IT GETS BETTER.

The last time I took a blogging hiatus, it was because I was slowly being tested, tortured even. I was being bossed around by a fifteen pound sack of screaming potatoes. I basically walked around with my eyelids glued open and a sickening, brain-melty acid drip flowing from my ears for a good couple of months. Any time I heard a sudden, loud noise, I assumed it was my infant starting to cry and a wave of dull panic would wash over me. I was jumpy and sleep deprived. Good times. Except not at all.

If I had more foresight, I would have kept a log of all the completely insane things that people said to me during pregnancy and following Finnegan's birth. I eventually got to a place where I would agree with every other grocery store patron about whether or not I was having a boy or a girl, regardless of their correctness. I resorted to telling people that we were going to let our son become a feral child, raised by wolves, because it was the quickest way to shut down the endless and judge-y comments about very personal parenting decisions. One of the most common things I was told was something along the lines of, "these are the best days of your life; enjoy them!" What? If this is as good as it gets, then I wanted to quit this job before I got fired.

Those first months... no, no -- the first year, it is so hard. Which brings me to this for future reference:

Dear Mama Of A Less Than One Year Old,

Congratulations on incubating a little life and delivering him/her into this world. You are the baddest ass. Your body deserves one thousand highfives and an A+ in Awesomeness and it is absolutely remarkable that you find the strength to get up 23 times per night to nurse your little love, your baby bird, this precious gift. I know that if I was to describe your current state as "tired" I would be met with an hour long eyeroll. I know that you don't even remember when the last time was that you saw your toothbrush. I know that you have only eaten handfuls of sweet potato flavored puffs every few hours for the past three days. I know that you are mad at, well, everyone, and if someone goes so far as to look at you wrong, you might actually punch them square in the mouth. I know all of these things. It has been months since you have looked in the mirror and felt like yourself.

But do not be fooled, just because you feel like this now does not mean it will be this way forever. Things will get much harder in ways, but in other ways it will be so much better. For me, things really turned up at about one year. You will sleep. Your child will feed him/herself. Eventually they will need their diapers changed less and less often. Poop will not always be slop. Having a baby will be actual fun, not the "I guess this is fun but mostly, secretly, I think this really sucks" kind of fun. You will have hours upon hours of time to yourself in the evenings, when you can watch movies, bake 17-step cakes, read books, and cultivate new hobbies. Leaving the house will not always take 25 minutes. Your child will supply you with glimmers of positive reinforcement that you will take you a long, long way. Someday, your little baby will walk up to you, reach up, and hold your hand. You won't move a muscle so as not to distract from that sweet, special moment. You won't believe how far the two of you have come. Some day your child will run into your arms when you come home from work or the store or, I don't know, maybe the movies, with a huge, silly grin on his face. You can do it. You can do it. You can do it. And if you can't, that's okay -- there are plenty of people that would love to help, just ask. Please please please ask.

I respect you and you make me proud.

MMC

WORDCRAFT.

And to imagine a language means to imagine a form of life.

-Wittgenstein

I've been thinking a lot lately about how much words matter. If any of you know JSC, this shouldn't come as a huge surprise as this has become a major point of interest for him, particularly throughout his theological studies. And, as with most close relationships, JSC's thinking has rubbed off on me in more ways than one. Anyway, that was an absolutely thrill-less introduction to what I'm hoping will become a lively discussion.

When I was in high school and came to the realization that all of my female relationships were built on the sandy foundation of competition and snark, I felt like I had been tricked into acting thus. I wanted more from these friendships and I wasn't entirely sure yet how I had pinned myself against those that I needed most. In a knee jerk effort to loosen the suffocating grip of this mindset, I vowed then and there never to call a woman a "bitch" (and never to call a man a "dick," just for good measure). This is a strange conglomeration of positions that doesn't make a ton of sense given what I was trying to accomplish, but it nevertheless felt very empowering as a sixteen year old.

But this was just one of the many low-grade, words-based feminist life shifts that I underwent over years to come. I also decided to be outspoken when friends would degrade their bodies together as a sort of bonding ritual ("my thighs are so huge" "OMG me too!" "no way, you look so good" "this is really fake and weird"). In an attempt to build a universal woman support group, I vowed to wildly and freely compliment both friends and strangers alike. I tried to imbibe as much knowledge as possible about various women's health issues and contraceptive options so as to be a resource for friends. With time, a lot of strange little things like these have developed.

Admittedly all equally silly-sounding in retrospect (and great insights as to my privilege, given these are some of the biggest obstacles life has asked of me), they were still my little missions and I handled them with great thought. And I truly think I am a better woman for them because they have forced me to think carefully and creatively about how I use words. I think back to my conscious decision not to write women off as "crazy bitches" that I felt threatened by or disagreed with (that is, felt threatened by) and how, consequently, words transformed my thinking in a very private yet powerful way. That this decision forced me to explore the motives at play behind my conversations with others shows just how profoundly transformed I am, and we all are, by words.

