The Approach...

Things come to my attention in strange, random patterns—this is nothing new. Although I would never classify myself as ADD, I am most definitely easily distracted. It’s why I work best, alone. I love to be social, but it’s just not productive. When I’m alone, I can obsessively push myself to get the job done. I can actually be quite driven, when I have a lot to do. But, I digress…(wasn’t that my point?!?!)…

Anyways, this week has brought on the marketing onslaught known as Mothers’ Day.

The past 6 years of Mothers’ Days have brought me no end of heartache. The day is crippling, no matter how I look on the outside; I will never, ever forget that first Mothers’ Day after Hannah passed away. The gaping hole where my heart had been was publicly exposed, raw, bleeding, and so broken; the ladies in my church will never know how much their kindness meant to me, in the middle of my valley.

I wanted to die.

The following years were “better,” but still painful…Mothers’ Day reminds me just how truly scarred I am. As I walk down the Hallmark aisles, and I read the beautiful sentiments that I’d like to give to my own mother, I find myself taking a “selah” moment to simply breathe.

I thought my first Mothers’ Day with JD would make all of that heartache go away…but really, it doesn’t. It’s still there, and I know it always will be, to a certain extent (though it’s easy to say that it is so much better than it ever was…time and grace are truly a healing balm).  The onslaught of pink, flowery, sparkly Mothers’ Day cards still hurts.

It’s a gentle ache, more than anything…but I notice it. My loss is not forgotten…

It’s hard for me to pick out a Mothers’ Day card for my mom, even though no one deserves it more than she does. She’s been incredible, through this process; I feel like a lot of subconscious damage has been repaired through both my pregnancy and in watching her with my son. She really is the most amazing grandmother. She’s reminding me more of my Grandma Myers—and anyone who has heard me talk about Grandma Myers knows that there is no higher compliment in my book. Guess I should tell her that, sometime, eh?  

However, to pick out a card for my mom, means that I have to sift through a bunch of cards that were never for me. And even this year, when I’ve “earned” one, I still look at them with a sideways glance—is that for real? Like motherhood hasn’t officially set in, yet…

Did you know that I finally, after 7 years, put in the “#1 Mom” earrings my mother had bought me while I was pregnant with Hannah? I never felt like I could wear them, until now…Even though I gave birth, I don’t know that I have ever truly accepted my role as a mother. Hearing myself say it now, even when I look at the little man that came out of my body, still sounds strange.

Looking back, it seems like someone else’s life; looking forward, it seems the same: It’s hard to believe that it’s all real.  She was here…she was real. I still remember that she smelled like Cheerios…she was born with more hair than JD…she was tiny, so small…I could have held her for days—but that’s all I got to hold her for…She had my feet, and she looked like her daddy…

And she will always be my first…

He is here, and he is real…and he smiles; he laughs. He looks for me when I walk into the room; he buries his head in my neck and he puts his chubby hands into my hair.  He has my hands, my feet, my legs…he has my inquisitive nature, and my fear of missing out on something.  He looks like so much of his daddy, but so much of me, and he is the reason I have to catch my breath when I leave for work in the morning…

He is, as far as we know, our last…

Mothers’ Day is coming, and it is mine. This one belongs to me…this one, this makes up for the ones that I’ve lost. It makes up for the Mothers’ Days that I cried myself to sleep, that I dreaded with my very soul. This Mothers’ Day, I will make a concentrated effort to celebrate for what it is: This is a day in which the world stops to thank those women whose blood, sweat, and tears form the clay of their lives. I am one of those women…And maybe I was one before, I don’t know. I never saw myself that way.

I always saw myself as a “temporary mother,” like it was only a momentary assignment.

Not this time.

This time, I will see myself as a momma…as a woman who always wanted to be a momma, more than anything else…And though it seems strange to me, to put myself into that category, it seems strangely perfect….everything I ever hoped of, or dreamed of…everything I ever prayed for, even on the tough days.

This Mothers’ Day, I celebrate my mom more than ever; I feel like I understand her just a little bit more.

