One LONG Game of Ping-Pong

I woke up this morning and realized I had forgotten my mother's birthday yesterday.

Of course she is gracious and says, "I knew you'd remember at some point!" after Briggs and I called to sing Happy Belated Birthday on her voicemail. But still, I hate missing birthdays...especially my mom's. This year I'm not sure I remembered a single family birthday on time, and this bothers me a lot, actually.

So this morning, after I perch Briggs in front of "Little Einsteins" for the gazillionth time to actually catch my breath, I ask the "why?" Why do I seem to miss important events, forget to write my loved ones, and in general feel like I'm just one step behind every turn of the way? In the brief moment of respite as Blaire settles down for a nap, Briggs learns "moderato" from that clever little show, and I reheat my coffee for the 3rd time this morning, it dawns on me:

My life is one LONG game of Ping-Pong.

I LOVE ping-pong. It's exhilarating, fun, challenging, and just the right length of time for an intense amount of focus. 21 points, done.

But this ping-pong phase of life is shaping up to be a whole lot longer than 21 points. And ping-pong is only fun when I have the freedom to say, "Nah, let's take a break and play again in an hour."

So here I am, taking a break from the ping-pong madness of "just another day in the life of being a mom" to actually reflect on how taxing it truly is.

Do you feel this way too? Especially you parents juggling the normal demands of life, on top of raising 2 (or more!) children who need your attention CONSTANTLY! Well this is my life, and it's no excuse (of course) for missing my mother's birthday, but it does give me some needed perspective.

I ping from a crying baby, to a toddler who cries because he wants to be the baby.
I pong from picking up toys, to picking up my own toiletries used as toys.
I ping from meal, to dishes, to meal, to dishes, to messes on the counter and floor, walls, and more.
I pong from phone conversations of intense depth to toddler conversations of immense joy.
I ping from blow-outs to constipation, nursing to spit-up, laundry to folding and folding again.
I pong from responsibilities that remain undone to relationships that need my tending.
I ping from irrepressible love for my darlings, to irritating frustration beyond measure.
I pong from friends, to family, to neighbors, to colleagues, to church members, to friends from afar, back to that insistent toddler who wants to know he has my undying affection (and he does).

In the midst of the ping-pong tournament of a lifetime, I also feel pulled between engaging the truly significant issues going on in the world (not the least of which is world hunger)- and just trying to figure out what my own kids will eat for their next meal.

And sometimes this mentally, physically, and emotionally overloaded mom just needs to say, "I'll take a break and play again in an hour." Because ping-pong is one of the greatest games I know, but unless I'm up for the exhilaration and challenge, it isn't worthwhile at all.

So join me in pushing pause on your own game of ping-pong long enough to make someone's day (especially if it's your mom's birthday). And when we've finished that needed conversation or written that special note, we can resume the challenge of the pings and pongs life brings our way.

When I need some spiritual perspective through all this, I recall Jesus saying, "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

AJ captured a pretty typical scene: me ping-ponging between work and motherhood.

My mom has cancer…so what?

I’ve been mulling over this blog post for a long time. I’ve waited to discuss my own response to my mother’s diagnosis out of respect for her personal processing and privacy. But with the “ok” from her, I’d like to share a bit about the ugly truth of cancer and the glimpses of beauty I see along the way.

Two weeks before my daughter Blaire was born, I got an awful phone call from mom. She’s been forthright with us kids since day one, and so it was with a tear-choked voice that she shared the news…cancer.

I don’t think I actually believed it at first. My mother? Cancer? Surely another test or two will prove otherwise. But with each new test, the results became glaringly obvious. Cancer. It’s a cancer called Multiple Myeloma that has slowly been eating away at my mother’s bones, causing multiple rib fractures and two sternum breaks. It was after this second sternum incident that my mom went it for additional tests (none of us truly expecting anything to come of it, other than confirming her already known Osteoporosis). But for reasons no one can explain, cancer was lurking in her blood, within her bone marrow, causing several “bone lesions” that could eventually lead to severe skeletal damage.

And so with her seventh grandchild about to be born, my mom suddenly faced a very different future than the one we’d all been imagining. On Blaire’s due date, May 31^st 2016, my mom began her cancer treatments. I don’t intend to speak on my mother’s behalf, although I will say she has been incredibly strong, articulate, brave, hopeful, and faithful throughout the past 7 months of treatments (and their nasty side-effects) and countless hours spent coordinating her own care. I do, however, intend to speak about my own development throughout this process. The “so what?” of my mom’s cancer.

In addition to my own major adjustment to being mom of two, I’ve been absorbing the reality of my mom’s cancer. So what have I learned?

First, cancer really, really sucks. It immediately sucks away time and resources, peace of mind, months of health, energy I know my mom would like to put toward her grandchildren instead of her own wellbeing. It also sucks away any illusion of a care-free retirement, any certain plans for “cousin camp” at grandmas, any amount of long-term dreaming for the future. Cancer sucks.

Second, cancer is more pervasive in our communities than I ever realized before mom got diagnosed. As a pastor, I’ve seen the devastation of cancer within families, but now I truly understand it. And because of our family’s experience, I feel more in tune with the experience of countless others facing cancer or the diagnosis of a loved one.

Third, I’ve learned more about Multiple Myeloma in the past 7 months than I ever imagined possible, and I’m even more-so drawn to the importance of finding a cure. Because for me, it determines whether or not I get to watch my children delight in the presence of their grandmother for decades to come.

