What a difference a year will make!



Photos copyright In the Blink of an Eye photography

I blame it on the toddler.

The lack of blogging over the past two months? Yeah, definitely putting that one on the baby's head. He's just so.stinkin'.cute. that I haven't been sparing any of the time he's awake to do projects on the computer.

Well, that's the truth most days, anyway. Sometimes his cuteness is somewhat shadowed by a bit of crankiness but I've just decided something : life is too short to have my son watch me spend it doing projects on the computer.

Wesley has turned into a sponge ever since his first birthday in July. He watches everything his dad and I do and repeats it. Warren and I are both very spontaneous people who thrive without a rigid routine and very little expectation on our days. Our son is polar opposite of us...hmmm...you did that on purpose, didn't you, God?! If Wesley watches one of us do something a certain way one time, that's.the.way.it's.done.every.time.period. I'm talking about every detail. For instance, when he wakes up in the morning I usually go in the living room, flip on the overhead light and go in each corner and turn on the lamps. There's no window in our living room/kitchen so I like to start the day out with a lot of light since there's no natural sunlight. I never knew I had this habit until little shadow-man began insisting that those three switches get turned every morning before absolutely anything else can happen.

Once several weeks ago Wesley wanted to take a bath. I told him he could but he had to shut the bathroom door before I would undress him because it was really cold in the hall. Now when I tell him it's time for a bath, he walks into the bathroom, turns around and shuts the door and proceeds to take his clothes off. It is very disturbing to him if I start undressing him before the door is shut.

When we vacuum, Wesley pushes the button to wind the cord back up. When we watch a movie, he has two pillows he positions on the floor in the exact same spot every time. When we wash the dishes he sits in a certain way on the counter to watch. When I sew he's in charge of putting the foot down on the machine. When it's time for bed he carries his milk under one arm, drags his blanket behind and has his binky in his mouth.

I've learned lately that our little Owen thrives knowing that some things are going to go the same way every time, and we are trying to let him do some things the "proper" way while still helping him learn to be flexible. If two unstructured parents live through parenting this very structured child, I'm sure we'll be the better for it!

But that brings me back to the computer issue. I don't know how long it's been since Wesley has really been observing us in order to understand so very many things like he does now. I do, however, know that tomorrow he's going to wake up and his all-curious eyes will search every expression, act, tone, and habit and he will copy it. I don't want his little mind to accept the worldview that being zoned into a computer or cell phone is the most important way to spend time.

So, I really am blaming the lack of blogging on the toddler.

Maybe he'll sleep an extra long time tomorrow and I can sneak back on here to share some of my insights, pictures and projects I've been working on lately. Until then, enjoy a little peek into my crazy-God-blessed life via a few pictures:

I got to go on a Colorado vacation with this outstanding man...

...who happens to be the king of dutch oven campfire cooking.

Thanks to having a wonderful husband and Daddy, we can't stay away from the barn for very long...we miss Warren too much!

Wesley's first "pony" is a borrowed donkey named Nacho. He's pretty proud to have a saddle his size, too.

Love riding with my boy.

Warren happens to be very talented at making Bible stories come to life!

Little shadow.

We've shared two years of married bliss. Can we have two hundred more?!!

Confessions of a (previously)idealistic mother

(A few thoughts I had written before Wesley's birthday in July)

A year ago today I had a belly the size of a basketball, swollen feet, a perfectly clean house, constant uninterrupted time with my husband, an intense aversion to the blazing hot weather and an ideal in my head of how the next year was going to go.

Today I have none of those things.

Now I have an almost one-year-old.

I knew motherhood would change me. At least I was told that. But looking back on the past year, I had no idea how much it would change me. The first day of this adventure was July 6th, 2012, the day our little guy was born. You see, I knew how the birth was going to go. I had heard dozens of birth stories from my female family members and they all went the same: water breaks before due-date, three to five hours of labor, a couple pushes and voila, baby is born. No meds. No intervention. Painful, yes, but relatively simple, right? Our son came after fifteen hours of hard labor with a posterior, asynclitic baby that was nine days overdue. The exhausting labor was followed by an emergency c-section when his heart rate dropped to 40 as he was finally crowning. When he was born, he had the cord around his neck and looped on his ankle so that every time he moved he was strangling himself.

Days after bringing our precious bundle home, I was confused by those sleep training books that make it sound all easy to let your baby CIO (cry it out), resulting in an infant that sleeps thirteen hours a night by the time it's two months old. A year ago I was telling myself just to hold on for two months after the baby came and I could return to regular sleep. Tonight I'm going to bed early so I can survive the two times my eleven-month-old will wake me up tonight.

