My List, continued

I’m behind on my “list” I started several months ago (read it here: part 1 & part 2).  Here is part 3, the 8 months pregnant edition.

You know you’re [very] pregnant when:

13.  you will walk in freezing temperatures at night just to get to the nearest Subway for a BLT.

14. you have to wear a back brace just to wash the dishes.

15.  your doctor says to cut back on the carbs and all you can do is cry.

16.  you realize it won’t be a white Christmas and you cry.

17.  you find out it will be a white Christmas and you cry.

18.  a cashier at the grocery store looks at you funny and you cry.

19.  “You have really blossomed” feels like a horrible insult.

20.  you think of food groups as construction materials for human anatomy (milk = bones, scrambled eggs = muscles, fish = brain…).

21.  three different laxatives are required for any resemblance of regularity.

22.  you think it’s okay to even mention “laxatives”.

New Recipe!

I added my current version of my pumpkin cheesecake recipe to my “pages” at the left. Check it out!

Creativity Redefined

Lately, I’ve been feeling like a baby machine, maid, budget nazi, and bargain shopper… and not much of anything else.  If you asked me 3 years ago what I was and what my hobbies were, I’d say “I’m a dancer and a massage therapist, and I also play/write music and create art.”  My “art” was also expressed through my appearance (or so I tried), with dramatic hair color changes, tattoo designs, unique jewelry, and attention to maintaining my physique.  Ha.  How much can change in a short amount of time.  I’m currently in a season full of, yes, happiness, but also a touch of nostalgia, thinking back to those self-centered times of introspection and the creations that were expressed as a result.  But this morning I had a revelation…

I know I still have the Holy Spirit in me (you know, the One who created the universe), and I know that His gifts are without repentance, as well do I know that I am who I am and you cannot un-weave the threads of a tapestry however faded or stained they have become.  My revelation was this: I dance with my son like a maniac alone in our living room, not on a stage.  I write songs all the freaking time, but in the form of lullabies or “getting dressed” songs – no two are alike.  I explore my vocal range while I read stories aloud.  My “art” is expressed in the form of cardboard and construction paper letters and shapes on the walls of my children’s bedroom… and they are excellent.  The creativity displayed in the healthy recipes I’ve concocted on a tight budget nourish myself and my family.  My “poetry” is crafted into the form of love notes to my husband, as well as worship songs I sing alone in my room.  And the attention to my physique has been refocused into good nutrition/activity that benefits the baby in my womb.  Exercise?  Scrubbing floors and carrying toddlers counts in my book.

It’s not all about me anymore.

The best part is, this transformation reaps a lasting reward in the form of my children and marriage, instead of a temporary impression on those who see me.  Don’t look at me with my un-styled hair and flushed red face.  Look at the fruit of my life in that I am abundantly blessed and happy.

Life & Death

In the words of M. Ward:

Death is just a door, Blake said it first
It’s just another room we enter
It’s a threshold that hurts

Birth is just a chorus, death is just a verse
In the great song of spring that the mockingbirds sing
We come and we go, a-weeping and a-wailing
Our heads in the hands of the nurse