Fourth and finally, I’ve learned that I have a whole lot more learning to do. And in assuming a posture of humility (which cancer inevitably evokes), I’ve begun to take less of every moment in life for granted. I’ve begun to recognize the beauty of a common goal drawing me closer than ever to my mother’s side. And I’ve learned what it means to cling to faith and prayer, not as one option in life, but as a necessity to keep on living.

The next step for my mother, after nearly 8 months of cancer treatments, will be a stem cell transplant in late January. She’ll receive an awful dose of chemo to clear her system of (ideally all) cancer, then begin rebuilding an immune system from scratch. This will no doubt be the most difficult challenge she or this family has ever faced. And so it is with a whole lot of humility, and just enough hope for the journey ahead, that we as a family ask for your prayers.

Cancer, so what? So life might be cherished and respected all the more. So families might bond together with positivity and life-giving affirmations. So we human beings might find within us the capacity for greater empathy, further awareness of the plight of others, and compassion for every single living being we encounter. So we learn to hold onto our own plans a little more lightly, and to God’s glorious promises of life-everlasting all the more.

Thank you for sharing in this journey of cancer with us. May we soon delight in news of remission!

A Blaire update- that whole trachea thing...

Signing into my blog today, I realized that my last post was my "momma bear" moment, from which came several enlightening conversations and words of encouragement. Thank you.

Today I don't want to rant, because today Blaire-girl is 5 months old, and I'd prefer to celebrate!

With the rapid passing of time (seriously, 5 months!!!), it dawned on me that I haven't given much of an update on her trachea condition. Sometimes good news sneaks up on me, as it certainly has with Blaire. The short of it is this- she's doing MUCH better! I recall a month or so back as we were nursing, my fingers entwined in hers, I thought to myself, "Wow, this is so peaceful!" And a few similar nursing sessions later, I realized that the peace I sensed was twofold: the absence of her noisy breathing, yes, but also the slow dismantling of my own anxieties over her condition. Quiet, calm, "normal" sounding baby breaths? That's my girl, Blaire, that's my girl.

She still struggles a little for breath when she's crying harder than usual...but this rarely happens because she's such a content little bundle of sleeping bliss most of the day. And for this I will give God thanks a million times over. She is truly a delight. The grins she gives her daddy, the baby giggles she gives her proud big brother, the sensation of mutual satisfaction we share as baby and nursing mom. The intrigue with which she scans a room full of folks she meets on mommy's many pastoral adventures. The goofy faces and high-pitched noises she's begun to explore for herself. These are all gifts I don't hold quite as lightly as I might have, had she been born without breathing issues.

So yes, sometimes good news sneaks up on me, and when I finally realize it, I share it with the world. Because good news, like the wonders of God's healing hands, is too wonderful to keep to myself.

So here's a Momma Bear rant...

So I'm not much for ranting. I often come across too strong, only to lessen my intensity a day or so later and wish I hadn't committed to words such strength of emotion.

But today, I intend to do exactly that. Rant. Because when an acquaintance insinuates that my three month-old daughter needs to lose weight? This Momma Bear loses her cool. (almost). With all the calmness I could muster, I patted my darling on the tummy and said, "No. THIS? This is perfect. It's JUST perfect."

That's all I said, aside from a polite little joke about hoping she doesn't acquire her dad's physique someday...(but you know what? That'd be just fine with me too! I wish I wasn't always so polite.)

Yes, this woman was clearly projecting some ill-informed personal body issues onto my daughter. It's her problem, not ours. But the sad truth that struck me like lightening yesterday, was that this has already become a pattern. My daughter has already gotten more "body comments" from strangers than my son (who's been around 2 years and 3 months longer) has ever received. In fact, I cannot cite a time when anyone seemed the least bit concerned about Briggs' pudgy adorable (age appropriate) body shape.

But Blaire? Now girl, you gotta lose some weight. You've already been in this world for over 3 months!!! You're not crawling yet? You know a good girl exercises....and on and on and on.

What makes me the most sad about this absurd situation is that the Momma Bear in me has already identified the most difficult battle I will face with Blaire. That is, teaching her to ignore (or clarify for the ignorant) all the gazillion body shaming messages that will come her way.

Do I occasionally find myself feeling shamed from all the negative female bodies messages around us? Absolutely, but I'm going to try my hardest to identify and debunk every single one of them from now on, because my daughter, my 3 month-old daughter, needs the best ally she can get. And that, my friends, is gonna be this Momma Bear.

So if you see Blaire, and you want to make an unseemly comment about how she needs to lose weight. Just don't. Ever. To any girl. Ever. Thanks.

And if you're a mom fighting this battle alongside me, I'd love to hear your game plan.

"No. THIS? This is perfect. It's JUST perfect."

What we whisper matters

The other day, as we were playing one of Briggs' new favorite games (you know, the game where you take a spare bicycle seat and swing at a tennis ball? Yeah, that one), I caught a glimpse of how much a child's language acquisition depends on what is spoken around him. As much as the words being conveyed, I'm realizing the tone of the language counts too.

And Briggs' tone is quite endearing whenever we "play catch." Regardless of the situation, no matter if the ball is dropped or not, Briggs assures us that we're doing well. "Nice catch, Daddy!" "Nice throw, Mommy!" (much like I've encouraged him as he develops his skills each step of the way). And as much as I love his words, it's his tone that impresses me. He speaks with a confident assurance that we've been trying ever-so-discreetly to instill within him.  Now I don't mean to condone the "you are more special than others" type of parenting. I'm not interested in teaching my children that. But positive affirmations? The kind that promote goodness and generosity of spirit? That matters to me. And kids learn these over a series of countless interactions with us.

So when I hear my own child chirp affirmations like that, I crack a smile and make a mental note to always be kinder with my tongue,  more thoughtful with my conversations. Because if there's one thing this parenting business has taught me, it's this: what we whisper in our homes becomes the language of the next generation.

I've been whispering in Briggs' ear for some time now: reminders that God loves him, sweet songs of nurture and care, reassurance that he is a good boy (even when he makes mistakes), and the kind of affirmations I hope one day he shares with others. Because we hope that when a child grows up knowing he is beloved, he will have the emotional capacity to treat others with generosity, care, respect, and good cheer, the same way it's been whispered into his heart, year after steadfast year.

I'm just now beginning this journey again, whispering in Blaire's little ear, "Mommy loves you, little girl, and I can't wait to show you the good in this world."

May all of us who find ourselves in the vocation of raising the next generation be mindful of what we whisper into the hearts of those who listen.

Nursing Moms Fantasize Too

I think.
At least this one does.
Maybe some nursing mothers simply cannot imagine life without a nursling attached to them.

But I can; and although I truly feel blessed to have a successful nursing relationship with Blaire, I confess that my fantasy lately has been imagining 24 whole hours to myself.

24 hours, just me. My toddler doesn't need me. My job doesn't need me. My three month-old doesn't need me. My spouse doesn't need me. The house doesn't need me.

24 hours of rest. This may seem odd to those who have this on a regular basis. This may even seem strange for a pastor to say, someone who should be taking Sabbath rest seriously.

But seriously, Sabbath is a fantasy right now.

I suppose one might argue that I could arrange childcare for this (albeit quite difficult for a whole host of reasons, and not sustainable on a weekly basis). But even if I do, I'm tied to my pump 1/4 of the time and spend as much energy "righting the ship" of our nursing relationship upon return...that it just doesn't seem like a restful idea at all.

So here I sit, fantasizing. It's actually a pretty fun mental game. What would I do with 24 hours?

Well, obviously I'd sleep. About 12 hrs, which leaves 12 more to fill...

Likely with chocolate, exercise, reading, dancing, and maybe even looking in a mirror long enough to care for my appearance. But whatever I fantasize doing, it's never rushed.

I just cracked a smile. This thought is definitely a favorable one. And it will happen one day, I know. Sabbath rest is not an unattainable fantasy; it's actually possible, just not right now.

Because right now I'm nursing- and God must be giving us nursing mothers a little extra strength from heaven until that day our (very worthy) fantasy comes true, and we once again can experience Sabbath rest.

So maybe what I'm learning is how to better cherish Sabbath moments, rather than Sabbath days. And the truth is, nursing sessions have actually become moments of mental Sabbath for me. It's built-in down time that I believe God designed to give moms of infants an excuse to "zone out." And it's just enough time to fantasize that one day life will be a little more restful, a little more free.

Until then, Blaire, I'm grateful your cuteness and your incredibly sweet demeanor give me strength for each new day. :)

In a Bumbo already!

I'm choosing sanity.

I'm choosing sanity today, mostly because the alternative doesn't much suit me (so I've discovered).

I've lived a few days on the other side of sanity the past three months, and what I'm learning more than anything else is that humility will bring sanity.

So rather than try and attempt the gazillion things a working mom needs to do it order to be "successful," I'm choosing to remain sane today, cancel my commitments, and stay home with two sick kiddos.

Blaire has ushered in that 3 month mark, and as exciting as it is to be over the worst (in my opinion) bit of infancy with Blaire, we're also past the point where she gets an "immunity pass" from being in my tummy. She's officially entered the world of germs, and as normal as this is (and as helpful as breastmilk continues to be), she is particularly susceptible to a "bad" cold because of her breathing issue.

So while a part of me is freaking out because I'm not yet sure what to expect from this cold, the more knowledgeable part of me is choosing to remain sane, stay home, monitor her, and trust that she's got grit.

And while I'm choosing sanity on a day that began with both kids crying, I might as well make other positive mental and emotional choices:

Like recalling the moments of sheer sibling beauty when Briggs motions for me to quickly "Come, Mom." --"What is it, Briggs?" --  "See baby sister, she so cute!" (like it's the first time opening a precious gift, even after three months of her existence with us).

Like remembering how Blaire truly is a gift to everyone we meet, strangers and friends alike; how it gives me such joy to bring her in public spaces for her light to shine on people and places longing for the wholeness and purity babies offer.

Like knowing that although AJ is now even busier as part-owner of the ranch, he's providing a legacy for our children, one I know Briggs already loves when he goes to "check cows," and "count haybales" and charm customers with daddy.

Like sitting here with a cup of coffee while I unabashedly let Briggs watch Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, and I write to the world that I know exists out there somewhere, people with whom I enjoyed keeping company before becoming a mommy, life and vitality on this great big earth I will one day see again.

Just not today, because today I'm staying home, choosing sanity, and cherishing the little moments with little blessings named Blaire and Briggs.

And this really is the best choice I will ever make.

She may be sick, but she still smiles for her belated 3 month photo

We know more! (sort of)

It's Friday, both kids are napping, and this is the first I've had to collect my thoughts this week.

First thought? I'm. So. Exhausted.

Second? Oh, I haven't updated my facebook family on Blaire's check-up results.

The short of it: "She'll be fine. But watch her. But she'll grow out of it. But bring her in if anything changes or if her breathing gets worse."

The long of it: After sticking a camera down her nose, the doc found out that her airway does collapse when she breathes. So, he confirmed our primary doc's original hypothesis of trachiomalacia, only he calls it by a different name: Laryngomalacia. He used the two terms interchangeably, really. But his online medical report uses laryngomalacia, which just means I have to learn to pronounce another medical term (or maybe just stick with windpipe). I asked about "severity" and he said he can't say what portion of her trachia collapses, or how the tissue closes in on the larynx... he just could tell that it does.  That's why I don't feel as if we know much more than we originally thought. Generally speaking, however, it's mild if it doesn't affect her eating/sleeping. And there's no sign of that with this little angel!

As Shirley remarks, "I'm pretty sure we're the youngest and older church members right here!"

I can say that I entered that clinic much more nervous than when I left. And for that I'm extremely grateful. I'm also grateful for the amazing amount of emotional support I've received from so many of you! Her breathing situation isn't perfect, (and I can tell my anxiety shoots through the roof when she's crying) but I do think she'll be just fine.

I'm realizing yet again how dramatically my emotional well-being is tied to that of my children. And if there's a silver lining in all this, it's a reminder that if I care this much for my children, how much more God must surely care for us!

Given in Love

Imagine our delight to discover

You entered our world,

A bundle of gorgeous grit,

A girl of untold wonder and wit.

You are our child, our sacred gift

Sent from above, every little bit of you,

A daughter of God, given in love.

We embrace this new journey ahead

With gratitude, grace, and steadfast faith.

Knowing it calls us to stretch and to grow

As we commit to letting you know

You are created in God’s image, made to bestow

Light from above, a heart of hope,

A daughter of God, given in love.

You have joined a great big family,

With members of every nation and race

All welcome because of God’s holy embrace

And we bring you, little sister, to this place

Of worship and wonder, as much as we do

Because here you belong, here you are you.

A daughter of God, given in love.

Your baptism today marks you with God’s kiss

And we celebrate your life as a gift

Not only for us, but for others too,

All who need to see Jesus anew

Will know that God is God, because you are you.

Yours from above, a promise to receive as

A daughter of God, given in love.

We love you dear Blaire Yvonne Munger,

And we will try with all that is within us,

To guide you to the good Shepherd, because

You are a daughter of God, given to love.

Grandparents!

Body shame... shame on me.

I know better.

I know this is an important stage for my body to experience, the post-baby phase. The phase when my body retains a certain amount of excess fat in order for milk production to be it's most effective. The phase when my body gradually deflates from plump to a little less plump, month after month (the same way it inflated ever-so-gracefully). The phase when my muscles and skin re-orient themselves to a new normal.

But it's also a phase in which I catch myself doing the one thing that (when I'm in my right mind) seems absurd. After having personally witnessed the presence of a miracle growing inside, after living the miracle of labor and delivery, after knowing the miracle of nursing an infant...I somehow still look in the mirror and have a certain amount of body shame.

Let me assure you, I have gotten none of this from others. I have only heard affirmations from those around me. And even though society at large surely plays a role with the propagating of unrealistic female body image, it's mostly my own unrealistic expectations at play.

So shame on me (so to speak) for shaming my own body.

Yes, my body is different. Two months after giving birth to my second child, my abs feel a little like jello. Half my wardrobe is currently off-limits. I'm not yet up to those Crossfit workouts. My appetite is unquenchable. I can see the aging process occur each time I catch a glimpse in the mirror. I don't look or feel like the same 'me.'

And the truth is, I'm not the same me. I never will be. But this is hardly a reason to feel ashamed. This new body of mine? It's the body of a mother, and no mother's body can be compared to its pre-baby form. It's made an incredible transformation, it's lived a story of sacrifice.

The jello-like abs and extra fluff are a part of the story. The ill-fitting clothes and altered exercise routines are a part of the story. The wrinkles and wear are all a part of the story.

And in case we've forgotten what that story is-- let me remind myself and all those mothers struggling with body shame; we've been a part of a story that's given birth to a miracle.

And miracles remind us there's only room enough in life for grace and love, patience and faith. All else distracts us from the reality of God's good gifts.

So do I want my clothes to fit? 

Uh, yeah. 

But until that day, I'm gonna dance and play with Briggs, cuddle and sway with Blaire, and give thanks for the incredible opportunity to be the mother of miracles.

when the day is bad...

it's really bad.

I have moments now as a mom of two when I wonder how moms actually manage to have energy for more than 2. I mean, I'm not a super-woman, but I do like to think I have some capacity for stress.

But days like yesterday... and nights like last night...must surely get struck from the mommy-brain record for any woman contemplating adding even more chaos (I mean charming children, of course) to her life. I don't mean to leave out dads here, but I'm gonna go out on a socio/bio/culturally-tenuous limb here and suggest moms of infants have a need for greater emotional and physical capacity than dads. There, I said it. :)

So, let me get to the point I'm making. I love my children with a fiercer love than I imagined possible, but they also push me to my sensory limits. When the day is great- I am the most blessed mom around. But when the day is bad, it's really bad.

Any moms out there feel me on this?

I love documenting the beautiful, poignant, cherished moments in my life (you know, the ones that show up in my newsfeed), but I also feel it's fair to record the not-so-instagram-worthy ones, because a one-dimensional existence just doesn't suit us humans.

To what moments do I refer, you ask with curiosity?

The moment when my two-year-old insists on repeating, "mommy, mommy, mommy," enough times that my gentle, "what is it, sweetie?" and "I'm listening, buddy" turns into a sort-of-mean-spirited "What, Briggs!" followed by his innocent dimpled grin and my ensuing mommy-guilt for losing my cool on a child who adores me.

The moment when my sweet, 7 week-old baby has cried for one-too-many-hours while the rest of the world sleeps, and I begin to contemplate if it would really be so terrible just to hear her scream while I lay in bed.

The moment when my two-year-old is whining, only to turn around and find his own mother crying harder than he, because life is just too overwhelming.

The moment when I direct all my frustration and anger at my husband, despite his doing nothing wrong, because he's the only human around I feel can handle the tumultuous emotion of my life.

These moments are not my shining joy as a mother or wife, but they are the moments that make me human. And I express them in full recognition that it's not socially-acceptable to admit fault publicly; I do believe strongly, however, that it's theologically right to do so.

Because we have a God who envelops our troubles, who asks us to cast our cares at the feet of Jesus, who takes on the selfless role of guiding us up the steep parts of our journey.

Because I believe in a God who takes all our moments, even the icky ones, and  invites us to see them as parts of a greater whole. I believe that one day, with the help of God, I will look back on yesterday with a certain kind of gratitude, because even those intolerable moments are fashioning this family into God's likeness. We are a family that sees one another through the grime, so one day the glorious moments might shine even brighter.

I suppose there's further musing that could be offered regarding this truth and the state of the world right now, but please excuse this sleep-deprived mom while I sign off and pour another cup of coffee.

Here's a pic of me, holding it together just enough to write about how I'm not really holding it together.

Torn in Two

It's been awhile since I've written, mostly because I've been carefully balancing my desire for a social existence and my deep need for sleep...all while caring for two really cute, yet really demanding kiddos!

But since one is sleeping and the other is soothing his hand, foot, & mouth illness with a little Daniel Tiger, I've decided to write again.

I took a look at a calendar this morning, and it dawned on me...I only have 3 weeks left of maternity leave. This reality calls up for me plenty of emotion. Maternity leave (during my coherent moments, at least) has been an experience of feeling torn....

Torn between two kids who both legitimately need my attention, often at the same time.

Torn between needing to rest and recuperate and the impulse to return to normal activity levels.

Torn between a desire to care for myself and my children- and a desire to stay connected with the folks at church.

Torn between sleeping and cleaning.
Torn between sleeping and coffee.
Torn between sleeping and chatting.
Torn between sleeping and engaging the really pertinent issues going on in the world.

Okay, I think I've made my point; I've spent much of the last several weeks feeling torn, and I'm pretty sure this won't change when I return to work.

I will continue feeling torn between two (often competing) desires to be a mom and be a professional. Yes of course these roles can co-exist, I know this from personal experience....but what I haven't yet experienced is how these roles co-exist as a mother of two and the pastor of a church with growing membership.

And since I am firmly committed to breastfeeding and close contact between baby and mom,  I'm torn between the need for mental and physical freedom to perform my role as pastor well, and the intrinsic need to be close to Blaire during this vital first year.

So I've decided that in three weeks, when I return again to my role as pastor, Blaire will accompany me in my work as often as possible. Although I had this experience to a degree with Briggs, I intend on attempting to bring Blaire along even more so than I did the first time around.

I guess this post is both a moment for personal processing, as well as a call to compassion from myself and my church family as I ease back into the role of pastor. I've already been blessed with paid maternity leave, and I am confident in my church's flexible expectations of me as I learn once again how to do both the pastor and mom thing well- now with two children constantly on my mommy radar.

May God grant the wisdom and grace to deal with feelings of being torn- for me and for all women who encounter this challenge all the time, the world over.

This girl has my heart, especially when she sleeps.

Blaire's Birth Story and My (re)birth as a Mother

Yes, I know that countless women throughout the centuries have given birth without fanfare, but the story I am about to tell is mine to share, so share I will!

Two weeks ago tomorrow, May 27, 2016 at 3:13pm, my life changed forever when Blaire made her speedy delivery into this world. For those who appreciate the gory details, I'll gladly send you a more complete version, but I'll be as discreet as possible for those slightly more squeamish among us.

I go in for my regular 39 week appointment excited and confident I'll be waiting for a spontaneous labor. But amniotic fluid levels have the doc concerned, so after an ultrasound and stern talk about resting, drinking fluids, etc. I wait another three days. On Thursday, AJ accompanies me to this heart-fluttering appointment, at which point we are told the words I REALLY didn't want to hear. "Fluid lower, INDUCE YOU MUST!"  So we go out for a last supper, pick up groceries, and head home to pack our bag....all the while I try everything I can think of to induce labor "naturally." :) Evidently my OB caught on to my reluctance, because that next morning he comes into the room, smiles and says, "I'm glad you're here...was wondering if I'd have to put out an APB to get you in here!"

At 4:30am, Friday May 27th, (after not really much sleep due to heartburn from the spicy food that was supposed to induce labor), I turn to AJ and say, "Only positive today, only positive."  At 5:30am we arrive at the birth center, more nervous than I can remember being for quite some time, but positive and (maybe nervously) chirpy. Pitocin has me worried, despite countless assurances from friends and family who've been induced. 7:30am Pitocin begins...and I wait through 4 hrs of super gradual (read: boring) contractions. The doc checks me- no progress. Breaks water. Progress in the form of pain for the next few hours, but doc checks me again. "You're not quite in active labor." Ugh.

30 minutes later the contractions are as strong as I'd ever felt with Briggs...and this "not in active labor" business has me worried. Thinking I have several hours of this back labor to endure, I ask to discuss an epidural. 10 minutes later, I don't need to discuss...I need it!  This takes a bit of time (especially since I fervently denied I would ever need one, so haven't met the anesthesiologist). The OB arrives about 15 minutes later (he's also delivering another baby on the floor), and I'm on the bed (in an awkwardly defiant "not in bed, but on the bed" position) basically screaming, "So much pressure!" then, "I need to push!!!" This coincides with the arrival of the anesthesiologist, who is quickly assured her services won't be needed. 5 minutes later, Blaire makes her speedy entrance into the world. For those who've never "pushed," 5 minutes (or it could have been 10, but still...) of pushing isn't super desirable for recovery purposes, but it did sure ease my mind! :):)

I'm pretty sure this is one of the first things out of my mouth after Blaire is born: "Thank the Good Lord Almighty THAT is over!" (I am a pastor, after all) :) Then skin to skin, nursing, bliss....the whole world stands still for a few hours as I soak in the new bundle of arms and legs and deep blue eyes snuggling into my chest.

Baby Blaire is my new little girl, weighing 7lb 11oz, a whole pound lighter than her brother. She has dark hair and seems to possess a darker complexion, which prompts AJ to ask in front of the whole care team assembled, "Who's baby is this?"

She's ours. And she belongs to the world now. God's creation at its most miraculous. This is why the story is worth sharing, because in 8 short hours, Blaire transformed from an idea growing inside me into an independent, lovable, delicately fashioned person.

And in 8 short hours, I transformed from a mom of one into a mom of two. And it's a miracle that mom's survive this transition without going crazy! I am new again, because my whole world has changed, and I must change right along with it. It's a re-birth of sorts for all of us in the Munger household...A family of four, already on our way to experiencing the joys, challenges, sleepless nights and petty fights that go along with it, and of course the sheer beauty of it all.

God, smooth out the wrinkles during this transition, that we might focus on the miraculous above the mundane. And thanks, for this tiny wonder we call Blaire Yvonne. Amen.

Briggs has surprised me with his level of affection and tenderness toward "baby sister"

Blaire's starting to add the chunk!

Carving out a little Briggs time to pick berries
(which Briggs unknowingly refers to as "beers.")

full term, full of plenty.

I LOVE full term.

It's this moment in pregnancy when I know the baby is most likely okay....when the light emerges at the end of the (ever-widening) tunnel...and when I frantically prepare for the chaos that is sure to ensue when this tiny human switches from inside out and turns our lives upside down.

It's crazy, but so so exciting.

Full term is an interesting phrase, because medically it means the baby is (kinda) ready for the outside world...my doc won't stop the process if it begins tonight! But full term reminds me of the many other ways I am "full" at this moment in time.

I'm full of baby, obviously. Knees, fists, a precious little butt- who knows what's all sticking out and rippling through my belly at this point!?!

I'm full of anticipation. As the weeks wither away, it's getting harder to shut off my brain at night. SO many things to prepare. SO many unknowns to test my patience. SO many memories of Briggs' infancy running through my mind.

I'm full of humility. Sure, baby bumps are cute, right? But they are also incredibly uncomfortable, inconvenient, and strange. I bump into everything. I am constantly looking for the most comfortable position, which is often the least flattering. I can't bend over or cough without losing control over any number of bodily functions. And I am a public target for everyone's envy, pity, fear, admiration, and just plain curiosity. Oh, and I waddle.

I'm full of awe. I still can't get over how amazing this miracle is. How, despite so many ups and downs, here I am with a big, healthy baby about ready to become a living being entirely distinct from me....and so I pray my thanks that this baby has survived my many rounds of antibiotics, Briggs' brotherly jolts to my belly, and the general stress that has accompanied this pregnancy train.

I'm full of love, the kind that's challenging, invigorating, exhausting, and totally worth it.

Here's to this baby staying put 3 more weeks so this mom can finish out her work schedule and check off as many to-dos as possible before that moment I can never plan for...contractions!!!

People say I'm small. Ha!

Briggs needed his photo taken too.

practicing his "cheese!"

Full length shot courtesy of photographer husband and proud papa

My Pregnant Body: The Reverse Perspective at 34 weeks

A few weeks ago I decided to write honestly about the real physical and emotional struggle that exists for so many pregnant women, including myself. And although what I shared is true and necessary to express, I've been thinking the reverse perspective is equally important to more accurately report on my experience of pregnancy.

