Milestones

Before my son was born, someone gave me a lovely calendar for me to track the first year of his life.  Each page had ample space for me to add pictures of him, and included stickers to mark all his milestones, significant events, and even visits from grandparents on their appropriate date.  While I haven't yet added any pictures to the calendar, I was able to get those stickers on the approximate day each one occurred.  Approximate because I updated the thing once every few months. Grandparents were updated a bit more regularly, but usually in a nonchalant manner a week after the fact, and only because they asked.

Now that he's three, I find myself doing all sorts of little happy dances over milestones, and have to refrain from announcing to everyone I see that my kid understands that we use letters to make words.  Or that he just memorized a book so he could read it to me.  Or that he picked up a new book and told the story by looking at the pictures.  That he has phonological awareness.  That he draws people with eyes, mouths, arms, legs, and necks.  That he can draw a recognizable train.  That he can identify 5:30 on an analog clock. That he can represent the number of people in a room with his fingers.  That he can put the silverware away. That he memorized the First Commandment and it's meaning.

I shouldn't be surprised by any of this.  After all, I sat through four good years of teacher education studying how children develop and learn.  Yet, it astounds me to watch all of this unfolding.  It astounds me more than any of those other important first year milestones ever did.  My kid is an early emergent reader.  My kid is doing simple math.  My kid is understanding his faith.

I'm sure it merely reinforces the fact that I'm a complete nerd, but really, why can't we get some stickers for these exciting times?

In the time it's taken you to forget about this blog,

I've
  -lost my computer to a virus
  -lost my phone to St. Louis humidity
  -got blocked from my email
  -moved to a new state
  -settled into a new home
  -found three snakes in the house
  -joined a book club
  -watched the dog chase a cow out of the backyard
  -repeatedly bribed my child with gum to get through church services.
  

What I haven't done
  -updated this blog.

 
Consider it done.

Thrifty? Or just hopeful?

Part of this year's move is downsizing.  I've acquired a piano (it was Great-Grandmother's, how could I say no?), and I intend to make space for it in the moving van by ditching it's cubic-foot equivalent in boxes of other stuff.  So it's out with the extra tongs and rarely-used spatulas, vanilla scented candles and flower vases, lidless Tupperware and tired-out clothes.  I'm even sorting through boxes the boxes we we left in the basement labeled, but unpacked.

There's one corner of the basement, though, that pains me each time I walk past.  It's the corner where we've piled up the bins of clothes our son has outgrown, the supports for the cradle we no longer use, the baby toys he doesn't like anymore, the box of maternity clothes I haven't worn in years.

In saving them, I had no question I would need some of them again- at least the maternity clothes.  But possibly those baby clothes as well.  We could have another boy!   So we kept them.  A year passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  I moved them that summer, thinking they'd save us money if we had another boy on vicarage.  But the year passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  I moved them again.  Another year has passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  Now they sit in the corner of the basement, reminding me all the while that there still is no other baby to wear the clothes, despite all of our prayers.

I can't help but wonder if there ever will be another baby to wear those clothes.  I can't help but wonder if I'm missing the small wonders happening around me with the son I do have by holding on to those clothes and moving them one more time.  I can't help but wonder if I ought to let someone else get some use out of them, and trust that God will provide should he see fit to give us another child.  Perhaps letting go of those clothes would help ease some of the pain.

Market to market

In a few short weeks, I'll be moving home.  Home, I say.  Home.  As in, the place where memories meet futures and I can sit for long evenings at my mother's table and share with my son the stories of our lives.  As Call Day approached, I had imagined I would end up feeling a bit like Sarai or Ruth; but like Naomi, I get to go home.  While I'll still be 75 miles from my mother's kitchen table, I'm certain I'll find it's a rather short distance for my homesick heart.

What's more, I'm not just returning a place where my mother is.  I'm returning to a place whose stories have become intertwined with mine.  A place whose customs and traditions have influenced my view of the world, and set me apart from so many others I've met along the way.  A place like no other place; the good life.  I am content.

A Pie is Worth a Thousand Words

When it comes to meeting new people, I can rock it for all of ten minutes.  I'm good with names, and can come up with a few good questions to get some key details and information out of someone.  But put me with a stranger for any longer than ten minutes, and I'll start wishing I had a Smartphone, a magazine, or anything to draw the attention away from my inability to gab.

So with Call Day two weeks away, I've come to realize that I'll soon be thrust into a congregation full of strangers, and expected to talk to them.  I figure I'll be set for the first few Sundays.  Those early Narthex chats will be all about basic information, and I'll rock.  After that, my plan is to hand out pie.*  They'll forgive my speechlessness if I'm passing out homemade confections, right?

Mmmmmm, boy! Pie Heaven!

*You may be wondering why I would pick pie.  After all, it has a reputation of being finicky, and Pillsbury seems to be making a killing off everyone's fear of crusts.   I don't mean to brag, but merely state the facts.  I always rock at pie.  Always.

First Real(ish) Six-String

This is by far the coolest thing I've made for my kid.

Now if I can only get him to understand it's a "Guitar," not a "The Guitar."

He Is Not Here, He Qi

 

The day of resurrection!
Earth, tell it out abroad,
The passover of gladness,
The passover of God.
From death to life eternal,
From sin's dominion free,
Our Christ has brought us over
With hymns of victory.

Let hearts be purged of evil
That we may see aright
The Lord in rays eternal
Of resurrection light
And, list'ning to His accents,
May hear, so calm and plain,
His own "All hail!" and, hearing,
May raise the victor strain.

