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This morning during the worship service at our church, I went up for Holy Communion, as I do most mornings. As usual, I took Curious J with me, carrying her in my arms. Curious J is a squirmy, wiggly toddler who doesn’t enjoy sitting still during the worship service, but when I take her up with me for Communion, she has always been calm. Perhaps it’s the fact that she’s out of the pew, perhaps it’s the novelty of walking up to the front of the church, perhaps it’s the big stained glass window up at the front that is full of color and brightness. Regardless, she is an easy toddler to take up to Communion.
This morning, as usual, our Communion “table” lined up along the front of the church, and my pastor-husband began to distribute the Communion wafers. Curious J watched this intently, but kept her hands at her sides.
After the wafers, an usher came around with the tray of individual cups, and my husband followed with the common cup with the wine. I took the common cup, as usual, and Curious J watched all this intently, but didn’t move or cause any difficulties.
After the wine, as my husband returned to his spot by the altar to give a final blessing, Curious J put her hands into the air and started moving them around. I didn’t think too much of it, as she wasn’t making any noise and I could tell she wasn’t trying to get down. But after a second, I realized what she was doing. She knew what her pastor-daddy was going to do next, and she was attempting to do it, too: She was making the sign of the cross. She even had her first two fingers together on both hands, and was moving her hands in the air back and forth, just like Daddy.
When I realized what she was doing, I looked up with a grin to catch my husband’s eye. He had also noticed what she was doing, just as he was raising his hands to make the actual sign of the cross. His smile matched mine as he gave the blessing and our daughter waved her hands around in the air — just like her Daddy.
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It reminds me of a similar toddlers-in-church story from when Lyd was about that age. I almost always held her in my arms whenever the congregation was standing, and I tried to make sure she could see what her pastor-daddy was doing up in front. One morning, she made the entire back of the church choke back a laugh when, as her father raised his hands to give the closing benediction of the service, she put her hands up high into the air as well, imitating her father exactly (also doing a perfect “touchdown” referee signal). I don’t think anyone in the back of church managed to sing the final hymn, as we were all laughing at little Lyd.
I guess my children DO pay attention in church!
Last night, I had another anxiety attack. It was triggered by reading the world headlines in the newspaper, but then it just took off from there. Even my husband trying to talk some reason into my anxiety regarding the aforementioned world headlines didn’t really work. My logical side knew he was right, but when the anxiety takes over, it takes over everything. I had a very difficult time eating supper. We ordered take-out from Baja Fresh, and it took me well over an hour to choke down two tacos. I ate one, and then decided that I needed to move around a bit, so I went outside and watered our flowers while everyone else finished eating their meal. I managed to get the second taco down while talking on the phone to a good friend who distracted me from my woes. You know who you are, friend - Thanks! 
Later in the evening, I mournfully said to my husband how sorry I was that I had this anxiety problem and how sorry I was that he had to deal with me in this way. He stopped me and said, “I married Emily, and I’ve never been sorry I married you. Yes, you get anxious, and we’ll deal with it as it comes, but you are not your anxiety.”
I told him that was the most romantic thing he could have possibly said to me.
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I’ve been thinking about that a bit today (even as I try not to overthink!) My anxiety is something that is a physiological … thing. It gets worse when I’m tired, and apparently, breastfeeding does a pretty good job of keeping it at bay. JJ and I both knew that the recurrence of my anxiety was a possible effect of my weaning Curious J. My anxiety is not just a simple case of failing to trust in God. Because I know that I DO absolutely trust in him. I know that it’s only through his help and the blessings he’s given me in my life that I get through these times at all. I always come make it through these anxiety attacks in one piece, and I give the credit for that to God.
It actually made me feel worse this week, when I posted on my Facebook status that I was having an anxiety attack, and some well-meaning person commented: “Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. 1 Peter 5:7 (I know, easier said than done.)” That comment got me thinking two things: the first is that I should perhaps be more cautious of the people I friend on Facebook, and secondly that that’s a misuse of that passage. My pastor-husband confirmed the misuse of the passage to me later.
I DO absolutely trust in God through these difficult times. But God isn’t a magic genie, who makes all our problems vanish right when we ask him to. And I certainly don’t feel like I have somehow failed in my Christian walk because I am having anxiety problems. I believe that it’s just as true to say that God will enable us to experience difficulties in our lives, and in doing so, he will reveal blessings to us that we might never have noticed or appreciated otherwise. I truly believe that God makes everything work out for good for his children, and you had better believe that I don’t say that easily. I don’t believe that everything that happens to us IS good, but I believe God makes it all work out FOR our good.
For me, last night’s anxiety attack made me realize once again what a wonderful gift my friends are. It showed me even more depth to the amazing man I married, and it gave him a chance to show me how deep his love for me can extend. I was reminded what a precious gift my girls are, who with their giggles and smiles and childish play and silly jokes and, yes, even their little tantrums and pouting moments — all of those serve to take me out of my thoughts and out of myself for a moment and give me something else to focus on, most of it wonderfully distracting. As a five and a half year old, Lyd can decide on her own to offer up hugs and kisses to me when she can tell I’m not feeling quite myself, and I must say that those love-prompted hugs from my daughter feel … incredible. Plus, it give me a chance to be proud over witnessing the development of her compassionate heart.
And, my anxiety makes me thankful for my job. I have this wonderful little part-time job that is almost as easy for me as falling off a log, and yet it also gets me out of my head, allows me to do something I’m good at, and gets me out of the house while providing some extra money for our family. It is SUCH a blessing for me, and for my whole family!
When it comes right down to it, I am not my anxiety. It happens, and it is affected by my actions to a degree, but at the same time, like any disease, my anxiety doesn’t define who I am. I am bigger than my anxiety, and if God sees fit to allow more anxiety attacks to come into my life over the next days and weeks, I know that he will see me through them and will bring blessings to me through them. I know that God is always looking out for me, and as my husband has said to me (more than once!), everything already is okay.
JJ, my wise husband, has said more than once to me in our almost-nine years of marriage, “Emily, you would feel guilty if you sneeze in the wrong direction!” This is true.
I can feel guilty very, very easily. I’m not sure exactly why this is, if it has something to do with my perfectionism or my upbringing or what, but — there it is. It doesn’t take much for me to feel guilty.
I got a big dose of mommy guilt yesterday as I realized that the literally all-night coughing that Curious J had done was not, in fact, plain old coughing, but was in fact, the kind of coughing that indicates bronchiolitis. You would think that after all this time, recognizing such a cough would be second nature to me. But, apparently not. Hence the mommy guilt. This would also explain why the cough medicines I gave her, both homeopathic and standard allopathic, did nothing for her cough. Duh!
Her cough previous to that night had been non-bronchiolitis, of that I am sure. But, somewhere in the evening it switched, and for whatever reason (possibilities of which I will not go into here), I didn’t recognize the shift, and didn’t treat her cough appropriately. Sigh. Mommy guilt!
Did I ever mention that I can’t sleep at night with noise? I can’t sleep with snoring, and I can’t sleep with other kinds of intermittent noise. White noise is okay. The occasional siren going by is okay. But intermittent noise – I cannot sleep with it.
(Funny story: While on college choir tour, my choir roommate and I had to share a hotel room with two other girls one night, and amonst the three other girls there were two heavy snorers. Since I was stuck in the hotel room with them with no other place to go, I was absolutely miserable. I ended up taking a pillow and a blanket off the bed, turning the light (and loud fan) on in the bathroom, sticking my pillow on the bathroom floor, and sleeping with my head in the bathroom, just so that the “white noise” of the fan would allow me to sleep. I also hate sleeping in bright light, but it was easier for me to sleep in bright light than it was to sleep with noise. I was glad to get home from that choir trip!)
Thankfully, despite only managing two hours of sleep that night, I was astute enough in the morning to recognize that J was badly retracting her chest with each breath she took. Doh! I got up right away, gave her a dose of the oral steroid that I still had left over from her last bout of bronchiolitis, brought out the nebulizer and the inhaled medications, and gave her a breathing treatment. Wouldn’t you know, her cough got better!