I’ve picked out a card for her—it’s the first one I looked at, and it seemed the most right. I hope she likes it.  I don’t know if I will get a card for this, my first “real” Mothers’ Day; is it wrong, if I blatantly say that I hope I do? I really do; I want to cherish this day like never before. If you could see the party that is going on inside of my head, you would understand. I really am celebrating…even with the slight breeze of melancholy that echoes through…

(The most precious thing about this picture, is how it was taken. It's a random snapshot of JD, laying on my belly, looking up at me...He's about 10 weeks old in this picture, and I love his expression...)

Volunteer! Because it's a Good Thing!

I am fortunate enough to work for an employer that encourages volunteerism! Through the Employee Volunteer Program, I was able to spend a day this week, volunteering at the World Bird Sanctuary. Although I'm sure that my co-workers thought it would be a day of petting vultures and cuddling chickens, they couldn't be more wrong!
The day was, in a word, exhausting. This little office girl was not prepared for the amount of sheer physicality that these employees go through on a daily basis. A tremendous amount of food preparation and cleaning goes on every day, that the public has no concept of! Crates had to be cleaned, floors had to be swept and mopped, produce had to be chopped, and most exciting of all: Rats and mice had to be gutted and skinned (What, eagles don't eat broccoli?!?!?). My sister has worked for this organization for years, and I've been attending events there for at least a decade; this was the first time I have ever volunteered. I walked away with an entirely new appreciation for the love and care these staff members give these beautiful creatures. I strongly encourage everyone to take a day to volunteer at a non-profit organization, and if you do, please consider WBS! They would certainly appreciate an extra set of hands...And how many people can say, at the end of the day, that an armadillo licked their feet? Imagine the stories you could tell your friends!!! 

Billie Baumann (sister) and I, with Sanibel the Bald Eagle.

Cathy Spahn and Rustle the Armadillo

There’s an armadillo licking my feet! (Rustle)

Preparing flier food (rats and mice) with Trina

Feeding a fruit bat by hand!  He kept reaching out with the claws on the ends of his wing!

Sweeping out the kitchen

Big Bad Bertha the Kestrel

Throwing My Shoes...(the edit)

I originally posted this blog, then went back and deleted it. I just had a feeling that if it were seen by the wrong person, no amount of explaining would save my rear. So here it is, again, with a few tweaks...but you get the point:

Have you ever been in a situation where you genuinely feel like you just can’t win? Like everything you do, will somehow be twisted out of context, and you will pay the price?

I’m in one of those situations right now, and I’m not entirely sure what to do. I'm finding that my naturally curious personality is not taken the right way; when I look at me, from their perspective, I can see why. I ask questions--I always have. Perhaps I missed my mark...maybe I would have been a better journalist. I don't ask questions to be maliciously rude or nosy; it really is just a tendency to want to know what's going on. I like to be on top of situations--even ones that aren't necessarily my business. I forget to stop sometimes, though, and wake up to the fact that they're just that--not my business. I miss the boundary lines from time to time, and if I've done that with you, I'm sorry. I'd appreciate if people would just  let me know at the time, though, before it becomes a major situation...like the one I'm dealing with right now. My mom is right-I need to stop, and not ask. Or at least, ask myself why I want to know something--why am I so curious? Hmm.

Yesterday, I posted on Facebook that I was “making myself thank God for people that aren’t kind. Wishing I could just throw my shoe at them and be done…but that’s not what He calls us to do, is it?” Someone sent me a beautifully-worded response that I hung on my cubicle: “God tells us to forgive, love, bless our enemies…They do something. We are hurt, angry, etc., and really, rightfully so. What is our response? Are we able to find God and give it to Him, forgive, love, etc? Or do we ‘throw the shoe?’ Whether that shoe is literal, or figurative? We’re now short a shoe.”

Short a shoe.

I’m dealing with a situation in which I am being attacked. Things are being said about me, and quotes are being erroneously attributed to me. It’s easy to pin gossip on a talkative person, especially when you’re looking for a target. I’d really, REALLY like to take off my shoes and chuck them at someone’s head—literally. It would be kind of liberating, minus the accompanying assault charge. And I would be shoeless, to boot (punny!)…which is unpleasant on a rainy day.

Throwing our shoes at people only leaves us with a limp, and with dirty feet.

