Swinging, Rocking, Rocked

My world is spinning. I am a ballerina trying to do a triple pirouette on the tiny point of one toe.

I spin out of control. The world is a dizzying place. And my muscles are sore; they feel like melting jello.

This is my life right now on zero sleep. Do you like my metaphor?

Having a colicky infant is hard (she has inconsolable crying for hours every single day AND night). Having a colicky infant plus a highly active, non-napping toddler is very, very hard. I am really tired. Out of my mind exhausted.

But there is mercy for tomorrow morning.

I remember driving to the park. I probably shouldn't be driving. But I remember the oversized, swinging chair they have for the handicapped and kids with special needs there in the playground. I sat in that giant, cradling, contoured chair. And I swung back and forth, back and forth, my little baby strapped to me in the carrier I was wearing. It was the hand of God, that chair. I almost fell asleep there, quieted and soothed and rocked to sleep. Though nobody can see and many don't care, I am shrieking and crying and quite inconsolable at times inside my heart.

I rock my baby, and God rocks me. I will say it again. There is grace for tomorrow morning.

I respond to my baby every time she cries in pain; will God not respond to me? Will He not nurse me as I nurse my own child? "Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Of if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask Him" (Matthew 7:9)

God hears my cries and He will answer and give grace for this moment and for the moment I will need it tomorrow.

Four of us

We all sit on the king-sized mattress, on top of a soft, fluffy mound of blankets and pillows.

Tasha won't be left alone to sleep in her crib because she wants to be held. And so I hold her, gladly, knowing these days pass so fast and can it just stay like this forever?

She is propped between my legs and Noelle cuddles up against my side. Daddy brings a book and we, the four of us, read our bedtime story together. It's such a party. A sleepover.

It's so much fun that I don't want to stop with just one story. And usually it's Noelle who wants more than one book at bedtime. This time it's me.

But Kevin knows better - it's late for Noelle and for us, too. We were up until almost dawn with the newborn, but somehow the lack of sleep doesn't feel too bad.

The house is a lot noisier, too, with sounds of nonsensical chatter and singsong whimsy and baby's crying. Yesterday the walking and talking girl was climbing the stair rails yelling, "I'm trying to be a monkey! I'm trying to be a monkey!" while her father gritted his teeth and flared his nostrils with anxiety about her falling.

I am pretty much head over heels for my new little girl. She's the quiet one who just murmurs and nurses and breathes softly like a bird.

There is so much fat and marrow in these days. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away; these days He has given and given and given. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Child of my Womb

I sit beside her miniature bed.

I am a big, pregnant lady - belly swollen and skin stretched impossibly taut - sitting on a laughably small, white chair. There's a weight limit on that chair, but it's always held me for these nine months of weight gain, so I continue to sit next to her as she drifts off into sleep.

She likes her back to be scratched as she drifts. So I scratch it for her.

Her skin feels as thin as a balloon and underneath it are delicate bones. Like once when I felt a toy Yorkie and its quick, shallow breaths felt so fragile underneath the bones and soft fur as breakable as a hamster's.

Asleep now, her breaths are deeper and restful and slower. Her eyelids are shut together as softly as petals on her cheeks and I wonder where is she now? Somewhere I cannot follow, somewhere God takes her, takes all of us individually when we sleep.

She came from inside me - deep down in the dark unseen - her head once wedged between my pelvis, murky waters cushioning ears and eyes from sound and light. Somehow God put her together: she has skin, hair, miraculous eyes, impossible brain so intricate, ten fingers and ten toes. And she can laugh like I've never heard a person laugh before.

She started a baby with meconium poop from all the months inside my womb, and now she walks upright in the world and talks to us and when she sees me tired she says, "Mama, you lay down to sleep awhile." O, Child, when did you become so compassionate?

It's a brief time He's given to me with this child. I feel it falling out of my cupped hands like sand through the fingers. And I am reluctant to let it go.

These Days

My heart is quiet these days.

I am thankful that this baby has reached almost 40 weeks.

That is God's goodness.

I am very curious the cup awaiting me to drink. What will labor be like this time? God knows. Long or short, painful or mild. He has a cup prepared for me to drink, when the time is right.

I am looking forward to meeting our new little one, nursing her, changing her diaper and marveling at what a miracle has been wrought in the womb. These nine months of dark mystery will sprout up into a flower.

Meanwhile our oldest has blossomed into a flower all her own. She's a little personality so sweet and real as any person walking this earth. Suddenly she's been insisting that she absolutely will not wear pants - she wants to wear skirts and dresses. And she prefers pink or purple to any other color. "I don't like black," she says.

