me just a little extra grace and love and showing me how to give it back.

I really believe that God uses Andrew as my little personal angel to send me messages when I need them. For example, the other day I was pretty sad. I had just gotten off the phone with my sister who has just moved to Pennsylvania which is a good 10-hour drive away. I sat on the floor and just started crying. Andrew heard me crying and walked up to me with this inquisitive look on his face. He started shaking me gently and jabbering away as if to say, "There, there, mommy. It will be alright." Realizing he was going to have to do better than that to make me happy, he got real quiet and started touching my face. He then pointed to my tears and triumphantly exclaimed, "Ball! Ball! Ball!" (his favorite word), which made me laugh out loud. He then started laughing and soon we were playing and everything was right in the world. My little angel had once again come to my rescue, reminding me to appreciate what is right in front of me, and helping me smile again.

I sort of wish that verse in 1Timothy ended after it says that women will be saved through childbearing. That would make things pretty easy. But it doesn't. It goes on to say that a woman will be saved through childbearing if she continues in "faith, love and holiness, with self-control." Although the act of childbearing was the worst possible pain I've ever experienced, there's part of me that wishes I could just keep doing that instead of working towards such spiritual greatness. At least they've got epidurals for labor. It looks like I'm going to have to do the rest the hard way.

My Mid-Mid Life Crisis

For the past few months I have been in the middle of a mid-mid-life crisis. For a while there, life was happening so fast for me. After I practically sprinted through the graduation line to get my diploma, and with the full intention of never looking back, I raced to Chicago to start my new and exciting life. I quickly got an apartment in the hippest neighborhood (looking back I can see the drool on the lips of the guy who showed me my new home, as he smelled my urgency and complete ignorance of the city) and soon had my first full-time job. Eight months later I began dating my future husband. Seven months after that we got married. Four months later we got pregnant. Nine months later I decided to quit my job and be a full-time mother. And then...well, then things just sort of slowed down. Way down. At first it was wonderful. New husband, new home, new baby...but then nothing else happened. Now don't get me wrong, my husband and my son are still wonderful. I am married to a great man who is also my best friend. I love my son more than I ever thought I could love anything. But the monotony of the day-to-day responsibilities began to wear on me. I began wishing for change again, secretly yearning for that adrenaline rush of the unknown and unexpected. What made it worse was the fact that everyone around me seemed to be moving on to bigger and better things: getting better jobs, moving out of the city, and having other life-altering experiences. And here I was changing yet another diaper, doing another load of laundry, going days without taking a shower, and generally getting depressed.

And then I read a great article by my friend Jenny Schroedel called, "The Gift of Presence." In it, Jenny talks about how too often we don't stop and enjoy the moment, and she specifically talks about how as mothers we often get so caught up in schedules and lists and the future that we forget to just soak in the present and give our children our presence. The article resonated with how I had been feeling. I was so caught up in wishing for something more that I had forgotten to enjoy what I have.

...and thus, my blog was born. I don't really know what the main agenda of this blog is going to be, other than a way to help me to focus my thoughts as I begin to rediscover the beauty of what God has blessed me with so far on life's journey. A journey towards what, you ask? I don't really know. Towards finding God's will for my life. Towards finding contentment and peace. Towards more laughing and less cynicism. I know I'm not there yet. I just want to be almost there.