I feel guilty that J gets sick with this bronchiolitis so often. I feel like it’s my fault. I wonder if my mother ever felt the same way, considering I had repeated ear infections as a child. Did she wonder if she could have done anything different? When I’ve talked to her about it, it seems like she’s comfortable with how she treated my ear infections, which was to use the standard allopathic treatment that my pediatrician prescribed: repeated doses of antibiotics, tried to keep my ears covered as much as possible, and finally surgery to put tubes in both of my ears when I was 7 years old. But in today’s world, where traditional allopathic medicine is more and more questioned and long-term side effects to medications is definitely questioned, I feel obligated to look to solutions beyond those which my pediatrician prescribes. Thankfully, I’ve found other solutions that do seem to work. Except, of course, when you don’t use them because you’ve run out of the certain homeopathic remedy and thought that perhaps your daughter could hold on for one more day until the remedy arrived in the mail. (Note to self: Always keep at least one full bottle of Thymuline on hand at ALL TIMES.) The homeopathic remedy Thymuline does work to keep Curious J from getting bronchiolitis, but obviously, I have to have it to give to her.
But, in the end, we mothers do the best we can. We’re not perfect, and I guess I know that we have to forgive ourselves for not being perfect. It’s not that I won’t try again to do better the next time, but it’s an acknowledgement of the fact that I will fail, and to be kind to myself when I do. Because me holding onto “mommy guilt” does me no good, and it does my children no good, either. It certainly isn’t an example that I want my daughters to follow when they are mothers!
Thankfully, Curious J is already doing better. Her cough is significantly decreased, and she’s no longer retracting her chest and struggling to breathe. My homeopath and I have talked, and we’re going to keep working to find a way to keep J from having these problems all together. We’re on the right path, we’re getting there, but we’re not quite there yet. Thankfully, we live in 2009, not 1909 or earlier. There is huge amounts of knowledge about medications, both allopathic and alternative, that allow my daughter to breathe freely, and no matter what, she will be able to live a full and healthy life. I thank God for that!
Making the decision to stop breastfeeding Curious J was not an easy one for me. Knowing that breastfeeding was giving J much-needed immunities against her ongoing weak lungs and bronchiolitis issues, I felt horrible for even wanting to wean. But, in the end, I wanted to wean her very badly. I still can’t quite put my finger on why now was when my inner self wanted to quit. But, despite how strongly I felt that I should continue nursing for J’s sake, I wanted even more strongly to be done nursing.
And, we’re now definitely done with the breastfeeding. I’m pretty sure the milk is all gone. My breasts felt a little … hard and warm yesterday, which surprised me since it had been 12 days since I last nursed J. However, I suppose it was just my lactation hormones giving their last gasp. It’s over now.
One of my fears about weaning was that my anxiety issues would come back. I’ve known that my body loves nursing hormones (and pregnancy hormones). While I still had some anxiety problems, they were a LOT less, and any anxiety “attacks” I had were less intense than they were when I wasn’t pregnant or nursing. Well, last night reminded me of that fact when I had a big ol’ anxiety attack as I went to bed.
To be fair, I don’t think the attack was totally the fault of quitting nursing. I’d had a bad cold for two weeks, and while all I have left is a slightly drippy nose, I don’t think I’ve gotten my strength back after the illness. I also made the foolish choice of doing a little jogging on Memorial Day, and I really felt it in my already-tired body yesterday. Even before I got sick, I wasn’t doing great at getting to bed on a regular basis as early as I had hoped to. And, finally, there’s always some degree of stress in my life, and lately it’s been on the higher end.
So, with all those factors contributing, I had a really lousy day yesterday. I woke up at 6am, and was unable to get back to sleep. I had to teach in the morning, which I enjoy, but which also takes a certain amount of energy out of me. I got a nasty headache on one side of my head by the afternoon that I couldn’t seem to shake. And I was tired. SOO tired! So, JJ bathed the girls last night and got them ready for bed while I took care of the outside watering (which HAD to be done lest my poor plants die!), and did the dishes. I cannot go to bed without doing the dishes. I was turning out my light at 9:10, and had even already taken a Valerian in hopes of taking the express train to Dreamland, but no dice.