Now let the heav'ns be joyful,
Let earth its song begin,
Let all the world keep triumph
And all that is therein.
Let all things, seen and unseen,
Their notes of gladness blend;
For Christ the Lord has risen,
Our joy that has no end.

All praise to God the Father,
All praise to God the Son,
All praise to God the Spirit,
Eternal Three in One!
Let all the ransomed number
Fall down before the throne
And honor, pow'r and glory
Ascribe to God alone!

The Day of Resurrection, John of Damascus, John Mason Neale, trans.

Calvary, Andrea Montegna

What punishment so strange is suffered yonder!
The Shepherd dies for sheep that loved to wander;
The Master pays the debt His servants owe Him,
Who would not know Him.

The sinless Son of God must die in sadness;
The sinful child of man may live in gladness;
Man forfeited his life and is acquitted;
God is committed.

O wondrous love, whose depth no heart hath sounded,
That brought Thee here, by foes and thieves surrounded!
All worldly pleasures, heedless, I was trying
While Thou wert dying.

For vainly doth our human wisdom ponder—-
Thy woes, Thy mercy, still transcend our wonder.
Oh, how should I do aught that could delight Thee!
Can I requite Thee?

But since my strength will nevermore suffice me
To crucify desires that still entice me,
To all good deeds, oh, let Thy Spirit win me
And reign within me!

O Dearest Jesus, What Law Hast Thou Broken, sel. verses, Johann Heermann, Catherine Winkworth, trans.

Really, this won't take long . . .

Isn't it interesting how when the internet is available, you can find infinite ways to spend your time doing really cool stuff that would have knocked the socks off your third-grade self, only to realize you haven't really accomplished anything at all?

Then, it's taken away from you for a week or two, and you have to find different ways to fill your time, and you realize you've accomplished more in one day than you did in all the other past weeks, and you wonder why you bother paying the internet company to bring the time-sucker back into your home.  But you do it anyway. And then you blog about it.

Or is it just me?

Leave the tricks to the magicians

Folks, if a woman shares with you that she's been praying for another child, the correct response is, "I'll pray for you, too."  Please no more advice about strategically placed pillows, or tracking and charting of temperatures and discharge (gross!), or trips to the doctors to discuss special pills, or relaxing about it because she's still young.  Say, "I'll pray for you, too."

Chances are, she's already feeling enough guilt over the matter already, whether because she's gained some weight, or she had to have a c-section, or she used the pill for too long, or because she thinks she's being punished by God.  Whatever her reason is, don't add to her guilt by making her think she doing something else wrong.  She's burdened by the Law, she's feeling the weight of sin.  She's living daily with a body she feels is defective and is afraid she's the cause.  Share with her the Gospel she needs to hear.  Remind her of God's steadfast love, and his enduring mercy.  Then do as you said you'd do, and pray.

Indeed, the waters around me have grown

I had to explain to a four year old that my cell phone couldn't play Angry Birds.  He didn't believe me until I got the thing out, flipped it open, and touched the screen to prove that it doesn't work like an iPad.

 He stared for a long time at the phone before turning to me and saying, "What does it do, then?"

Yup, I'm that cool.

For the nursing mother

Or the humor-deprived mother, or the grandmother, or the mother's lactation consultant;  really, it's just a good book for anyone who has tried breastfeeding.  Especially good for those of us who tried it and found it rather daunting.

Seriously.  It's like she had been sitting on my couch with me all those months.

For the Kindle, for the bookshelf or that other bookshelf, for more information.

Sometimes I feel like a hamster

A month ago I thought to myself, "Ahh.  I finally feel settled in this wonderful house."

Good timing, as Call Day is May 1, and I'll get to pack everything back up this summer to start over.  Again.

If only it were that easy . . .

We'll Keep It

Once in college, I shelled out twenty-five dollars for a faded loveseat that harkened back to the 70s.  It was my first furniture purchase (and so far, my only furniture purchase-everything we now own was either a gift from family, or found sitting on the side of the road begging to be plastered with beer labels).   Though it was a bit small, I found that it was perfect for all the reading I did to get that English concentration, and, if I tucked up my legs enough, would sleep quite comfortably.

But it was kind of ugly.  So I tried covering it- first with a fitted sheet that forever had to be readjusted, and then by putting my high school set-building skills to work and attaching fabric to it with a staple gun.  Eventually, I made a slip cover, once the staples starting pulling out and stabbing my arm every time I attempted to use the arm rest.  So the little couch moved from dorm room to dorm room, and once I married, fit quite nicely into our oddly narrow living room.  It's now been lugged from state to state with all of our moving, even though we've acquired a real, unfaded couch.

Last summer, I overhead my parents discussing this little couch as it was loaded into our moving pods.  "How many more moves before they ditch that thing?" my father asked my mother. Well, Pops, that little couch isn't going anywhere soon.  I have visions of passing it on to my son when he moves out of the house.  It would be quite poetic.  After all, it's the very place I sat all those hours, weeks, months (!) after he was born- nursing, napping, eating, pumping.  The only seat in house I could find that was both comfortable to sit, and possible to leave.  And since my kid took for.ever. to nurse, and wanted to nurse every two hours, and wouldn't sleep unless someone was holding him, I spent a lot of time on that little loveseat.  Enough time, in fact, to catch up on the past seasons of House, CSI, and Friday Night Lights. 

Besides all that, it's still the most comfortable seat in the house, and should I have pleasure of nursing another child, I can't imagine anywhere else I'd sit.  Unless, of course, someone feels like buying me one of these: