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.