She is also very unlike the rotten child that I was when I was her age. Whereas I used to hoard all my food, she shares even her most favorite and prized snacks with me and her dad and anyone else who is close with her. She is marked by a very peculiar generosity and trust in those around her.

She has remarked before that she would like to share a bed with her baby sister. I imagine this would be a sweet arrangement once they're both a bit older...

...for all the Hard Things

From my journal of "Learning to See and Name Gifts" :

63. Second, third, and never-ending chances. I lose my way but God gives another chance. Again.

64. Forgiveness. God's, my husband's, my daughter's.

68. Sleep. Lack of sleep. All the circumstances that prevent my napping.

69. A child's sudden onset of stomach virus at the end of a long and tiring day. God has a reason.

70. The rice cooker whose button was never pressed. We ate a bountiful meal regardless. How blessed to have a fridge so full we could never starve if we tried.

71. Imperfect days where all my plans are frustrated.

72. God's grace when I've failed His testing AGAIN; failed to see He was the One disrupting "my" plans in order to show me that I need to slow down and take every moment from His hand. I cannot craft the story or outcome of my life. Life is not a big personal TO-DO list nor a cosmic stage to dramatize all my petty achievements. Every single day of my life is His story to tell, not mine.

74. His patience in spite of my incredible ignorance of His ways.

Thank you, Lord, for every frustrated plan of mine, for every wrinkle in my day. Your story is greater than mine and I will let You write it on my life.

The Shortest and Surest Way to Happiness

If anyone would tell you the shortest, surest way to all happiness
and all perfection, he must tell you to
make a rule to yourself to thank and praise God for everything
that happens to you.

It is certain that whatever seeming calamity happens to you,
if you thank and praise God for it,
you turn it into a blessing.

If you could work miracles,
therefore, you could not do more for yourself
than by this thankful spirit.

It heals and turns all that it touches into happiness.”

~ William Law, A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life

Mercy

She scampers up the step-ladder, finally at Mama's height. I put the small stainless steel pot in front of her on the kitchen counter, then hesitate before I set the box of oatmeal down, too.

Her little hands reach out, grabbing the container, eagerly, ambitiously pouring the entire contents into the small pot. Flecks of oatmeal decorate the counter and floor.

Thank God most of it made it into the pot. I laugh. Thank God there wasn't much in the box left to make an even bigger mess.

We strike fire and put the pot to boil for our morning breakfast.

Then, as I clean out the fridge, I scrape leftovers - a mound of uneaten quinoa - into a trash bag. The whole thing avalanches onto the floor.

But I stop and think, that's okay. There's mercy for that.

And then I really stop.

So there's mercy for that? But there is no mercy for the child who spills a little oatmeal onto the counter? Who was only trying to help? Who was only trying to imitate her mom?

Later the same morning, I collide into our kitchen cart. The pumpkin seeds in the bowl I hold go flying everywhere. And then my eyes are opened.

God is showing me something.

What is mercy, Jean?

Can I really expect my two year old to keep standards that even I can't achieve? "Don't spill that! Watch out! Wipe your hands!"

Does God make me apologize - make me say "I'm sorry" - every time I am imperfect?

I am crushed beneath the weight of my own stone-hearted hypocrisy.

I judge, I criticize, I find fault. And while I don't knit-pick, I am exacting. And all this on a little person who is forced to spend all day in my care, who just learned to walk a year ago, is barely able yet to pull down her own pants to sit on the potty, and can't even yet hold a pencil the right way. She can't even make a line on a paper, only stabs or scribbles; her fingers aren't developed enough for her to spread jam on toast, she only gouges at the bread with her knife.

And I am holding a standard up to her that even I can't achieve. When she spills her water, when she accidently pees on the carpet, if she drops a ton of crumbs on the dining room floor - just for making my heavy, pregnant body get on hands and knees a hundred times a day, wiping and cleaning - I sigh, I begrudge, I grit my teeth.

God have mercy on a person such as me. Show me how I cannot even live up to my own standards. Let me see how I would balk under my own oppressive oversight if I had to live with a person such as myself. Teach me how to see the mercy and lovingkindness you extend towards me everyday, and give me the grace to extend this same mercy and lovingkindness to those whom I've been entrusted, especially the defenseless young!

"Do not let mercy and truth forsake you. Bind them around your neck; write them on the tablet of your heart. Then you shall find favor and high esteem in the sight of God and man." Proverbs 3:3