Of course, at this point in my life I can't help but allow these experiences to shape me as a parent. Because one's perception of the world is inexplicably linked with language, it is my job to usher Finnegan into the sort of reality that feels best by teaching him how to talk, to comprehend. This is a huge, heavy task. I minimize the use of words that do violence to my son's outlook on the world. I congratulate him on his poopy diapers and the wonder and shameless miracle that is a healthy body. In the moments of quiet at the end of the day, I think of the ways I talked to Justin, the way I reacted to Finnegan's curiosity and determination. All this worry and he's yet to really say his first word! I pray that as the church conforms my words to her's, Finnegan conforms the best of mine to his.

Photo credit is due to the remarkably brilliant and talented Kate of Pressed and Brewed Photography. Thank you for capturing these!

AN APOLOGY TO THE STAY AT HOME MAMAS.

// Well, I'm nervous about this one. I'm barely dipping my toe into the pool of controversy, but I'm scared. I could write for days on end about my whiny, uneasy feelings about motherhood, but actually sharing my opinion on something beyond my personal experience feels so vulnerable. Bear with me as I work through these thought processes and please, please chime in when you feel I've misstepped. I need all the help I can get. //

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My interaction with feminism has taught me to favor situations in which women are given choices, recognized for their agency, and respected for their decisions, their determination, the wide variety of hard work they put forth, their intrinsic goodness and worth. As a Christian, I have been taught to value women for their image of God-ness. I have been taught that women have value because all people have inherent value. I think the crossover of ideas is obvious here, and one could easily see how Christianity lead me down the path towards feminism. All of that to say:  I'm here to confess that I have been a mistaken Christian, a bad feminist, a terrible ally.

During high school and my brief stint at college, I had no idea where my life was headed, but I had a pretty good idea where I would not end up. I knew, at the very least, that I would do something unexpected. I have always charged on with this sort of silent rebellion (I'm look at you, 8th grade Megan with the bleached hair, plaid miniskirt, and Dr. Martens) that simply will not allow me to fulfill others' expectations of me. I just. Can't. Do it. I get some sort of strange and very cutting thrill out of the power play.

My life has had a funny way, however, of thoroughly forcing me to swallow my pride. I found myself needing to drop out of college at 19 and move back home with my parents. I found myself dating someone I had resisted (you know I'm giving myself a lot of credit here if you know the story) for a lot of years, and then married to him a year later. I had a child before my 24th birthday. I have taken on stereotypical gender roles left and right. I am now, for all intents and purposes, a stay at home mother. Oh God, it's hard to even type those words. (I'm crumbling here, folks.)

Feminism taught me that it is not so important that a woman become a mother or not, but rather that she have the choice to, and if she did or did not choose to take on that vocation, she was doing valuable work all the same. When I looked at the women around me--mothers, businesswomen, students, blue collar workers alike--I thought this was my truth for them. But then I dragged my feet toward the realization that it happened to work best for our family that I stay home and take on the majority of the child rearing while I support my husband as he takes yet another step ahead of me on the educational ladder. It felt embarrassing. And I realized that I did not respect stay at home mamas like I thought I did.

And for that, Stay At Home Mamas, I am sorry. I am so deeply sorry for ever having doubted you, ever for a second taking for granted your hard work and precious time. I have not given you the proper respect that you deserve. You (we) have an incredibly challenging job with the weight of tiny little humans on our shoulders. We, like the scientists who are researching new medicines, like the writers who are shaping our feelings about the world, like the teachers who choose perspectives from which to teach, we are forming the world around us. We must create people who can live harmoniously, who can see others in need and actually care, we must conjure up people who are not eaten away by laziness or greed. We endure the torture of sleep deprivation for months on end, we must come to terms with the isolation we feel when our old friends can no longer relate to our day to day lives, we have almost no choice but to serve with every last little drop in us and then a bit more. All of this hard work I can attest to and I have not yet even had to serve as the emotional support that my baby will someday soon need.

As for you, Stay At Home Papas, Working Mamas, Single Mamas, Single Papas, and all of you who find yourselves in these various different roles, I cannot (should not, will not) speak for you, but I applaud you. You deserve the world and I wish I could give it to you. You have my utmost respect. I plan on riding out the good feeling that comes from realizing how much self-sacrifice is going on by you in the world on a moment-by-moment basis for a really, really long time.

MY PILLAR OF MOTHERHOOD.

