You know that when you hear someone say the above (or any variation of it), what follows is not going to really be a credit to either the speaker, listener or the subject. I've been quite self-aware, for some time, of my tendency to make snap judgments. I'm better at curbing this impulse now than I was, say, age 17, but it is still ridiculous how far I have to go with this particular weakness. Blogging has actually helped--because I write so much of what I think for others to see now, I believe I'm getting more careful about what I think in the first place.
Today.I.Just.Can't.Help.Myself.
Last week I read in the paper about octuplets born alive to a woman in California--seven were expected, but eight were born. The babies were quite early and a couple of them are extremely small, but so far all have survived. The paper was brief on details about the mother, apparently at her request. After I read the story, I felt very grateful that I was not in a position to have to make a decision about fertility drugs--either taking them or the many decisions that continue to follow the consequences of taking them. I also felt a measure of respect for this mother. Early in her pregnancy, terminating some of the babies had been presented to her as a desireable option, but she just didn't feel right about it. Also, in not disclosing her name I viewed her as a much more careful and concerned mother than, say, the John and Kate Plus 8 Harpie. Or maybe I should say Queen Harpie.
There was a follow up story today. A story that sickened and disgusted me.
Octo-momma already has six children, all of whom were conceived on fertility drugs. She also has no husband and her mother is pretty much raising the first six. She has a publicity agent who gave a majority of the interview. Every major corporation which usually donates to multiples has been contacted for handouts, but it seems that many of the companies are backing off of this one. There have already been talks with The Learning Channel about a program.
It was at this point that my head exploded. What would they call this show Just Kate plus 14? Or Eight is Enough So Who Wants the Other Six?
The journalist reporting went on to speculate that the hospital stay alone for these 8 preemies will be considerably over a million dollars. Nor could the reporter find any evidence of the woman having worked in the last two years.
Is there a nice, neat, reasonable explanation that paints all involved parties in their right minds? Perhaps. Perhaps she and her hubby were "just" going for number seven, and together had wanted a large family. Perhaps, her doctor had always believed her to be a stable, normal mother. Perhaps her mother was loving having a second chance at parenting and gladly took on all of these little ones. Perhaps Octo-dad freaked out and left only when it turned out his wife was having a litter and decided he just couldn't deal. Perhaps this mother had never even considered a career as a reality show star before submitting her body to a science experiment. Perhaps any number of babies over two necessitates a publicity agent--you know, like how the lactation consultant comes in to most mothers? Perhaps. . . perhaps. . .
Or perhaps SOMEBODY in the chain of "responsible" adults who have perpetrated this nightmare should have been a voice of reason and said, "There is no way a dangerously unbalanced, single woman who is only half a mother to begin with should have any business taking fertility drugs. And if she thinks somebody else should pay for it--either in the form of insurance or government or sponsors or concerned citizens or pro bono babysitting then she just needs to start signing the adoption papers NOW. And not eight sets. Fourteen.
Don't get me wrong, I am not pointing my (admittedly self-righteous) finger at the mother alone. Oh, no. I think there is loads of blame to go around: from the mother who has enabled her idiot daughter with her free daycare, to the deadbeat sperm donor dad, to the DOCTOR, for crying out loud, who agreed to this latest treatment, to the insurance company who very likely approved her round of fertility drugs. AT WHAT POINT DID ALL COMMON SENSE CEASE?
Years ago I had a colleague who had been married for some years; she told me once that she and her husband had no interest in raising children, though she thought it seemed weird sometimes to think about getting old and not having family around. She was not at all religious and tended to view things very scientifically. One day we discussed the brouhaha at the University of Utah (late 90's) over the gay professor and his partner who were suing the state for adoption rights. I was interested in her opinion because I knew that, if anybody could, she would reason through the situation instead of reacting with emotion. She said something I'll never forget, "I think there are a lot of reasons people have children, but it should never be for selfish reasons. For all that those men might make excellent parents, they have made their crusade so public that having a child now is more about the principal of the thing than the thing itself. It is like they haven't stopped to think how hard it will be for a child to be dragged into all of this."
Well said.
As I look at Octo-mom, yes, with a fair amount of distaste, even disgust, I can see plainly that she will be punished by her own choices. She will have to live with the consequences of her folly and selfishness. (And, yes, to do something so dramatic for attention is selfishness no matter how many hundreds of diapers she will change.) I guess there is no need to judge, the natural penalties of her decisions will take care of that, but I feel sick for those kids.