So here's what I failed to express in my last post...the sensation of tiny hands and feet pushing against my insides is truly amazing. In fact, I'm brought to tears just writing about it. It's the one "physical symptom" that I never tire of feeling. Even when those little legs catch the edge of my ribs or little hands push against my bladder, I smile. Well, at first I might startle a bit at the sudden twinge...but it's so remarkable to be reminded that all the other physical symptoms aren't just phantom feelings...they mark the presence of a miracle growing inside.

This morning, for example, after being awoken by my darling 2 year old (who takes it upon himself to hand me my glasses and phone each morning with a "here you go!"), I felt the little one pushing quite strongly in opposite directions, as if to get in a few morning stretches before the day began. It's a phenomenal feeling, which is why I know it's a necessary part of the pregnancy experience to share.

Here's the main reason I feel the need to balance my pregnancy reporting with this phenomenon: It's the one physical experience that actually inspires me to think beyond the pregnancy itself. From the first flutters to the final ninja kicks, each movement of this little one instantly reminds me that pregnancy isn't forever....and that is really, really exciting! :)

The rolls and waves of baby parts in my belly jump-start my imagination. And I begin to wonder...Will you have long fingers on those tiny hands? Will your legs be chunky or slender? Will you have any hair when you first emerge? Will we get the hang of nursing right away- or will it require some serious effort? And the questions go on and on. It's the kind of pondering that brings me to believe the pregnancy will be worth it after all. And let me tell you, right about now that is a true blessing!

So keep kicking, little one, and remind me that soon enough this pregnancy will be over and a whole new set of challenges and joys will begin!

Me smiling to remind myself that it's all worth it in the end!

My Pregnant Body: Breaking an Uncomfortable Silence

This week my OB said rather casually, “You have the perfect body for pregnancy,” and while a part of me relished in hearing the words “perfect” and “body” directed my way, I nearly laughed out loud.

Because my body feels anything but perfect right now, and every visit to the doctor finds me attempting to get this across; yet I’m always made to feel as if I should walk into my appointment with a glowing report of health….because, after all, my body is perfect for pregnancy.

I know my OB meant well, and he was merely making a physiological statement about my anatomy, but that one statement has plenty of social-emotional ramifications; as I lay awake last night, hungry with heartburn, I began to wonder about what we imply when both men (who’ve never actually experienced pregnancy) and even women (who have) gloss over the icky details of it all.

In trying to unpack my personal reaction to my well-intentioned OB, I realize a statement as simple as “you have the perfect body for pregnancy” makes me feel that my sacrifice, my endless list of physical symptoms, and my emotionally-conflicted sentiment around pregnancy is trivial, unwarranted, exaggerated, or any combination thereof. 

In essence, this is what I hear being conveyed: “No complaining, dear, you could have it much worse!” And so we miserably pregnant women cope in uncomfortable silence (or feel guilty when we “complain”), assuming others must surely be more miserable than we. And coincidently, depression is a very real thing in the life of many pregnant women, even those who may be given empty assurance that health is on their side.

Still the question remains: what makes a body perfect for pregnancy? If it’s one that doesn’t get rippling varicose veins, throbbing pools of blood in the ankles when standing, sharp back pain after sitting for too long, and pain from a sciatic nerve that spasms whenever it jolly well feels like it…then let me assure you, my body is NOT perfect for pregnancy.

Need more verification? So far into these thirty-two weeks of pregnancy, I’ve had a stomach bug or food poisoning 6 times, nausea (seriously for 18 weeks, less seriously for the remainder), headaches, backaches, leg aches, endless sinus infections, heart burn, extreme exhaustion, multiple urinary tract infections, emotional volatility, feelings of emptiness, and probably hundreds of other more minor issues. Why air all my pregnant dirty laundry? Because if I don’t, and if more women don’t, we continue to live under the assumption that surely our suffering isn’t worth talking about.

If our OB wants to gloss over the details, society doesn’t want to hear what’s negative about pregnancy, and even our spouses can only handle so much of it before they reach sensory overload…how else will we start to appreciate a pregnant woman’s need for honest, non-judgmental spaces in which our struggles are validated and taken seriously?

And so I share my pregnant body story with you as an attempt to break the uncomfortable silence that we women often feel burdened to keep due to societal pressure to “glow,” the un-ladylike (or some may even say unholy) nature of calling something as sacred as child-bearing “miserable,” and the undeniable reality that some women struggle to simply get pregnant (and thus know pain of a very different sort).

I can say that it’s been liberating for me to hear the stories of other women who have dealt with difficult pregnancies, especially with their second child, and so I hope the same for anyone who hears mine.  Each of our stories is unique and needed to paint a more realistic picture of the struggles associated with (both absent and present) pregnancies.

Most significantly for this pastor mom, I believe Jesus affirms my struggle, because in struggle we relate a little more closely to the man who knew there is no resurrection without a crucifixion. New life comes at a price- and I believe we can appreciate new life even better when the struggle beforehand is appropriately known.

Now excuse me as I attempt to find something to satisfy my simultaneous hunger, nausea, and heartburn. Cheesecake: that ought to make me glow!   
                         

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

Grandpa Called Her Sweetheart

Grandpa called her sweetheart,

The love of his long life.

As time tenderized their care,

Her gentleness and appeal

Called for a name

To match all they had shared.

Sweetheart.

My love whose sweet is real.

Sometimes it’s just a name.

Something to fill the void.

Sweetheart.

Suspended between a think and a feel.

And then one day we see it lived,

That moment love is shared.