"The most difficult part of birth is the first year afterwards. It is the year of travail - when the soul of a woman must birth the mother inside her. The emotional labour pains of becoming a mother are far greater than the physical pangs of birth; these are the growing surges of your heart as it pushes out selfishness and fear and makes room for sacrifice and love. It is a private and silent birth of the soul, but it is no less holy than the event of childbirth, perhaps it is even more sacred." - Joy Kusek

Being a mama is hard. Being a mama is frightening. I love my son so much and so many of my moments with him are immeasurably precious. But I have always valued self care -- my time alone. I value my time with my husband. I value time with friends. But it seems that there aren't enough minutes -- seconds even -- in the day to honor each one of these very important parts of my life.

People told me before Finnegan was born that motherhood was a path to holiness. It's not that I didn't believe them, it's that it wasn't until the moment he was born I completely got it. From the moment he slid from womb to world, he has consumed my thoughts and prayers, often in spite of my best efforts. In this way, every minute of my day has become a test -- him or me, him or my husband, him or anything else I can fill my mind with.

Continuously putting someone before myself is painful. I often wonder what of it is instinctual and what is rooted in cold, shivering fear. I wonder what threads woven through my cloth make me mama material (sometimes I wonder if there are any) and in what ways I will never be the mama that I want for my son because I will never unbury myself from underneath one hang up or another. I have opted to make Finnegan my decision. He is my answer. If I am not sure what is right, I ere on the side of serving my son. I can't not put Finnegan before all things -- myself, and yes, even my husband -- because I'm so afraid of failing at this very important task. I think that this fear stems mostly from a terribly painful love, but it puts me in a precarious situation where I feel as though everything else but this single pillar, the pillar of motherhood, will be completely destroyed and come crashing down around me and it is all I will have left.

FFC + MMC GO TO NASHVILLE.

Well, friends, something magical happened this past weekend. My sweet friend EM mentioned that she wanted to visit her bestie in Nashville and I told her that I had been dreaming of trekking out that way this summer and the next thing I knew we were in the car, with FFC in tow, heading west on the 40.

ON PRIORITIES & CRAFTING A LITTLE HUMAN.

I am one of those people who is often crippled by perfectionism. I can't start a project for fear of never finishing it, or worse: it not turning out exactly how I want. (Take, for example, this blog: if you had any idea how many entries I wrote and then deleted during my pregnancy...) I get set on one course, and if unforeseen circumstances set in and nudge me even slightly in one direction or another, I often struggle to accept the change. Sounds charming, right? Really fun to be around. Super easy to get along with. It has been a strength (like twice), but the rest of the time it is just a huge bummer that I am trying to get over.

Being a perfectionist is a tricky position to be in for a parent. I wonder what my expectations for Finn are and will become. I imagine that I will struggle to prevent pushing unrealistic expectations on him when I can't help but push them on myself. Finn, only five short months into life, is perfectly sweet, curious and charming, sometimes tearful and whiny, but he has never done wrong.  He has never not done exactly what he should. And yet--I am embarrassed to admit--that I feel a little tinge of disappointment when he doesn't progress as quickly as so-and-so's baby or when he hasn't hit the milestone I read about on this or that website. A little sadness creeps in and I wonder--was it him or me?

The answer is, of course, neither. And I hate myself for even entertaining the question. Finn is Finn and he must run at his own pace. He will scoot around when he is ready; he will sleep through the night when he is able; he will learn his name whenever his brain is ready to click into that gear. Over the past few weeks, I have been reminding myself of this repeatedly, so as to disregard completely any expectations that I might have formed and just enjoy my son for who he is.

This frame of mind is based on my want for Finn to be the best at as much as possible. To shine brighter than others. For example: I have actually somehow created a superiority complex over Finn's size. He is bigger than a lot of babies his age, and I find great pride in knowing this and in having others comment on it. This, however, is no success of mine or of Finn's; he just happens to be that way. At his last doctor's appointment, I learned that he is slowing down his rapid growth and leveling out to a more average size. Upon receiving this news, that feeling of disappointment tiptoed into my mind. It was quiet, but it was there and I knew it immediately. I wrestle with these thoughts because I'm soberly afraid of how they will impact Finn in the future.

So why do I want Finn to be the best?

I wonder if being able to claim best at this or that is important in any way to human flourishing or if we're all aiming for something that hurts others in the process. I wonder if it is possible to break this mindset and what living that way would look like. I wonder if I will be able to snap out of it quickly enough to be able to impress upon my children that being the best isn't best. It isn't most important. I so want to teach my children to be able to appreciate the gifts and strengths of others and the gifts and strengths of their own and leave it at that. There is no room for comparison here. There can't be.

NOTES FROM A WORKING MAMA.

First day back to my paid job.  Coincidentally, the first day of my 25th year as well.