Figuratively speaking, “throwing our shoes” is when we retaliate with insults or additional gossip…it’s when we refuse to use even the no-win situation for growth, or when we sit and waste energy on sulking. As an immature human being, I want to do that, too: “This person wronged me!  You have to listen to me complain about how they wronged me!” What good will that do? Create additional drama? Waste brain cells? Take time away from thinking about my little guy (who is FAR more interesting? Cost me sleep (sadly, this already has)? That’s foolishness! Granted, it’s easy to say “pray about it, and leave it with God!” It’s very hard to do, especially for those of us with “slight” OCD. We want a solution! We want vengeance! And we want it yesterday!

Luke 12:25 tells us that worrying will not add one hour to our lives. It’s pointless. It gives us gray hairs and wasted tears; it takes our shoes, and leaves us with a spiritual limp. In my situation, I have to find a way to trust God to take care of my reputation. I have to trust Him to take a no-win situation, and have His way. Either way, He provides—I can rest in that. He knows my intentions, and I know my intentions. He knows my actions, even when I may have missed something. He understands the reasons why people say/think what they do.

I have to learn to control my natural curiosity. And I have to understand that not everyone "gets" me or my intentions. I actually feel kind of sad for someone, who is so paranoid that they find such queries to be part of some agenda. It is a depressing world that we live in, that takes genuine concern and twists it into a sort of accusation—I don’t understand it.

But I don’t have to.

The only thing I have to do, is to keep my shoes on (I can run faster that way!) and to pray not only for those people, but for myself—that I will learn to be quiet, so as not to be misconstrued. That I will learn to be unliked. That I will learn that some situations cannot be fixed, but that God is still in control. That I will learn to be unjustified without being paranoid about it. That I will learn to be at peace…and above all, to refrain from giving someone the pleasure of seeing me throw my shoes.

Thankfully, I know a God that lets me be me…that hears my complaints, and Who knows my heart…I know a God that lets me go barefoot in His presence…

In defense of working mothers...

Recently, someone sat down next to me to congratulate me on my new baby. When they asked if I was going back to work, and I said that I was, they remarked, “How can you have worked so hard to have him, only to turn him over to someone else to watch?”

I felt like she slapped me.

I read an article today where Isabella Dutton stated:

“"I cannot understand mothers who insist they want children - especially those who undergo years of fertility treatment - then race back to work at the earliest opportunity after giving birth, leaving the vital job of caring for them to strangers…Why have them at all if you don't want to bring them up, or can't afford to? And why pretend you wanted them if you have no intention of raising them? This hypocrisy is, in my view, far more pernicious and difficult to fathom than my own admission that my life would have been better without children.  And here, perhaps, is the nub of it: I would not take on the job of motherhood and do it half-heartedly."

 I almost spit.

Another friend of mine was distraught after a “sage” made similar comments to her on the almighty Facebook. After a momentary rant, she decided that enough was enough, and unfriended him…I completely understand.

Before I delivered, I hung my head in shame when I said that I would have to go back to work. The day before I came back, I melted down in hysterics in my kitchen, bawling that “he doesn’t belong to someone else!!! He belongs to me!!!!” I got it out of my system, and I am pleased to say that no such dramatic displays occurred the day I came back to the office.

Yes, a huge part of me is ashamed that I am a working mother. I have debts to pay, and student loans to pay off. I have credit cards, and a mortgage; the economy has not been kind to us, though God has always provided. I regret that the credit card debt exists—that is where the shame lies. If not for our debt, I wouldn’t have to work, plain and simple.

But it exists. So I have to work.

Although Satan wants to attack me, and make me think this job is a punishment for bad spending habits (which is not, by the way, the biggest reason we have credit card debt; unemployment means that you buy necessities any way you can), and that I have a punitive field to reap, I believe that my job is actually a blessing. God has provided for us, and He has blessed me with a good job in a solid institution. This job has benefits that help my entire family; for the first time in our marriage, I am the primary on an insurance policy. Since I can’t be privately insured, this is monumental. Our son has incredible health insurance. My husband has incredible health insurance.  There are educational benefits—every day I start to beat myself up, I remind myself that with this job, I am building a future for my family.

