There's something in a Sunday

Sunday mornings are tough.  Somewhere between the struggle to put down the trains and put on church clothes, the two of us have successfully broken the first five commandments, and finally show up for church with our angry eyes.  I'm sure most parents have heard the same complaints: There's nothing for me to do at church.  Church takes too long. Church isn't fun. I don't want to think about Jesus, I want to think about trains!

Imagine my surprise then, on Tuesday morning, when my child starts proclaiming the truth about church.

"God doesn't give us too many gifts at church.  He just gives us a few.  He gives us his Word."

"But what does His Word produce?"

"Faith."

"And what does faith give us?"

"Life and salvation.  But that's only two gifts."

"But they are very valuable gifts."

"And no one can steal them from us. And these are the gifts we should rejoice.  And if anyone came to my house to try to steal them, I would say, 'Sorry, Jesus died for me and saved me from my sin.'"

So there it is.  The sound of a Sunday morning coming down might seem awful lonesome to me, and the congregation may be sick of our angry eyes, but my child's faith is growing, despite his stubborn sinful nature.

He will see to it

Every woman has her own fears about childbirth, and I suspect that for most women, they increase with every additional pregnancy.  After I gave birth, all I could think about was what would happen the next time- VBAC, with its risk of failure, ruptured uterus, and slight chance of death; or repeat c-section with its risks of placental previa, ectopic pregnancies, cystectromy., and slight risk of death.  I agonized over this hypothetical next time for several months. 

Once my shock wore off, I stopped googling, and I realized just how foolish I'd been.  After all, when we stopped using birth control, it was because we trusted that our merciful God would take care of our family.  How foolish then, to assume that he would stop caring for us just because my sin-worn body failed at a critical moment, and a doctor had to step in and save the life of me and my child.  How senseless, indeed, to presume that we would now be left to care for things on our own.  How selfish to imagine that my own existence would be vital to my family's perseverance.

It is much simpler to continue trusting his mercy, and believe that if he grants us more children, and we fervently pray that he will, he will see us through its accompanying trials, however grave or trivial.  For if the Lord has seen me safely thus far, far be it from me to think that even in death he would not care for his sheep.

The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup;

you hold my lot.

The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;

indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.

I bless the Lord who gives me counsel;

in the night also my heart instructs me.

I have set the Lord always before me;

because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken.

Therefore my heart is glad, and my whole being rejoices;

my flesh also dwells secure.

For you will not abandon my soul to Sheol,

or let your holy one see corruption.
     Psalm 16:5-11

On Trying To Do It All

After my son was born, I went back to work.  (I thought that it was my responsibility to work and provide for my family since my husband was going to school, but that's another story)

From time to time, someone reflects on this year of working outside my home and comments, "I don't know how you did it."  To be frank, I didn't.  Our house was a disaster.  Our clothes were stained and wrinkled, if not lying in heaps about the floor.  My dishes piled up so much on the counter I would spend hours (hours!) on the weekends handwashing them.  My husband cleaned the bathroom when we expected company, which was rarely. I cried at least once a day- before leaving for school, after dropping off my son at the sitter's, while sitting in the nurse's room pumping during lunch, upon reentering the mess of my house at the end of the school day, after burning dinner because I needed to nurse my son, before going to bed- I cried about anything, and everything.

I spent my weekends trying to play catch-up.  At times, we cooked all weekend and froze meals to last a month.  I lesson planned two weeks in advance. My husband helped me grade the papers I ignored during the school days.  We washed loads and loads of clothes, and loads and loads of dishes.  I nursed on demand to increase my supply, but still, I felt myself slipping further and further behind.  So many days, I wanted to walk into the principal's office and quit.    By the end of the school year, I had composed an apology letter to the parents of my students because I felt so guilty about everything I had done poorly at school, and was relieved that we were moving away and I wouldn't have to face any of them anymore at church and pretend my life was okay.

Since I've been staying home, I've had a much different experience.  I'm not going to say that my house is never untidy, or that I never make poor parenting decisions, or that I never burn dinner.  Those things still happen from time to time.  But I'm happier here, and therefore, so is my family.  I have fewer jobs to do, and I can do them better than I could when I was working.  I can't imagine ever going back to that lifestyle, no matter how old my son gets, or how bored  and lonely I get.  I can do this,and often, I can do it well. That's a reality I'm not willing to compromise.

A Woman's Work Is Never Finished

Last summer, I called my district office and requested to be removed from the roster of church workers.  I had been a teacher for two years, but had decided I needed to be at home.  So I phoned the office and requested to be removed from the roster.  The dear secretary asked me several times if I was certain I wanted to be removed, and not just listed as "unavailable," or "not open to calls."  Being removed isn't easily reversed.  But I was certain.  I had tried the working-mother gig for a year, and found it too difficult.  I had tried the working-wife gig for three years, and found that too difficult.  The many conversations I've had with my husband had all resulted in the same decision:  I am staying home.  Not just for my son, not just for a short time until he's in school, not just until I feel "ready" to go back.  I am staying home.

Staying home has its place in this world, as long as it's just for your kids, and just as long as they're pre-schoolers.  After that, it's foolish for a woman to be in the house spending her hours laboring over oppressive chores. Certainly she would feel better about herself if she had secured herself a job- a career!- a paycheck for her efforts.  But I'm not convinced that my work at home will be done when my son is grown.  As long as I have a home and a husband, I'll be satisfied to stay here and care for them. 

I do not want to yoke myself to another job with its own burdens, stressors, deadlines, and mandates.  I do not want to go to interviews to answer questions about my strengths and weaknesses, and what good I would bring to a company or school.  I don't have those answers.  I do not want to deal with the guilt I would feel for leaving that job to care for my father or mother-in-law should they need it.

I used to think differently about such things.  But now I've learned that my place is here.  My husband and my home need me here, and my heart is in this work.  I know that my son will grow up, and at that time, I will be expected to go back out and rejoin the workforce. But I will be content to remain here, caring for the extraordinary large garden I intent to have, and reading all the books I've wanted to read but can't understand right now.  And we intend to structure our lives accordingly, even if it means becoming a better seamstress and learning to can the vegetables my garden produces.

Perhaps I'll get the hang of this yet!

Ever since my son was born, I've second-guessed everything I've done.  Have I encouraged healthy sleep habits? Did I introduce solids too early?  Should I have weaned him months ago? I suppose it's a direct result of all the magazines and internet sites I used to browse, and all the uber-opinionated babyologists who claim that if I didn't follow their child-rearing instructions exactly, my child would end up in juvie before he turned 10.

I've stopped turning to Google with every baby question I have, and instead rely on my own intuition, the advice of seasoned mothers I personally know, and (most importantly) what my husband and I know about our child.  I still have my misgivings, and I doubt they'll ever fully go away.

So it was quite a treat when I found my son sitting on the floor, holding a book, pointing at the pictures, and saying the appropriate words.  For the first time in motherhood, I can honestly say, "There! I did something right."