One of the few nice things about getting anxiety attacks now, after having them off and on for about three years, is that I now know a few things about anxiety attacks: 1) They will end, sooner or later. 2) I will eventually fall asleep, if not tonight, than tomorrow night. 3) This is my body doing it more than my emotions, even though it messes with my emotions and thoughts.
I tried to keep myself as emotionally grounded as I could, at which I wasn’t totally successful by any means. But, I was … a little successful, and in hindsight, I’m pleased with that. My nightly devotions that I’ve been reading before bedtime have been proving to be amazing applicable to whatever situation I’ve found myself in that day, and last night was no exception. So, during my anxiety attack, as much as I could, I tried to picture myself sitting at the foot of the cross, with Jesus next to me with his arm around me, letting me sob into his shoulder. Trying to keep that mental image was helpful as it blocked out other mental images that tend to crop up when I’m having anxiety, images of ”what-ifs” over which I have no control and which probably won’t happen anyway.
And, thanks to some Bach Rescue Sleep Nighttime spray that I took a double dose of around 10:30, I did eventually fall asleep. I also went in and slept with Lyd last night. She always asks me to sleep with her every night, and I thought that just having someone next to me in bed and hearing their rhythmic breathing might help me, and it did. It also allowed me to be a little closer to where Curious J was sleeping, so that I could hear if she would need me in the night, as she’s sick again. (She’s already on her second cold since I weaned her, and both cold have gone straight to her lungs. I don’t know if the universe is trying to punish me for weaning the baby or what. Sigh.)
This morning, in the calmer, more realistic light of the sun, I know that my lack of sleep is probably as much of a factor in my anxiety problems as my weaning is. So it’s back to committing to getting to bed. I know, I know, I always say that. But I have to keep trying! I can’t give up. If I fail, I guess I just have to pick myself up and try again. Sleep might not solve all my anxiety problems, but historically it has made them much easier to handle.
And, after all of this, NOW how do I feel about weaning the baby? I still don’t know why I so desperately wanted to be done nursing now as opposed to any other time. I don’t know the answer to that one, but the fact is, the deed is done. I do know that I did a wonderful, wonderful thing for my daughter by nursing her as long as I did (19.5 months). Few babies today get nursed that long, and I know that I should spend more of my energy being proud of what I accomplished rather than lamenting that I didn’t accomplish more. In the end, I’m probably overthinking it all. I know my Grandma Violet would say I was overthinking it! It was actually that thought, the thought of “What Would Grandma Say” that helped me make the final decision to quit nursing. I know that Grandma would say, “You’re overthinking this. The baby will be fine. Don’t worry so much. The Lord is in control.”
Yup. No matter what, God is still in control. No matter what decisions I feel compelled to make, no matter what unwise choices I make, and no matter what things happen to me that are beyond my control, God is still in control. He is still taking the events of my life and turning them into something good. He is continually making me into the woman he wants me to be.
Everything is okay.
I haven’t forgotten about my blog. Really.
I have two sick girls and a nasty headache tonight, however, and everyone needs to go to bed. We had miserable, cold weather over the weekend, and then it got nice on Memorial Day Monday. So, of course, the girls got sick. Wonderful.
I also made the mistake of doing a bit of jogging yesterday (Memorial Day Monday), and I feel awful today. Nothing good can come from exercise!
But I have lots of good ideas for blog posts. Hopefully some of them will actually make it onto my blog. Suffice to say, for now, know that I’m here. I’m doing okay.
I recently found a blog post written by a woman who had suffered a miscarriage. In her reflections on the experience, she wrote this:
I’m not of a theology that believes God had some higher purpose and that’s why my baby died. I’m not one of those who is comforted by the thought that God is in control and everything happens for a reason. I don’t believe that.
I am. I absolutely am.
I can’t tell you how comforting it has been in the dark days of my life, to know that God has some greater purpose in having me go through a particular experience, to know that God is somehow going to bring good out of the bad. To me, it doesn’t make the bad any less bad, but the idea that, despite all the bad, God is continuing to work in my life and mold me into the kind of woman he wants me to be — that thought greatly comforts me. It makes me see my life as part of a larger picture, with today’s sorrows becoming intermingled with tomorrow’s deeper joys.