Their lives will be so affected, and therefore their choices limited, by their mother's actions. Their lives will be punctuated by poverty, scrutiny, the side-affects of premature birth, and a mother who clearly places a low priority on what is best for them.
One last thing before anyone reading gets their knickers in a twist: in case you have misunderstood my anger, I have nothing whatever against large families. Though I don't know that I'll have a very large one myself, my dad was the oldest of ten, my mother the oldest girl out of nine kids, and Plantboy is one of nine. (And, I must add, I would be hard-pressed to find a family anywhere that is greater than my hubby's.) One of my favorite readers is the oldest of 21 (or 22, Erma? I forget) . . . . what I am saying here is that I take serious issues with people who are STUPID. Especially when it comes to making their children pay the price for their irresponsibility.
Showing posts with label birth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birth. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Monday, September 22, 2008
Four????
I know that the number and frequency of children you have can only be truly decided between you and your spouse and Lord. Still, what is blogging for if not to solicit random tidbits of advice from friends and strangers alike?
I am at a major crossroads in my child-bearing life. Some weeks back my mother and I were talking and I asked her why "4" seems to be such a magic number of children for people that I know. Before four kids, it seems like all kinds of random people will ask, "Do you think you'll have any more?" (Maybe this is this the case after four children as well?) She said that in her generation she felt that the magic number was 5. There are four children in my family, and mom felt like my youngest brother started school before people quit asking her if she was done.
It took 20 weeks for me to adjust to the idea of having a third son. By the time Captain Tootypants was born, I was okay with it. And now, I've accepted that I have to be careful to not end up in the middle of non-stop wrestling match at my house. I've accepted that my youngest is both the meanest and the sweetest of the three. I've accepted endless hand-me-down piles of brown and blue and green clothes that are nearly always muddy by days' end. I've even accepted the boy smell that permeates my bedroom and my kids' bedroom every morning. Some days I look at my life and think, "How did I get so lucky to have a houseful of exceptionally handsome men who each think I'm the center of their universe?" Other days I think, "Where is the daughter I have long-dreamed of?" There are days when mothering is so easy and I know that four would be nothing, and then there are other days when I want nothing more than to escape the drudgery of housework and diapers and referee-ing and, well, you get the picture.
I've had all my children for very different reasons--the first was obligation, the second was desire, the third was an act of faith. But if there is to be a #4 . . . .
This baby would have to be called "sacrifice," inasmuch as one baby can be seen as more of a sacrifice than another. We would be exceptionally crowded in our small house. We would have to think of some way to afford a payment on a bigger car. My additional schooling (and therefore earning power) would have to be put off a few more years. Even after a year of being here, I don't feel like I've really built the support system that I've had in other places--so necessary when you are hundreds of miles from any family members.
When I felt the powerful prompting to get pregnant with #3, despite Plantboy's schooling not being finished and no job on the horizon, and certainly no knowledge of where would be the following year, I took the biggest leap of faith I've ever made. I gave Plantboy about four days notice on the "I need to get pregnant now!" though we had discussed such a thing as being at least a year into the future. He prayed and he trusted me, dear man. I think I always knew there would be a great blessing attached to that decision; I hoped that blessing meant a baby daughter. The Lord knew my heart. If Captain Tootypants had been a girl instead, it would have probably taken a bolt of lightning for me to have had a fourth baby, and then my sweet baby would have never been a part of my life. My 20 weeks of adjustment over his birth was not just getting ready for a third boy; I think in my heart I was coming to terms with a fourth pregnancy.
I checked the blog of a friend today who just had her fourth baby: one of several friends in the last year to make this leap. Ever since my baby was about two months old, this battle within myself emerges about once a month. Jana's newborn has triggered these thoughts today. For "ideal" spacing, if I have a baby #4, I should get pregnant in about six months. The decision I keep telling myself can wait, cannot wait much longer.
Or maybe I've already made the decision--maybe it was made a long time ago--and my practical side cannot stop thinking about the awful logistics of such a decision. I'm struggling to do the will of the Father, knowing my heart is not in the right place. If I knew a girl was coming to us, I'd get pregnant tomorrow, logistics be damned. But the thought of a fourth boy makes me feel faintly naseous. Would I be able to love a fourth boy enough so that he never wondered if I had him just because I was hoping for a girl? Is a fourth child, for me, a total act of unselfishness since on paper it is pure insanity; or is my decision based on some completely selfish desire to have a daughter on the off-chance that she'll be the best friend I've ever had?