Well, put your head on my shoulder, baby, tell me where it hurts
You say you lost your one and only, could it get any worse?
I said, “Death is just a door, you’ll be reunited on the other side”
Yeah, death is just a door, you’ll be reunited by and by

~~~

Processing death has never been a strength of mine. In fact, I usually deal with it very badly, whether or not it was someone close to me.  I usually resort to uncontrollable sobs and music with alternating themes of sadness and hope. I still don’t have it right.  Sorrow is a lonely feeling. My darker side wallows in it and drinks it in with unquenchable thirst, while the rest of my redeemed soul tries to shake myself out of it.  Thankfully I can feel that God is slowly working a little more maturity into me.  Loss has made me thankful, which turns into praise.  So while I may be totally messy on the outside with my emotions, somewhere in my heart there is an anchor that I cling to.

(If anyone is wondering, there have been several unexpected deaths recently that have been bewildering and devastating to those affected)

Regarding religious symbols on vehicles

Think about how your driving should reflect your belief system if you plan to advertise your beliefs on your vehicle.  If you apply symbols of anarchy to your car, then I won’t be surprised when you drive with little regard for the law (and I will avoid you like the plague, as well as be prepared to call the cops on you if necessary).  When you have a “Baby on Board” thingy, please at least drive the speed limit, stay in your lane (and look before changing lanes), and do not talk on your cell phone or smoke a cigarette while driving.  Otherwise I get very concerned for the well being of your offspring.  But most of all, if you are showing the world that you are a follower of Christ with Christian symbols, etc. please abide by the traffic laws and don’t be rude to other drivers.

Today, as I was safely driving the speed limit, because it’s the law and because I have 2 children entrusted to me, I was disgruntled to look in my rear view mirror to find a large truck tailgating me  for several miles despite the fact that there were other lanes to be had.  Much to my chagrin, there was a tag on the front of the vehicle saying in pretty letters “Jesus”.  Excuse me, but how dare you, Mr. Truck, not only endanger the lives of 3 law-abiding people (2 of them children) in a tiny Honda civic, but proclaim that you also believe in the Heavenly Bridegroom who died for our salvation.

I’m not saying I’m a saint on the road.  In fact, traffic laws are the hardest rules for me to keep, and the words the proceed from my mouth as a result of others’ driving decisions are not always (or ever) something I’m proud of.  Road rage, anyone?  But in my defense, I am a model citizen when my son is in the car, mostly for his physical protection and so that he will never know that his own mother can speak the tongue of sailors.  And for those times when I am a traffic sinner, may no one pass judgement on my devotion to the Great Redeemer, for I have purposefully never put a fish or some other such symbol upon my car to invite doubt or comments such as “And you call yourself a Christian”, etc.

Just a thought. Thank you, and good night. :)

A Little Insight

There’s something important I’d like to share that many people might not have thought of before (because it continues to happen to me personally on a regular basis).  Because of pride, I was hesitant to share, then while I was awake all last night I realized I’m not the only one to deal with this and it’s a simple thing to bring to light.  I’ve had many pregnant friends, and I also have massage clients who are pregnant because I actually specialize in prenatal massage, and they’ve opened up to me about the very thing I’m about to talk about.

First let me share a quick story.  Yesterday one of my clients said to me “Wow! You’re HUGE!”.  Of course I took it in stride, and I understand better when it’s a man or someone who has never been pregnant because they simply haven’t been there or might not understand the emotions in play.  But this lady has had a child and she is a kind person who I happen to like and respect, which kind of made this statement a little more stinging.  The worst part, I think, was the fact that I laughingly agreed with her.  Laughingly, because that was the best way to hide how much it hurt me.  By instinctively agreeing with such statements out of social politeness, I was agreeing on a deeper level inside my emotional and psychological self, secretly beating myself up for what is happening to my body.  Do you hear how sick that reaction is, considering how natural it is for a pregnant woman to grow in size? And all because someone didn’t think before they spoke.  I’d like to break this down a little, so bear with me.

Realize first that to begin a sentence with “Wow!”  one is essentially saying “Whatever I’m about to say amazes me greatly!” Um, ouch.  Secondly, who in the world enjoys becoming fat against her will?  Sure, one can say “But you’re growing a baby”, which is true, but it doesn’t change the fact that the numbers on the scale keep climbing, clothes keep getting tighter, while stretch marks and cellulite continue to multiply.  Don’t tell me that wouldn’t bother you.  Who in their right mind would walk up to an obese person and say, “Wow! You’re OBESE!”?  And who would also say, “Wow! Do you see how taking care of this baby is warping your body?” Or, “Wow! In case you haven’t noticed, your abdomen is grotesquely swollen!”  Come on, think about it.  Just because a girl is pregnant it doesn’t make her magically immune to such observations or self-consciousness.  If anything, she’s more sensitive (hello, hormones!), and this is a time when she needs more encouragement, affirmation, and nurturing.