O, and that pesky baby weight that refuses to leave even with my greatest efforts? I thought this stuff was supposed to be simple. Natural. Easy. "Just keep nursing and the baby weight will melt off," my doctor told me. I don't think a nursing five-year-old is exactly what she was thinking.


God has this kind way of tearing down the expectations I put on myself so I can move a little further into grace. I wasn't the least bit prepared to be the woman hoping for a VBAC next time I get pregnant. I didn't think I would get caught being the mom who was still sleep deprived after almost a year. And heaven forbid that I wouldn't be able to kick my body into lose-the-baby-weight mode no matter how hard I tried.

I have a confession to make: dealing with the reality of these things is so much easier than living with the expectation of my own ideals. The desire to have it all together is stifling. I wasn't expecting my own ideals to be such a rigid taskmaster that would leave me feeling like a failure so many days this past year. 

In four days my bright-eyed, giggly little boy will turn one year old. I'm sure he'll wake up on his birthday with as much spunk and excitement for life as he does every day. He'll probably spend the first hour of his morning wrestling with his dad and bouncing all over me, then begging to "nore-nore" (nurse) with those completely heart-melting brown eyes looking so serious. When I get up with him on that day, I won't have time to sit and ponder my ideals of how parenting will go for the next year. I won't get to clean my house til it shines. I probably won't get a nap, an entire day alone with my husband or the luxury of putting my feet up to read that da-blame sleep training book. It's doubtful all my laundry will be done at the same time, I'll probably have dirty dishes in the sink and I may run out of diapers for the thousandth time. For heavens sake, I bet my baby will even eat some non-organic form of sugar before his birthday is up.

I can hear my own Mrs. Idealistic Pregnant Lady self a year ago gasping in disbelief.

Now? I'm way too busy enjoying every second of mothering a curious, alert, delightful little man covered in arena sand and remnants of lunch to care about that ideal stuff. 

Besides, who really needs sleep anyway?!

(Yawn...)

A year with Owen Wesley

We have been blessed beyond belief with an entire year of watching this little man grow. The pictures depict many of his character traits...giggly, ornery, curious, serious, happy, excited...what a delight he is! 

Happy Birthday, Owen Wesley!

10 months: the rest of the story

Thanks, God

Eleven months old!

The laundry quandary

It's laundry day.

Again.

When we lived in our apartment in Grand Island I rather enjoyed doing laundry. Our washer and dryer were very conveniently located in a closet right next to our bedroom. I only had to carry the laundry six feet and wa-la it was put away. I did a load or two every day so I never got behind, and it never was a burden at all.

Where we currently live our laundry room is upstairs, through two doors, half-way down the garage and around the corner. I'm very thankful for our washer and dryer because I know a lot of people have to haul their laundry to laundromats; but nonetheless, laundry is no longer easy or convenient for me. There is the issue of carrying it up and down the stairs, not being able to hear when the dryer is done, and having to be properly dressed on the chance of encountering our landlord in the garage (no quick laundry run in pajamas right before bed). Add in the extremely attached 10-month-old, who not only cries the second I'm out of his sight, but is also capable of climbing the two flights of linoleum-covered steps to follow me, and this laundry-thing gets difficult, to say the least.

But the worst part about laundry? It's never completely done. Today I did six loads and they're all folded and ready to be put away. I was feeling proud of myself until I noticed a very dirty kitchen towel hanging on the stove. I got Wesley up from his nap and had to change his banana-covered shirt so when I took him outside the dog didn't devour him for an afternoon snack. And, of course, as I'm sitting here thinking about the never-ending task of laundry, I am wearing clothes. And so is my husband. Which means all of the laundry isn't done for the day. I'll no sooner have my six loads in drawers and there will be another one in the hamper. 

I've thought about this quite a bit and come up with a common sense solution to the problem: everyone at my house needs to go naked for one day every week so I can get every scrap of laundry done and cross that task off my list. I'm not sure Warren will agree with me (he does ride horses all day every day), but I may try to convince him that my idea is brilliant, if not necessary.

The other option is that I would have to leave a permanent place on my list for laundry, and that's disheartening altogether.

Or, I could have a daughter with the intention of making her laundry-maid. But that might be flirting with child labor laws and that would be illegal.

O, the quandary...

Ten months old!

A perfectly clean house...

...is the sign of a misspent life."

(Favorite quote from our Weekend to Remember in Branson, MO)

Of mansions & babydolls

When I was a kid I had seventeen dolls. They were all named...with middle names. They had birth certificates. The oldest was three-years-old and I was proud of the fact that in the make-believe world of playing "house," I had birthed and adopted seventeen children within three years. The cut out magazine picture of their dad (who I think was actually a movie star) sat on the nightstand watching over the children during my endless hours of taking care of them. The poor man was off to war while I was dutifully caring for our infantile mob at home.

