darling duckie

the bearing of children

Infinite Love by Cassandra Barney

Being pregnant is not my favorite state of being. The constant and seemingly eternal nausea. The restless, uncomfortable nights. Being physically unable when I so want (and need) to be able. And the fear of the impending future of giving birth. It can often feel so overwhelming and debilitating.

But through the struggle, I feel a divine sense of honor. Breathtaking and bewildering honor. To give my body over to God to let him form and create a body for one of his adored children. And not just any child, chosen haphazardly, but one specifically chosen to have this tiny forming body and to be a part of our particular family. To have Billy as her father and me as her mother.

Whether there is quiet or chaos all around me I feel the movements of a body so small. I feel serene and wondrous in the connection. I try to share some of those moments with Billy, willing him to feel the quick movements of our child, but I know he cannot really know. The fluid and rolling motion of little feet and little legs are mine alone to savor in all its resplendent vastness.

When I give myself space and time to think about what is really happening - all that is challenging and magnificent and scary all at once - I am overwhelmed with the brilliance and responsibility of my role as woman, mother, guardian, and teacher. But I also celebrate that role.

mother earth and her spring

We went on a walk on a cold, rainy spring day. Only a few days later we spent the late morning out in the sun. Spring seems temperamental, not being able to decide if it wants to warm us or leave us huddling in blankets.

But I don't mind. I see what Mother Earth must do. Spring is when she must give of her nutrients, her life, to create new life. New buds so that leaves and apples will grow on our little tree. Green daffodils and tulips stretch out of the earth, fighting the dirt and soil to show us their happy little faces. What seemed dead must bring forth new life for a new season.

And I can imagine the work that requires of Mother Earth. I help her by planting new bulbs and trees, giving compost back to the soil, tearing away the old to make way for the new. I prune and mix and plant, and love. But even as the gardener, I know that the real work is hers alone. Mother Earth walks hand in hand with God, nourishing and giving giving giving. She alone carries the burden to bringing forth new life to the natural world around us.

So whether tomorrow comes with sun to warm our pale faces or clouds and rain once more, I do not mind. Because I know that bringing new life to the earth requires a great deal of those who bring it. I know that creating life brings sorrow and pain as well as joy and hope. And I love Mother Earth all the more for it.

singing Millie to sleep

We had already read books and sang songs so Millie should have been asleep. But I could hear her yelling. In checking on her, I could smell the problem. A change of diaper and quickly back into her crib because I had things to get done. But she wanted “more book” and “more song.” I said no to the books but wrapped her up and we cuddled in the soft blue chair beside her bed. Softly I sang to her the songs I hoped would make her eyes heavy and quiet her active body.

I could feel the rhythm of her breathing slow, her body starting to twitch. How long had it been since she had fallen asleep in my arms? Could I even remember? She is not the type to sleep in arms but to play when there are people to play with. So I rocked and she slept, dreaming of being momma’s meowing cat or feeding Grandpa imaginary food. I held her and rocked her and thought how I wish you could stay so cuddly and so sweet. I worried for the shock she will experience when she is no longer “the only one” but must share her toys and attention with another. But I told myself she would be just fine. Better off, in fact. More balanced and richly blessed to have a sister to play with and fight with and share her parents with.

Quietly I placed her in her crib, whispering I love you and closed the door. Sleep well my tired eyed bird. I love you.

Whispers of Encouragement

Everyday I go out to the garden and whisper bright words of encouragement to the tulips and daffodils. I tell them they are our hope for the sun to warm our backs again. For color to explode on our trees and in our gardens. For reading books in the shade of the tree and picnics on bright colored blankets. They bring with them the promise of late night walks, hand in hand and backyard parties with the butterflies and birds. Those little flowers carry all the expentancy of new life and the renewal we so long to feel. It's a lot to carry so I try to help them along.

A Letter to Millie

Dear Millicent,

From almost the beginning we know you would be a girl. The pregnancy was difficult and I think God gave us a bright spot to look forward to by giving us a tiny peek into who you were, even as small as a jelly bean as you were. It was just as early that the name Millie came to me (yes, while watching Seven Brides for Seven Brothers). We tried other names on but we always came back to Millie. Papa liked Millicent (yes, a ski lift) and all felt right.

The moment you were born you were meant to see the world around you. You kept those brand new eyes open until your eye lids could stand it no more. But even then, in your slumber I am convinced you dreamt of the newness of the world around you. Two years later you are still seeing all that is wondrous around you, oooo-ing in your unabashed, awe-struck way. Your oooo's excite us and open our eyes to the wonders that are around us too.

Every day you change. You talk a little more, tasting new words on your tongue and saying them until you are satisfied with your attempt. You get a little better at your winnie the pooh puzzle. You sing along with me as I sing you my favorite nursery songs. You get a little more sassy and a little more independent. And you show us a little more of who you are. You will change and evolve throughout your life, learning and adapting. But you will always be especially you.

Maybe your name came from a movie and a ski lift. But I think you were born to be our Millie Millicent . You were meant to be your very own you. And there is no one who ever was or ever will be you: strong-willed and tender, independent and curious, thoughtful and maybe a little bit crazy. But that is just fine, we are all a little bit crazy.

You are our talking bird. You see the world from your own little perch and you are loved in a million ways. You are Millicent and you are ours.

Love,

Mum

S U R P R I S E ! ! !

 

We are 23 weeks along and having a girl!

Oh no we di'n't!

one winter day

As I open the blinds our house fills with bright light. Not from the sun shining through but from the frosty snow that has covered the gray earth with its brilliant white. Each snow flake is so tiny your eyes can hardly see it falling towards the earth. Yet relentlessly it gathers, covering the ground deeper and deeper, hiding the earth from our view.

Outside we wander, longing to be enveloped in the silver, fluffy flurries we have watched from our warm beds. Tiny finches and chickadees chirp happily in our tree, hopping from branch to branch, knocking loose snow from its precarious perch. I make a mental note to read about feeding our petite feathered friends during winter as it seems the suet is not sufficient.

My pint-sized companion is set to push forward through the unspoiled snowy path to the beckoning park. The snow reaches her hips in some areas and all her balance seems dependent on mine. Mine as of late is worsening so we giggle and topple over often in the mounds of snowfall that surround us. Finally we make it to the top of our own little hill where we board the plastic sled. She counts to three and I push off. Squeals of delight fill both our lungs and we come to a stop at the bottom of the knoll. Again and again we climb and then whoosh we go.

Eventually her little body plops in the snow, ready for a break. Mine joins her, glad for the excuse. Slowly she scoops up the soft snow and packs it onto our legs. Her cheeks and nose are flushed and red but she happily goes about her task. Scoop and cover. Scoop and cover. When our feet and legs are no longer visible, she yells in mock worry “whereditgo? whereditgo?” We shake off our legs and she declares “I pound it!” Then back to work she goes. Scoop and cover. Scoop and cover.

My mind begins to wander, thinking of the months we have spent inside, living only to survive. Just trying to get through the hard parts and to feel happy again. I breathe in deep, filling my lungs with the chill, clear air of winter and gratitude. The air clears my head.  It doesn’t feel so fuzzy anymore and my eyes see all the wonder around me once again.

I smile and set to work: scoop and cover.

the year i grew one hundred pumpkins

... or maybe more like 21 pumpkins.

Which is pretty impressive, especially when I tell you that I didn't actually plant them but that they came from the seeds of the pumpkin that made a wonderful, comforting pumpkin soup last fall and that were put in the compost pile only to surprise us with orange delights this fall.

And did I tell you that they all came from one, single plant.

Oh the joys of gardening.

the year october got cold... like every other year

I think I should be spending these chilly, October afternoons baking something warm and sweet but physical activity (that is, more than a leisure walk to the gas station to buy a donut "for Millie") has been hard to come by, or rather, easy to avoid. So instead, I am missing out on savoring yet another creamy, buttery, heavenly confection because I was just too lazy.

I vow to go running just so I can eat a yummy treat without any more guilt.

mysteries

Every morning she flies our of her crib. She chitchats with herself as we make our way to the kitchen, turning around periodically to make sure I am still behind her.

Every morning, while she says oot-mail a few million times, I pull a package of oatmeal from the pantry to warm up.

And every morning, as soon as I am ready to put it in the microwave, the whining begins. She presses her forehead against the fridge door, whining and fake crying. I never know what she is saying; why she suddenly became so sad. I let her push the buttons on the microwave, which she seems to enjoy, though it always induces the throw her body back and almost get dropped part of the morning.

She whimpers until the oot-mail is sitting in front of her, ready to be eaten.

Oh the mysteries of the toddler mind.