Sweetheart.

The one whose sweet is real.

I have searched for days,

For a word to capture well

The essence of her spirit,

She who gave our family a great deal

Of learning and laughter

And nurture and soul.

Sweetheart.

The one whose sweet is real.

Sweetheart isn’t a name

To commemorate any great feat.

Unless, of course, you happen to have

Ten grandchildren to make feel

Worthy. At peace. In confident care.

Then a mighty hero indeed!

Sweetheart.

The one whose sweet is real.

It’s true, because I am one

Who knows her heart as sweet

As the honey I dipped those

Tatortots in, sitting alone at a meal.

Five years old and I still recall,

She affirmed my lack of lunchroom speed.

Sweetheart.

The one whose sweet is real.

She told me many times my eyes

Reminded her of her mother;

Maybe their shape or their color.

But things aren’t always as it seems,

And so I begin to wonder

If she didn’t know it true….

That my eyes saw, like her mother’s too,

A heart that beat with the sweetest of things.

Grandpa called her sweetheart

A woman whose sweet was real.

And I am always grateful for

That woman whose sweet was real.

Grandma Ikast, you have inspired, nurtured, and cherished us all well. Now rest in the arms of the One who created the sweet in you.

Baby Briggs with Great Grandpa & Grandma 2014

28 weeks- tired and happy, but which comes first?

My second pregnancy has been much different from the first, in part (I suppose) because I now have a two-year old to enjoy while also growing this new little one. In fact, I’ve been so busy that I rarely take time these days to reflect on how very happy I am to be ushering in new life all over again.

Because I’m tired, almost all the time. 

Take for example Briggs’ birthday party. It was a wonderful gathering of family and friends (with grandma graciously agreeing to host at her place). But even without the extra cleaning, hosting a rather simple birthday party was truly exhausting. Being on my feet all day is not something my twice-pregnant body much enjoys, and my body fought back by allowing a head cold to become another sinus infection…so I’m still tired and sick, a week out from the festivities. 

I say this not to gain sympathy exactly, but to admit that this pregnancy has been a juxtaposition of challenges and joy, almost constantly. In spite of all the “woes” of pregnancy, I am really, truly, wholeheartedly happy…and sometimes I just need to say that!

You just might miss it in our initial conversations, because the tired Emily almost ALWAYS speaks first. Then, after I’ve had my moment, I tend to allow the happy sunshine to stream through. I just wish sometimes the sun would shine brighter than my complaints. The truth is, I am extremely fortunate for this pregnancy, for the health of my family, for a supportive community around me, for friends who understand and sympathize with the frustrations of varicose veins, an achy body, mood swings, fatigue, (and the gazillion other pregnancy symptoms you can google at your leisure). I am fortunate to have a career in which I am called to tend my soul as well as others’ because it gives me spiritual perspective, especially when the tired Emily wants to take over.

So hear this from the happy Emily- the next 2 ½ months might not be my most physically pleasant, but I do feel blessed with this chance to discover yet again how powerful and miraculous our God truly is. And I am fundamentally happy to offer my body for the process of fostering another new life (at least while I sit here comfortably with my feet up!) J

Photo Cred- AJ Munger

Ordinary Ashes, an Extraordinary Christ

I began today by burning palm leaves to create the liturgical ash for this evening's worship service. And although I would love to be able to tell you how ceremonial I was about it, the truth is (as it's been in previous years as well), it's an ordinary, earthy business.

And I think what contributed to its earthiness this year was the fact that I performed this burning and crushing with my 1 (nearly 2) year-old. I go to the garage, followed promptly by the little leech of a learner, assuming this small pile of leaves will surely not create the type of alarming smoke it does. So in an attempt to both keep the (small) fire burning, open the garage door for ventilation, and keep my son safe, I end up drafting the smoke into the house (by way of the open door the curious toddler keeps open). I might add that neither Briggs nor I are properly dressed to be in the cold.

Ahh, so after the flame dies down, I follow the smoke back into the house and proceed to crush the ashes into dust. With Briggs' fervent help, soon we have a small pile of ash dust, and a house filled with the aroma of burning palms (which is surprisingly similar to the smell of a recreational drug). And so before sending my son off to day care, I feel compelled to throw our clothes into the laundry and air out the house the best I could in 15 degree weather. (I don't want assumptions about this PK being made before he's two!) :)

The final step is to mix a little oil in with the ashes. When asked by my husband if I use "holy oil," my reply is in spirit with the process of creating the ash itself...."Yes, that holy oil we use to cook with everyday."

That's about as ordinary and earthy as it gets. And yet somehow I couldn't help but see Christ in the process. Beginning with tearing palm leaves and reminiscing about the branches waving among the congregation last Palm Sunday, I think about the cycle of our own lives represented in the once-lively palms turned into dust. We are a magnificent creation, yes, but like the palms, we are created only for a short time on this earth. And it seems to me the best existence of all is to discover how our lives might wave in celebration of Christ, with whatever amount of time we have on earth. And I've witnessed those who are able to do this well, those who discover their ordinary lives are capable of glorifying an extraordinary Christ, seem most prepared when God calls them into the grace and dignity of becoming ash once again.

We all participate in the cycle of life, and Ash Wednesday is an invitation to ponder how we might use this precious opportunity in-between dust and dust.

God, give me the assurance and grace to be present with you in the fleeting moment between dust.