Lacey and I slept with almost all our dolls every night (she had sixteen of her own). Contrary to what you would think about dolls being soft sleeping pals, I lost quite a bit of sleep trying to get all seventeen to stay on the twin size bunk bed. But I didn't care...I was living the dream in perfect bliss and couldn't help but wishfully glance at the doll isle every time we went to the store, wishing Mom and Dad would allow me to adopt another one.

When I think about myself as a little girl, waking up every morning with excitement to care for my seventeen children, I don't think my seven-year-old mind would've pictured me today. Right now I'm sitting in my little apartment living room with my son cruising everywhere, picking up remnants of supper from under his booster chair, singing while he strums my guitar, and crawling toward the door babbling "da-da" over and over. Add another sixteen kids and that sounds about like my childhood dream.

But earlier, we went to town and I lost Wesley's binky in the grocery store and didn't realize it until he had downed a graham cracker and was ready to go to sleep a mile later. He had a very loud, persistent opinion about the lost binky for the rest of the forty-five mile drive home. This evening he napped at 5:00 pm, which totally threw off his bedtime. We went out to supper and Wesley showed up barefoot with banana pieces smeared inside his vest. Not to worry; I am an attentive enough mother to have his shoes in my purse...they are the black Robeez that I was so excited to find at a consignment store, only to bring them home and realize the boys loafers are actually girls ballerina shoes. He has Tupperware strewn all over the house. The groceries I bought this afternoon are still waiting to be put in the cupboard. His blanket smells like the barn. Our pickup hasn't been cleaned in a month and it drove Warren crazy today so we finally emptied it out. And sometime after our little guy goes to bed tonight, in the wee morning hours, this idealist mother will respond to his cries and bring him to bed with her...even though the books say not to. 

When I was seven I would draw pictures of my house when I grew up. All seventeen of my dolls would sit quietly beside me while I fashioned a mansion with five stories, twelve bedrooms and seventeen smiling children playing in a spotless environment. Twenty years later I'm sitting in a five hundred square foot apartment trying to figure out where to put the baby clothes, the groceries, the linens and the paperwork. If you were to visit our house in about an hour you would see Warren and I whisperingly giggle as we transport the pack-n-play with the sleeping baby in it from the bedroom to the living room. Our little man will likely pop his eyes open at the same moment we run into the narrow door frame and we'll say "better luck next time," for the hundredth time.

I'm not sure my life looks like the ideal that my seven-year-old mind drew up. I don't have time to take long showers and style my hair every morning. I don't take my son on a nature walk to teach him the scientific names of plants and the Latin names of animals every day. I don't have a house big enough to sleep seventeen children -- or hardly two, for that matter.

If you're thinking this is a disappointment to me, you obviously haven't spent any time in my little five hundred square foot apartment with dishes in the sink, dust on all the shelves and a printer that is always glitching because the only place to put it is on the floor and Wesley thinks it's the greatest jungle gym ever. If you were here with me you would know how full of life and joy this place is. You would giggle when you slid across the floor on a Tupperware lid and almost did the splits. You would feel proud of the fancy new pies I've learned to make and dirtied almost every dish I own because of it. You wouldn't mind the clumps of dirt on the floor or the wet jeans on the landing because of the cheerful "I love this life!" you would hear from my husband when he walks in, bringing arena sand and horse manure with him. You would witness the dream my seven-year-old mind couldn't have even thought up...a dream so incomparably better than having seventeen children in a spotless mansion with their movie star father off at war.

You would witness real life. The good, messy, living, breathing stuff of life. The ideal-crashing baby sleeping with us at night; the messy truck because we just got back from a wonderful trip to Branson; the sacrifice of living in a tiny apartment to spend all our time together, investing in what really matters to us.  

It's highly doubtful that I'll ever have seventeen kids.  I'm not holding my breath for a mansion, either. But that little seven-year-old girl's dream?

Ridiculously insignificant compared to reality.

Nine months old!

Crying Cousins

(photos copyright In the Blink of an Eye Photography)

Eight months old!

Seven months old!

I couldn't decide between two pictures so I decided to post them both!

(Pictured with poor Horace the horse, who is so well loved he is already a double amputee and most likely will soon be missing an ear.)

The Day He Created You

God was up in heaven one day

Doing whatever He does up there

He was in a particularly creative mood

As He sat in his Kingly chair.

A little bit of orneriness

Was sparkling in His eyes

He said with a delighted laugh:

“I’m going to make a surprise!”

Everyone gathered all around

To see what He would do

They gasped and squealed and ooed and ahhed

As He created you.