I don’t know what the future holds for me. I don’t know if I will be granted a life mostly free from sadness and suffering and hardship, or if those will play a prominent role in my life. I do know this: I am a baptized child of God, and God is on my side. He is looking out for my good, and while he doesn’t promise to remove all the tough times from my life, he promises to make them a blessing to me. And not only to me, but to others with whom my life comes in contact.
So, sad events like miscarriages, losses, broken hearts, disappointments, and hardship can then serve to bring us even closer to the God of our salvation, the God who loved us so much that he went to the cross on our behalf, enduring hell for us so that we could have the sure hope of heaven.
And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. (Romans 8:28)
I believe that wholeheartedly. Do you?
Recently at supper, JJ and I were having a heated discussion, not at each other, but about an acquaintence of ours who left his wife and new daughter and about other people we know who are quietly condoning his behavior. Lyd, sensing our anger but not sure what we were talking about, seemed concerned that we were angry at her. No no, we quickly assured her, we’re not angry at you. “Well, then what are you angry about?” she asked. So, JJ explained to her what had happened in a way that she could understand.
He ended the conversation by saying to her, “Mommy and Daddy will NEVER leave each other. We promised God that we would stay married for the rest of our lives, and we will keep that promise. We will never get a divorce. We will always be here together to take care of you.”
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Throughout JJ’s and my marriage, I’ve pondered the importance and seriousness of having promised God that you would stay married forever. JJ and I didn’t just promise each other that we would stay married, we promised God that we would stay married.
When we were planning our wedding service, I remember being struck by the fact that the bride and groom first made promises facing the altar, symbolizing the fact that they are making promises to God. Then the bride and groom turn towards each other, and they make the second set of vows facing one another. At the time we were married, not knowing all that much about liturgical symbolism and being a complete neophyte about worship, I thought this double-vows concept was redundant. However, as my marriage has progressed, and as I’ve learned a whole lot more about worship than I ever could have imagined (thanks to my husband), I’ve gained a deeper appreciation of that symbolic act in the marriage rite.
JJ and I didn’t just make promises to each other that we would love the other one for the rest of our lives, we made those promises to God. And when I say that we promised to love each other, I don’t mean the gooey, mushy feeling of love. No, love is hard work. Like 1 Corinthians 13 says:
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.
Wow! That’s some serious law in there! In fact, my pastor-husband won’t even use this passage of Scripture for wedding services, because, as he says, “There’s no gospel in it. It’s all law.” But, this portion of the Bible reminds Christians of the kind of love that God shows to us, and so, inspired by God’s love for us, JJ and I try to love to each other in the same way.
JJ and I are not the perfect couple. We still get on each other’s nerves, we still say and do things to each other that we later regret, and we don’t always take the other’s words and actions in the kindest possible way. However, we are absolutely committed to making our marriage work. When times get tough, we remember that we’ve not just made promises to each other, but we promised God that we would love each other, even when the other isn’t very easy to love. We know that God will give us the strength we need to keep that promise, and we know that God freely gives us forgiveness when we fail to keep that promise. God’s willingness to forgive us makes us willing to forgive each other, too.
And it’s another huge motivational boost to know that our little daughters are watching us, basing their lifelong ideas about marriage on the example we daily provide for them. It makes us resolve to do the best job we possibly can at our marriage when our five and a half year old daughter grabs each of us by the hand and emphatically says, “I’m SO GLAD that you’re never going to get a divorce!”
Since my voice has been really shot the last few days, Lyd has taken over “reading” Curious J’s favorite bedtime story to her. Right now, J is on a kick for the Sandra Boynton book “The Going to Bed Book.” The three of us (my girls and I) read it at least twice every night before bed. Lyd has, of course, memorized it, so she took care of “reading” it to her little sister for me the last few nights. It’s been so cute.
J is also in love with the book “Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb.” I always read it in rhythm, and she loves it. She tries to keep the rhythm with me – I love seeing her musical development progress!
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Speaking of being on a kick for a story, Lyd’s kick for the past few months has been the Disney version of the “Sleeping Beauty” story. We have the movie, but she doesn’t like to watch it, because she doesn’t like to see the evil fairy, Maleficent. However, she WILL watch the part of the movie where Briar Rose sings for all the animals. In fact, Lyd often sings the little ditty that Briar Rose sings on “aah” as she waltzes around the house. I think she’s well on her way to becoming a first soprano.