I am at a major crossroads in my child-bearing life. Some weeks back my mother and I were talking and I asked her why "4" seems to be such a magic number of children for people that I know. Before four kids, it seems like all kinds of random people will ask, "Do you think you'll have any more?" (Maybe this is this the case after four children as well?) She said that in her generation she felt that the magic number was 5. There are four children in my family, and mom felt like my youngest brother started school before people quit asking her if she was done.
It took 20 weeks for me to adjust to the idea of having a third son. By the time Captain Tootypants was born, I was okay with it. And now, I've accepted that I have to be careful to not end up in the middle of non-stop wrestling match at my house. I've accepted that my youngest is both the meanest and the sweetest of the three. I've accepted endless hand-me-down piles of brown and blue and green clothes that are nearly always muddy by days' end. I've even accepted the boy smell that permeates my bedroom and my kids' bedroom every morning. Some days I look at my life and think, "How did I get so lucky to have a houseful of exceptionally handsome men who each think I'm the center of their universe?" Other days I think, "Where is the daughter I have long-dreamed of?" There are days when mothering is so easy and I know that four would be nothing, and then there are other days when I want nothing more than to escape the drudgery of housework and diapers and referee-ing and, well, you get the picture.
I've had all my children for very different reasons--the first was obligation, the second was desire, the third was an act of faith. But if there is to be a #4 . . . .
This baby would have to be called "sacrifice," inasmuch as one baby can be seen as more of a sacrifice than another. We would be exceptionally crowded in our small house. We would have to think of some way to afford a payment on a bigger car. My additional schooling (and therefore earning power) would have to be put off a few more years. Even after a year of being here, I don't feel like I've really built the support system that I've had in other places--so necessary when you are hundreds of miles from any family members.
When I felt the powerful prompting to get pregnant with #3, despite Plantboy's schooling not being finished and no job on the horizon, and certainly no knowledge of where would be the following year, I took the biggest leap of faith I've ever made. I gave Plantboy about four days notice on the "I need to get pregnant now!" though we had discussed such a thing as being at least a year into the future. He prayed and he trusted me, dear man. I think I always knew there would be a great blessing attached to that decision; I hoped that blessing meant a baby daughter. The Lord knew my heart. If Captain Tootypants had been a girl instead, it would have probably taken a bolt of lightning for me to have had a fourth baby, and then my sweet baby would have never been a part of my life. My 20 weeks of adjustment over his birth was not just getting ready for a third boy; I think in my heart I was coming to terms with a fourth pregnancy.
I checked the blog of a friend today who just had her fourth baby: one of several friends in the last year to make this leap. Ever since my baby was about two months old, this battle within myself emerges about once a month. Jana's newborn has triggered these thoughts today. For "ideal" spacing, if I have a baby #4, I should get pregnant in about six months. The decision I keep telling myself can wait, cannot wait much longer.
Or maybe I've already made the decision--maybe it was made a long time ago--and my practical side cannot stop thinking about the awful logistics of such a decision. I'm struggling to do the will of the Father, knowing my heart is not in the right place. If I knew a girl was coming to us, I'd get pregnant tomorrow, logistics be damned. But the thought of a fourth boy makes me feel faintly naseous. Would I be able to love a fourth boy enough so that he never wondered if I had him just because I was hoping for a girl? Is a fourth child, for me, a total act of unselfishness since on paper it is pure insanity; or is my decision based on some completely selfish desire to have a daughter on the off-chance that she'll be the best friend I've ever had?
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
And Pictures!
For details, read the previous post.
I had a cool experience the other day. I was walking around the temple with my family when I saw somebody that looked familiar. Unsure if it was him, I haven't seen this person in seven years, I called his name from a distance and sure enough he turned around. It was one of my students from my first year of teaching! He had been a senior in high school then and I hadn't seen him since he went on his mission; about the time Plantboy and I moved to Texas. Anyway, he was there with his wife and two kids. He was doing great and is looking to apply to PhD programs in environmental science--the same subject I taught him in! Granted he had very high interest before I ever met him; I don't think I influenced him one way or the other, but it was really rewarding to see how successful he is and that he has followed his heart. His wife was absolutely lovely and his kids were really cute.
It is exciting to get a tiny taste of the fruits of some of our labors. Mancub told his Sunday School Teacher the other day that the picture she was holding up was the Liahona and that is worked by faith and obedience. The Poopy Pirate sang all of the words to "I Am a Child of God" in nursery the other day. Don't give up moms! These little ones have such hope and promise. We must all hold out for those occasional glimpses we get into their potential.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
And Introducing!