God took a pinch of His character

And added His fine looks to the pot

Next, a tiny bit of mischief…

No… actually it was a lot.

He doubled the fun with a brilliant mind

That would hunger to be wise.

Shouts of excitement filled the air

When He added those blue-green eyes.

Then God started writing your story

He had been waiting for this part!

Silence swept through the throne room of heaven

As God’s passion poured out to your heart.

Tears of pride filled God’s eyes

As He saw the man you would be

Patient and kind and ever-so-faithful

A prize no one had ever seen.

“He’s perfect,” God said, filled with emotion

As He wiped the tears from His eyes.

“My beloved, My son, My masterpiece,

“My best-ever birthday surprise.”

God was strutting and skipping all around

As He closed your life’s story book

“We’re in for an adventure!” He shouted with glee

“See what I made? Look!”

  It was February 4^th, 1981

When God showed off what He could do.

He was bragging a little…no, actually a lot,

That day He created you.

    

Happy birthday, Onie!


{Poem by Avery E Jennings. All rights reserved.}

Thank you, Mr. CEO

You see, there's this God-guy, and I've been thinking about him a lot lately. I'm not sure when it happened but in the past few weeks I've discovered that my list of names for God could be compiled like this:

Provider
Teacher
Leader
Provider
Helper
Giver
O yeah, and Provider

I've come to realize that I've spent much of the recent months viewing God like the head honcho of the financial department of life's company. I have a morning pep rally to let him know what the business looks like, show him where the numbers need crunched, ask him to beef up the support a little, and add a side note of praise for the success of the business so far. At night I give him a pat on the back congratulating him for another injury-free, in-the-black day (or a subtle reminder on the in-the-red-days) and hit the hay. 

As I've been thinking about this problem...this "provider" problem, wherein God is Mr. CEO in a starched suit who shows up long enough to read and critique P&L reports, I've come to realize that that's not actually who God is or wants to be at all. Sure, his name is Provider. That's obvious in the Bible and very obvious in my life. But if my son looked at me for nothing but the next meal (he has his days!) I would work hard to help him understand that I want to be more than a feeding machine for him. I want our little Wesley to find comfort, joy, humor, fun and adventure when he's with me. I want to be giggly with him, and snuggle, and teach him and enjoy watching him discover. I want him to know me as more than just a provider.

When it comes to God, the word "friend" comes to mind, which is a really cool word, and the idea of being friends with God is pretty mind-boggling. If I'm completely honest with myself (putting all Christian expectation aside), I'm not sure if I treat God like a friend most days. When I call my friends I usually laugh sometime before I hang up the phone. Sometimes when I'm with them I get so giggly I have tears streaming down my face (Havilah has that affect on me). We give each other advice, talk about life; sometimes we talk about money and business. I may even ask them for a favor and some days they give me gifts that are unexpected. I wonder when the last time was that I forgot about the list of needs I want to share with God and just laughed at something he created (like the donkey that yodels and screams almost every morning...how on earth did God come up with that noise?!)? Or talked to him just to share my take on life? Or stopped concentrating on Mr. CEO and concentrated for a second on the part of him who wants to be my bestie?

I want my list of names for God to drastically change this next year; not because I can open the Bible and find words written on a page describing God, but because I have experienced him in those ways and know him for real like that. I may keep his title of CEO because it's just a pretty inspiring thought that God is CEO of our life, but I'd like to get him away from the office and out to dinner, so to speak. Eat a favorite meal with him. Talk about kids and marriage and families and the snow storm that's supposed to be coming. I'd like to giggle with him and find out his favorite color, his biggest passion, and what made him come up with the idea of my life. I'd like to tell him how often Wesley leaks through the last package of off-brand diapers I bought, ask him a tip on helping with teething and see if he has a good book to recommend. I'd like his take on wheat-free recipes, clothing styles and good deals on saddles. I want to share with him my ideas for a new quilt, my plans for Warren's birthday, and the absolutely incredible feelings I get when I spend time with my husband. And I really want to know what on earth was going on in his mind when he gave that donkey his voice! 

I'm so very thankful that God is such an outstanding provider. It takes a load off my mind to know that he is in charge of finances and is perfectly capable of filling his polished CEO shoes. I'm also very thankful that he's lately refused to stay in his pinstripe suit and stuffy tie. I'm so glad he's invited himself over to my little kitchen to sit on my wobbly chair, eat my sugar-free diet, enjoy my entertaining husband and grinning baby, and experience life in this little apartment of ours, surrounded by dreams and the partnership of two people who are fiercely committed and passionately in love with each other. 

Now that sounds like a best friend.

Thank you, Mr. CEO!

Six months old!