Last night before supper, Lyd told me, “Momma, I’m making up a story. In MY story, Maleficent is not bad, she’s good. In fact, she helps little children whose mommies and daddies have died to find new homes. The little girls she helps are named [she rattled off her own name as well as those of the girls in her class at school.]“ I was duly impressed! Not only is she finding her own way to turn Maleficent into the protagonist rather than the antagonist, she is using a conversation that we had last week and working it into a story! Lyd and I talked about it a bit tonight, and we decided that over the summer, we’re going to develop this idea into a real story and turn it into a book and draw pictures for it and everything. Should be fun!
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This idea of “finding homes for children whose mommies and daddies have died” sprang out of a conversation that Lyd and I had last week about adoption. We’ve had more than one conversation about adopting a child, and I’ve realized that I have a strong pull towards adopting an orphaned child. I don’t care if it’s a domestic or international adoption, but if we were to adopt, I would really want to adopt an orphan. Lyd is also getting excited about the idea of adoption. Some friends of ours are adopted, and we have talked about how lucky these children are to get such a loving mommy and daddy, and how God can make even bad situations work out for good.
I don’t know when an adoption like this would happen. Probably not soon. I’m kind of hoping that God will make it clear to us when the time is right. JJ and I have talked about it, and we’ve agreed that now is not the right time for us to adopt. But I think about it every now and then, and I even pray about it. If we are meant to adopt, then my future child’s birth parents are out there somewhere, and I’d like to start praying for them sooner rather than later.
I came up as Sgt. Strict! Go figure.
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As I mentioned before, Curious J is weaned, and my body is already giving me obvious signs that it is no longer making milk for a baby.
All of a sudden, the very real possibility is entering my mind that I might get pregnant again. And that would be fine. But the old thought processes that used to run rampant in my mind when I was trying to get pregnant with #2 are starting to re-emerge now that there are thoughts of #3. Thoughts like, “How will I ever handle a second third child?” and “I’d have to give birth again!” and “How will the new baby get along with its big sister sisters?” and the real kicker, “How will I ever love another child as much as I love my firstborn first two children?”
I had real psychological issues during my pregnancy with Curious J. Thankfully, time heals all most wounds, and the passage of time has allayed much of these fears. I did handle a second child just fine. In fact, it didn’t take long for it to feel like “old hat,” as they say. Giving birth again — well, that’s a post for another day. (I’m still working through that one. Suffice to say, once I finally work through all the trauma accompanying J’s birth, I will be a MUCH better doula. I’m hopeful that if I am so blessed to give birth to a third baby, that birth experience will help heal some of the emotional wounds of baby #2’s birth.) The new baby did get along fantastically with her big sister, far better than I could have ever imagined, and I have no fear whatsoever about a third child coming into that situation. Both of my daughters will be wonderful big sisters.
And, how will I ever love another child? Well, what all mothers say really is true: Your heart expands and grows, like a flame, and you love that second child with all of your heart, just like you did the first child. It doesn’t necessarily happen instantly, and you do love the second child differently (after all, it IS a different person than your firstborn), but you still love them completely.
I was very impatient as I waited for baby #2 to be conceived. I worried, I fretted, I wondered what God was up to, making me wait so long. Now in hindsight, I look back and realize that God’s timing was absolutely perfect. Absolutely perfect. I still wish I knew when #3 would arrive, I wish I had more control over the situation, but I hope that this time, I’ll be a little better about trusting God and trusting his timing. Baby #3 will arrive at just the right time. Baby #3 will be just the right baby for our family, and we will be just the right family for our baby.
Until then, I’m going to enjoy having my body back to myself. I’m going to take the time to rest, to rejuvinate, to get my inner physical strength back, and do a few things I couldn’t do when I was nursing. I’ll do my best to enjoy the stage of life I’m in, and I’ll focus on enjoying my girls the way they are right now. Today will never come again, and God’s already got the future under control, so all I need to do is relax.
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