We had a fairly strange 48 hours after my last blog. I went to the doctor as said. Not only was the baby too "high," but I had made no progress in a week. The other reason my doctor didn't want to strip my membranes is because she wasn't convinced the baby was even head down anymore. Great.
The ultrasound confirmed Baby Pete's acrobatics and she scheduled me to come in the next morning. They would flip him (a very weird procedure they do from the OUTSIDE believe it or not) if they could and induce me, or if that didn't work, she would C-Section me the next morning. Getting better all they time. So that night I put a frantic phone call in to DesMama to get the low down on the C-Section. (Thanks again, DM, you really allayed a lot of my fears.) Also, I relaxed quite a bit. One way or another in 24 hours I would have a baby.
So, of course, I actually went in to labor that night. (It was after the season finale of L O S T--conincidence? Hmm . . . . ) I called the hospital at about 1 am. My doctor was not only at the hospital but answered the phone. She is wonderful, incidentally. She told me to come in; no sense to spend half the night in labor to just get a C-Section.
Anyway, when I got there they gave me a drug to stop my labor so they could apply all kinds of pressure to my tummy. Her first try didn't work and they gave me some fentanol because I was shaking so badly afterward. I don't know why? Maybe because it seems so totally unnatural to have somebody doing that to you and maybe because they had already hooked me up to the IV which automatically makes me feel like a sick patient instead of a pregnant woman.
Her second try was successful and baby was now head down. Time to RESTART labor. By the time they located a Pitocin pump that was working it was nearly three a.m. At about 5:30 in the morning I got the worst epidural I've ever had. Between the epidural and the other drugs, about 8:30 I started feeling that whole ghost leg syndrome thing and was sure I was going crazy. The fact that I was by myself didn't help. (Weeks ago we scheduled a physical for Plantboy that morning. He had to have the physical completed before he could be officially offered the Oregon job. So we couldn't exactly cancel.)
My brief journey into the land of nervous breakdowns was one of the worst hours of my life. If any of you have ever actually had a breakdown, I got a tiny taste of empathy and I will never again say, "that could never happen to me."
Once Jeff showed up, my attitude improved immensely. We also turned on the TV to try and distract me. This technique actually worked pretty well because we turned on the most obnoxious presidential press conference (it was on every station) and I channeled my energy into disagreeing with the current leader of the free world.
Baby Pete entered the world at 9:58 am with a head full of light brown hair weighing in at 7 pounds and 11 ounces--making him more than half a pound smaller than either of my other kids. Baby Pete has also been easier on me in every way so far than my other two bambinos. The thing that is hard about three? Getting everything done. Right now it is okay because Plantboy is home, but when he heads for Eugene and leaves me alone for a few weeks it could get a little dodgy.
Hah! Another lengthy post, but everyone loves to tell their birth stories and in this medium nobody interupts with one that is inevitably better. I promise to dutifully read your posts about your births as well.
I'm sure you will all understand if my blogging is a little spotty this summer, but don't give up on scienceteachermommy. Check in every few weeks and I'm sure I'll eventually find time to be a regular again. So now it is back to the world of laundry, dirty dishes, dirty diapers, constipation, nursing and whatever other pleasant thing is part of motherhood.
I've got adorable pictures, but I'm having trouble making them work. They aren't attaching to my gmail either. I will try to get it together for the next post.
The ultrasound confirmed Baby Pete's acrobatics and she scheduled me to come in the next morning. They would flip him (a very weird procedure they do from the OUTSIDE believe it or not) if they could and induce me, or if that didn't work, she would C-Section me the next morning. Getting better all they time. So that night I put a frantic phone call in to DesMama to get the low down on the C-Section. (Thanks again, DM, you really allayed a lot of my fears.) Also, I relaxed quite a bit. One way or another in 24 hours I would have a baby.
So, of course, I actually went in to labor that night. (It was after the season finale of L O S T--conincidence? Hmm . . . . ) I called the hospital at about 1 am. My doctor was not only at the hospital but answered the phone. She is wonderful, incidentally. She told me to come in; no sense to spend half the night in labor to just get a C-Section.
Anyway, when I got there they gave me a drug to stop my labor so they could apply all kinds of pressure to my tummy. Her first try didn't work and they gave me some fentanol because I was shaking so badly afterward. I don't know why? Maybe because it seems so totally unnatural to have somebody doing that to you and maybe because they had already hooked me up to the IV which automatically makes me feel like a sick patient instead of a pregnant woman.