I will be the first to admit that at 40 weeks pregnant in the middle of the summer I was blown up like a blimp. I look at the last picture taken of me just a few days before Isaiah was born and I cringe.  That was at 40 weeks pregnant.  I did everything right.  I was walking 2 miles a day, eating a diet of primarily fruits, veggies, and whole grains.  Some women are just not exempt from looking unnaturally bloated, even when they do all the right things.  Then there are some women, like a few of my pregnant clients, who have some kind of back injury or some other health concern that keeps them from being able to even do the best things for their body (like exercise) and they gain more flab than baby or muscle during their pregnancies.  I have a back injury myself, but thankfully it doesn’t keep me from walking (most of the time) at a comfortable pace.  Because of pain and the fact that my pelvic floor has an extra person resting on it, it’s normal not to be able to run a 10K or get my heart rate up very high (unhealthy to the baby).  But imagine what my inner athlete is saying to me during those walks… “Oh my gosh, you’re so unbelievably out of shape. Do you seriously think this stroll through the park – which is so embarrassingly difficult for you – can count as exercise?”  When you throw morning sickness into the mix, it’s not always possible for a pregnant girl to eat the best things, but only what won’t make her throw up so the baby is at least getting something, and that adds another complication to the weight gain game.

Speaking of weight gain, I’d like to add that mine is right on track and that doesn’t make me immune to size comments.  Many mommies gain weight exactly as they should and still look larger than what someone would expect.  Because of torso size or whatever the unique build of the woman, some people “show” more or sooner than others.  This was the case for me the first pregnancy, and now also for this one.  Imagine how it felt to be a first-time preggo, still physically healthy and very fit, to be told by an otherwise polite stranger “Wow! You’re about to pop!” when I was only 6 months pregnant.  And now, at 24 weeks pregnant being told that I look “huge”, it was very discouraging to think “Yep, and I have at least 3 more months to get even huger. Watch me grow and defy your expectations.”  I say this to make it known that, even if someone looks like they are a solid month over due, do not assume anything. And especially don’t say anything about it like “Looks like you’ll be having a baby soon!” because no matter when she’s due, “soon” is not soon enough for her and it may not be as soon as you think.

So… that was me venting a little woundedness on behalf of myself and other pregnant ladies.  Please don’t feel like I was attacking anyone, I simply wanted to let everyone know what goes on in a girl’s head when seemingly harmless statements are made.  They are indeed harmful.  So please just be gentle and loving in your words when speaking to a pregnant girl who is inwardly dealing with her change in physique and may be more sensitive at that time.  This should be such a special time for her and it’s a valuable opportunity for others to pour into her life in a positive, nurturing way.  Next time you see a pregnant momma – first, don’t assume she’s pregnant, but if you know for sure – tell her congratulations!  ”You have such a glowing radiance!” “You look beautiful!” Or if she doesn’t look radiant or beautiful but instead looks run down and exhausted, give her strong words of affirmation like “You’re doing such a great job!” Because when it all comes down to it, these pregnant mommies have the awesome responsibility (and privilege) to grow an actual person inside of their own bodies. It’s one of the most self-sacrificial acts a woman will ever perform.  She deserves some kind words!

Thank you! And much love.

Awkward Turtle & Them Old Wives

So yes, I have 2 topics to discuss, neither of them are related…..
or are they?

Until a few years ago, I’d consider myself an extrovert.  I was a social butterfly thriving on human interaction, unhappy to be alone.  In fact, I struggled with feeling so isolated when I happened to be alone that I used to pretend I was in a movie and that what I did actually was important even if no one was around.  Strange.  I can’t deny it.

But now it’s different.  I’m not exactly sure when or how the change took place, but I know it was sometime around the time when Gabriel and I met and got married.  Perhaps I just found what my soul needed and I no longer suffer from such fearful insecurity when I’m by myself.  Anyway, whenever that change did take place, I also started noticing that I felt more and more awkward around people.  Small talk became draining, as did social interaction in general, especially with new acquaintances.  This is so opposite of the way I used to be, it baffles me.  Maybe all of my social energy is used up while trying to communicate with my linguistically immature toddler, or perhaps I save all my “heart to heart” energy for conversations with my husband or mother.  I don’t know.  It confuses me.  It’s something I’ve thought about lately.