When I had Finn, I had only been at my part-time job for two and a half months.  This made me ineligible for paid maternity leave for a number of reasons.  I am fortunate enough, however, to have an over-the-top understanding supervisor who is attempting to carve out a reasonable, accommodating, and supportive environment for working mothers.  When I returned to out-of-the-home work, Finn was just a few days shy of four weeks old.  To my surprise, I jumped out of bed the morning of my return, took extra care in dressing up, slathered on a million layers of under eye concealer, and was out the door early for my first day.

One thing motherhood is making me grow accustomed to is being okay with experiencing very strong, completely contradictory feelings simultaneously.  I want to hold Finn, but if I see him right now I'm going to freak out.  I am completely exhausted and yet I'll beg Justin to let me rock Finn to sleep instead of him.  I'm going to stab pencils into my eardrums if I hear crying once more, but his little whimper is so pitiful and precious.  My first day back to my office job was no different.  Before I walked out the door, I paused to survey my bedroom:  baby sleeping peacefully in his crib, husband curled up, tangled in sheets and pillows, deep in sleep.  It was hard to walk out the door.  I snapped a few pictures of each of them (kind of creepy, yes?), gave them kisses, and went on my way.  I sat in the parking lot in my car for a number of minutes before getting out at my destination.  It felt so strange to be alone, in the quiet, not worrying about someone else, or anything for that matter.  I played music loud and sang along, with no need to listen for stirring from the back seat.  I had been in this same place just a few weeks prior and there I sat as a very changed woman.  I had been through so much, my priorities had completely shifted, and there was no going back.  Without Finn strapped to my chest, nothing marked me as Mother to strangers.  It felt strange to have what had become my world for the last few weeks be completely secret to those around me.  I felt like I should shout to everyone around me:  "I! Am! A new! Mother!!!"

HELP. HELP! HELP?

The other day I was sitting around a table with a group of women and Finny was having an especially hard time staying calm.  When I fed him, he squirmed, yelped, latched, unlatched, latched, and unlatched.  When he finally finished eating, he didn't get his usual full-tummy smile or glazed over look, but continued to wriggle in his discomfort.  In other situations I might have felt slightly embarrassed by creating a distraction, but all of these women were also mothers and didn't seem to be phased by Finn's whimpers.   I rocked him and kept him moving but tried to focus my attention on the conversation around me.  (I will continue to be a conversational adult!  I will interact with other people and look them in the eye!)  After a while (and much to my surprise) a woman sitting close by asked me if I'd like her to try to calm him down.  I didn't know what the right answer was.  If I said no, was I being rude to let Finn continue to distract from the conversation?  If I said yes, was I admitting that I was in over my head and didn't know how to care for my baby?  But I wanted to say yes and I didn't know how to say no.  And so into her arms he went.  Finn calmed down fairly quickly, meanwhile I tried to put off relaxed, totally engaged vibes, when instead I was running a million miles an hour in my head and looking at him out of the corner of my eye:  How bad does it make me look that I don't want to "be there" for my baby right now?  How incompetent am I that she, this stranger to my baby, was able to calm him so quickly?  At what point am I taking advantage of this help and should offer to take him back?  Does anyone else think this hard about everything?

I AM A BODY.

Pregnancy and childbirth have made me feel so many new things about my body that I could probably dedicate an entire blog to that journey.  My body and I had finally made our peace with each other in my early twenties after a long decade of mutual torment and we were living mostly happily ever after.  Then I found out I was pregnant and spent the next month and a half living on Sprite and Saltines (and sometimes BBQ) and puking up a significant amount of my weight.  Once the morning sickness subsided I found myself feeling equally proud of my ability (like it was a choice or something) to keep my weight down and worried that my baby wasn't getting the nutrition that he needed.  It turned into the first of many tests in which I had to decide if I would put myself or my child first.

SWING GUILT.

Finny really doesn't fuss a ton.  He has his sad, gassy moments where he wriggles and squirms. Sometimes he keeps himself up crying even though he's just crying about how tired he is.  His sweet, mellow little face somehow contorts into this beet red little square that makes him completely unrecognizable.  Praise the good Lord that I'm blessed with a pretty content, forgiving baby, because whenever he cries I am completely overtaken with anxiety.  My body tenses and I drop whatever I'm doing to shuffle through the different soothing techniques that I'm familiar with:  bouncing, swinging, swaying, put him on is back, put him on his belly, rock him on his side, pat his butt, try to burp him, bicycle kicks, offer him the opportunity to nurse, check his diaper, move to another room, add clothes, take clothes off, put him in his car seat.  Eventually he calms and I think I feel much more relief than he does.  I survived another one.  I made it through.  I did it.  I did it.  I did it. These successes haven't yet begun to build my confidence as a mother.  I still feel like I'm in the survival mode that set in the moment the three of us were loaded into the car and sent on our way from the hospital.