Her second try was successful and baby was now head down. Time to RESTART labor. By the time they located a Pitocin pump that was working it was nearly three a.m. At about 5:30 in the morning I got the worst epidural I've ever had. Between the epidural and the other drugs, about 8:30 I started feeling that whole ghost leg syndrome thing and was sure I was going crazy. The fact that I was by myself didn't help. (Weeks ago we scheduled a physical for Plantboy that morning. He had to have the physical completed before he could be officially offered the Oregon job. So we couldn't exactly cancel.)
My brief journey into the land of nervous breakdowns was one of the worst hours of my life. If any of you have ever actually had a breakdown, I got a tiny taste of empathy and I will never again say, "that could never happen to me."
Once Jeff showed up, my attitude improved immensely. We also turned on the TV to try and distract me. This technique actually worked pretty well because we turned on the most obnoxious presidential press conference (it was on every station) and I channeled my energy into disagreeing with the current leader of the free world.
Baby Pete entered the world at 9:58 am with a head full of light brown hair weighing in at 7 pounds and 11 ounces--making him more than half a pound smaller than either of my other kids. Baby Pete has also been easier on me in every way so far than my other two bambinos. The thing that is hard about three? Getting everything done. Right now it is okay because Plantboy is home, but when he heads for Eugene and leaves me alone for a few weeks it could get a little dodgy.
Hah! Another lengthy post, but everyone loves to tell their birth stories and in this medium nobody interupts with one that is inevitably better. I promise to dutifully read your posts about your births as well.
I'm sure you will all understand if my blogging is a little spotty this summer, but don't give up on scienceteachermommy. Check in every few weeks and I'm sure I'll eventually find time to be a regular again. So now it is back to the world of laundry, dirty dishes, dirty diapers, constipation, nursing and whatever other pleasant thing is part of motherhood.
I've got adorable pictures, but I'm having trouble making them work. They aren't attaching to my gmail either. I will try to get it together for the next post.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Too Much Information
Still no baby. Tomorrow puts me six days overdue my earliest estimated due date. I always said I thought I'd be closer to June than the doctor told me, but the reality of it is miserable.
And yes, I know all the tricks for starting labor. My sister yesterday told me what she did to get herself going a week early with her 2nd baby. Lets just say that the title of this blog is very appropriate. Now I will give you all too much information. Tomorrow the doctor is going to STRIP MY MEMBRANES. Okay, I have heard that this hurts like the devil. My own doctor says it only has a 30% success rate. I can hardly wait.
So I guess I am not so much looking for advice as for some fellow commiseration. Does anybody else go this far overdue?????????????
And yes, I know all the tricks for starting labor. My sister yesterday told me what she did to get herself going a week early with her 2nd baby. Lets just say that the title of this blog is very appropriate. Now I will give you all too much information. Tomorrow the doctor is going to STRIP MY MEMBRANES. Okay, I have heard that this hurts like the devil. My own doctor says it only has a 30% success rate. I can hardly wait.
So I guess I am not so much looking for advice as for some fellow commiseration. Does anybody else go this far overdue?????????????
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Visiting Teaching--The Good, the Bad and the Indifferent
I need to share two experiences--one good and one bad. The bad first; it will shed light on why I have such fond memories of the other.
Here we are in the middle of a job hunt, a few weeks from baby, potentially needing to move and school ending. It is a little stressful right now. My VT calls me and apologizes for missing last month (I've seen her twice in the last year) and asks if I'm available Thursday. Well, no, thank you, I'm actually not. I have to go to the doctor, my husband is working in the evenings, and on days when I don't see my kids before 5 pm it is really hard to commit to anything else. She says, "Well, I guess (insert partner's name here) will try to follow up then later in the month."
"I'm free all next week," I'm nothing if not accomodating.
"We're moving next week."
"Oh, great; husband is done with school then?"
"No, he has a while to go."
"Are you changing schools?"
"No, just moving to a different apartment."
"Where at?" I'm still very friendly at this point, trying to get to know this woman who has made no effort to know me.
She then gives an address about six blocks from here. I hate to complain, but she has no children, until recently didn't work, her husband works evenings and she has been a student. Is she really so busy that she cannot come to visit? And, despite Sunday being their last official Sunday, is it so hard to stop by for 20 minutes next Wednesday afternoon to say, "You must be having a really difficult time right now. How can we help transition you to your new visiting teachers so that you have some help?"
I'd like to walk a mile in her shoes, but I'm swelling out of my own so badly I'm afraid I would just ruin hers and she'd have one more reason to dislike me.