While I still look forward to social gatherings (possibly out of habit), I’ve found that I routinely give myself a pep talk about not blabbering on and on to some poor bystander, or goodness sake for once could I just not make the conversation revolve around me.  How could that be so hard? I don’t know, but I do it every time and walk away kicking myself for the self-centered, socially starved, newly introverted awkward turtle that I have become.  I love people. I love talking.  I love listening to what people have to say.  But dang, it takes a lot of energy to keep my mouth shut.  Energy that I apparently don’t have.  Oh well.  I guess I shouldn’t even worry about making an impression on new friends, because chances are I’m coming across as an irritating blabbermouth and thus ends any potential friendship before it even begins.

I think too much.

On to the next topic.

So yes, those Old Wives had me fooled, as most people know by now.  I’m still in disbelief at how my pregnancy symptoms are saying one thing but the ultrasound is saying another.  It’s DEFINITELY a boy.  But this time couldn’t be more different than the last.  Every now and then I’ll take one of those silly gender prediction tests just for the amusement of it and they always say “Congrats you’re having a girl!”  Whatever.  I’m having another boy and I couldn’t be more thrilled. Okay, wait, I take it back.  I could be more thrilled if I wasn’t feeling like a tub of lard with lead in my shoes, but I’m making the best of it.  I’m so excited that I’m going to have 2 boys so close together. Yes I know it will be challenging, but I think I’d rather make 2 close siblings of the same gender rather than opposite gender.  The girl can come later.  And by “later” I mean at least 2 years after this one.  My poor depleted body needs some recovery time after this.  At least, that’s my plan.  But when has my plan ever happened?

It’s a Boy!

Lilypie Pregnancy tickers

Muscle Mom

I refuse to let my triceps go the way of the flabby wing.  Today I began my new fitness routine, which is faaaar different than any other I’ve ever had, mostly because I’m suddenly a wuss.  Last time I was pregnant, I was jogging a few miles and swimming a few laps nearly everyday.  When I got pregnant this time, I had been jogging several miles with Isaiah in the jogging stroller.  But this came to a hault after the tornadoes.  I think I was emotionally drained long enough for morning sickness to kick in, and then I was just a goner.  By now, whew, I think this baby has taken all my strength except for what would be necessary for a 90-year-old on a grocery errand.  Nevertheless, I have decided that at least the habit of going to the gym is alone worth it.  If I can come out of this pregnancy without the 50 pounds I put on with Isaiah, and by some miracle have developed some muscle tone, then mission accomplished.  Also, if I can get my thyroid to revive itself (I’m on my 3rd round of homeopathics and it’s still not up to par), I think this whole thing might get a lot easier.  Also-also, once the oppressive heat decides to let us out from under its thumb, I might be able to breathe again and not remain in a constant state of dehydration.

I still have not gone to the doctor because insurance is being a pain.  Soon, though (hopefully).  I’m in the “fun” stage of being pregnant, so I’m trying to embrace it.  I’ve been cleaning more.  That’s good.  Today I had my first braxton-hicks, which I thought was way too early, but perhaps it was due to the unexpected workout after work, and the oven I stepped into which some might call a car.  Right after it subsided, I felt a little thump! ACK!! First baby kick!  Wow, it’s getting real!  I sure would like for the insurance folk to get their act together so I can see this little chicklet.

One of these days I’ll post about something non-pregnancy related.  Promise.

Oh Them Old Wives

I’m telling you, if I’m not having a girl I’m going to be shocked, based on the accuracy of my symptoms and every old wives’ tale I can find.  I don’t have my heart set having a girl, I’ll just be surprised if it’s not.

This time has been pretty different than when I was pregnant with Isaiah.  With him, my skin became awesomely clear and radiant, and my weight gain remained mostly confined to my growing belly.  I was emotional, but happy.  And, even though I previously held vegetarian tendencies, I CRAVED buffalo wings!!! And BACON! And HAMBURGERS (which made me sick but I still craved them)!

Now I have acne like I have NEVER seen on my face before.  It’s sad, actually.  It’s different than anything I’ve ever had.  My midsection is feeling increasingly tube-like, even though I haven’t gained very many pounds – none of that cute little baby pooch I had with Isaiah.  I feel like I look more like an enthusiastic beer-drinker.  As far as emotions, Gabriel will be the first to tell you that this time is different.  He’s commented to me more than once about how much more it’s coming out now than before.  If anything would naturally illicit some sort of emotion from a normal human being, I now respond exclusively with sobbing.  Often I’m flat out ornery, but also there are many sobs.  That goes for happy or sad.  It’s like my limbic system got stuck on sending out just one kind of response for all situations.  Oh and my cravings… sugar.  Sugar all around, including fruit, but most specifically donuts and snickers bars.  It’s so hard to resist.  In fact, I give in many times.

Considering all of these things, those Old Wives would have predicted Isaiah as being a boy, and that this time I would have a girl.  Again, I don’t know the gender of this baby yet, and I have not specifically spoken to any Old Wives, but I will be surprised (though not disappointed!) if it’s not a girl.

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