My mother was a working mother. Sure, like any child, I questioned whether or not she loved me—but that had NOTHING to do with her work schedule. She somehow made it to every performance. She analyzed every report card. We had chores; we got spankings; we respected our parents. We did our homework. We played outside. Yes, there was daycare, and yes, there were babysitters. They DID NOT raise me.

My mother raised me.

When he married my mom, my stepdad raised me.

To sit there and say that a working mother shills her children off on someone else to be raised, is an insult to my mother, and to the other working moms out there that are working their fingers to the bone, and tearing their hearts in half, to actively raise the children that they know they are responsible for…They work because they love us. They work because they know they have a duty to provide for us. They work because they have to—is it their first choice? Probably not—I know it’s not, for me. But it is a part of life, and you make it work because you have to…You focus on the benefits. You do your job, and you leave it there. When you come home, you are 100% parent. You raise your child.

As a parent (as a mother), you have a responsibility to find care for your child that closely aligns with your personal philosophies. When it doesn’t, you either correct the caregiver or remove your child. Period. They are not responsible for raising your baby—you are.

I am.

And I have not tossed my most precious baby off to some hooligan to get him out of my hair for a few hours—I have vetted my caregiver, I know her family, and I know her theology. So when I leave my baby boy with her, I have peace in my heart that I have made the absolute best of the “situation” of being a working mother.

How dare anyone accuse me, or any other working mom, of callously having children only to dump them off on someone else, so that we can have our career aspirations? Not every working mom wants to climb the corporate ladder; some of us simply want to keep a roof over our family’s head.How dare this Isabella Dutton infer that working mothers are loving their children half-heartedly? That's absurd. I challenge Ms. Dutton to find a child more loved than my boy...To interpret her words, every stay-at-home mom is the best mom in the world. Being an SAHM does NOT mean that you are perfect, that you are the best, or that you are providing the optimal environment for your child. That's a generalization that is unfair. 

I have seen SAHMs that should rethink their options-they're not happy, and it translates to their child. Likewise, I have seen working mothers that do emulate Ms. Sutton's descriptions-they are more corporate than maternal, and that also translates to their child. It's not fair, to divide us as women and mothers into one category or the other. It's not Working Moms vs. SAHMs. One is not better than the other--we're just different, and we all make it work in our way. There's no shame or great pride in one over the other. We do what we do, and we love our babies the best we can.

My mother never made me feel like my needs were secondary to her very-stressful job. I never felt like she preferred her employment over me; I always knew my sister and I were the most important thing in her lives. We still are. If I am as good of a working mom as my mom was, my son is in great shape!

I resent any implication that my skills as a mother are diminished by my need for employment. I resent any implication that I lack maternal instinct, that I am short-changing my child, or that I am shoving my child on someone else to raise. Proverbs 31 talks about a woman who makes things, who buys, who sells, and who provides for her family(verses 15 and 24). How can anyone sit there and say that a woman who is providing for her family, who is doing everything she does with them in mind, is robbing them somehow?

If I were to work all day, then come home, and ignore my family, then yes—that would be grounds for such an accusation. As working mothers, we do have a responsibility to be even more present with the time that we have with our little ones. And for those of us that are? Our children get just as much love as the child who’s mom is home with him for those 8 hours…our kids just get it in a little more concentrated form. 

A working mother and a stay-at-home mom are equals. We love our children just as much. Our situations are different; our sacrifices are different. But we love our kids.

The choices we make, whatever they are, we have made them with their present and future interests in mind. They have our hearts when we are not around; they are never far from our thoughts, no matter the mess in the corporate world. We raise our children with a focus on how God provides, how He loves us, and how we love Him in return. We raise our children with responsibility, and we find caregivers with similar goals and motivation.

I love my son. I have to work. And like my mother before me, my son will always know that he comes first. He may not always understand my methods, but he will always know that he is loved.

Being a wife and a mother is all I’ve ever wanted to be. For now, I am a working wife and a working mother, with a working family. This is where I believe God has us, and it is what I believe He will bless us through. I don’t know if this is how it will always be; regardless, He has put us in this place, at this time. And He has incredible grace…I’ve seen Him pour it out on my mother, and I trust that He will pour it out on me when I seek Him.

Yes, I am a working mother.

I will not hang my head in shame of that title, anymore.

I am proud of the work that I do, and the reason I do it.