Good experience:
Champions Ward split just two weeks before the Poopy Pirate was born. I remember this time vividly for some other events that happened. I also remember sitting through nearly two hours of "Sacrament meeting" in the heat of the gymnasium while my feet swelled through my shoes to find out which ward we'd be in. Because the ward was new, everyone was officially released. Yet, Jenny Scharman, my visiting teacher in shining armor who didn't miss a month in over two (or was it three?) years despite nearly alwasy coming by herself was there every step of the way. She stayed overnight with ManCub when it was hospital time despite the last minute notice. She made sure we had meals arranged for over a week when I came home, just days before Christmas. And were these officially "Parkway" women? NO! They were women who loved me and had supported me. In addition to Jenny's love, Sarah Berry was there to help with my delivery and take the most beautiful newborn pictures anyone ever saw. She called every day for a week to make sure I was okay.
Did any of them do any of this because they had been assigned? Again, a resounding NO! They did it because these special women understood in a remarkable way that Relief Society is not something you attend; it is something you belong to. It is not about ward boundaries and callings, it is about Christ entering your heart and changing who you are down so deep that you desire above all else to love and serve. In those few short days after my second son's birth, I learned about true sisterhood.
Granted, my less than stellar VT here in this ward is very young, and I doubt she has ever lived outside of Utah. She has probably never had a need for such service. Having not experienced such a time she is unable to understand the importance of lending that support to others. Perhaps one day she will, and she will never blow off a sister in need just because she moved two blocks too far to the south.
Here we are in the middle of a job hunt, a few weeks from baby, potentially needing to move and school ending. It is a little stressful right now. My VT calls me and apologizes for missing last month (I've seen her twice in the last year) and asks if I'm available Thursday. Well, no, thank you, I'm actually not. I have to go to the doctor, my husband is working in the evenings, and on days when I don't see my kids before 5 pm it is really hard to commit to anything else. She says, "Well, I guess (insert partner's name here) will try to follow up then later in the month."
"I'm free all next week," I'm nothing if not accomodating.
"We're moving next week."
"Oh, great; husband is done with school then?"
"No, he has a while to go."
"Are you changing schools?"
"No, just moving to a different apartment."
"Where at?" I'm still very friendly at this point, trying to get to know this woman who has made no effort to know me.
She then gives an address about six blocks from here. I hate to complain, but she has no children, until recently didn't work, her husband works evenings and she has been a student. Is she really so busy that she cannot come to visit? And, despite Sunday being their last official Sunday, is it so hard to stop by for 20 minutes next Wednesday afternoon to say, "You must be having a really difficult time right now. How can we help transition you to your new visiting teachers so that you have some help?"
I'd like to walk a mile in her shoes, but I'm swelling out of my own so badly I'm afraid I would just ruin hers and she'd have one more reason to dislike me.
Good experience:
Champions Ward split just two weeks before the Poopy Pirate was born. I remember this time vividly for some other events that happened. I also remember sitting through nearly two hours of "Sacrament meeting" in the heat of the gymnasium while my feet swelled through my shoes to find out which ward we'd be in. Because the ward was new, everyone was officially released. Yet, Jenny Scharman, my visiting teacher in shining armor who didn't miss a month in over two (or was it three?) years despite nearly alwasy coming by herself was there every step of the way. She stayed overnight with ManCub when it was hospital time despite the last minute notice. She made sure we had meals arranged for over a week when I came home, just days before Christmas. And were these officially "Parkway" women? NO! They were women who loved me and had supported me. In addition to Jenny's love, Sarah Berry was there to help with my delivery and take the most beautiful newborn pictures anyone ever saw. She called every day for a week to make sure I was okay.
Did any of them do any of this because they had been assigned? Again, a resounding NO! They did it because these special women understood in a remarkable way that Relief Society is not something you attend; it is something you belong to. It is not about ward boundaries and callings, it is about Christ entering your heart and changing who you are down so deep that you desire above all else to love and serve. In those few short days after my second son's birth, I learned about true sisterhood.
Granted, my less than stellar VT here in this ward is very young, and I doubt she has ever lived outside of Utah. She has probably never had a need for such service. Having not experienced such a time she is unable to understand the importance of lending that support to others. Perhaps one day she will, and she will never blow off a sister in need just because she moved two blocks too far to the south.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Nesting From Necessity
When the doctor said "37 weeks" at my Wednesday appointment, I kind of panicked. So today I am nesting. And not really because I feel that big energy rush that sometimes hits during this time of pregnancy, more because I don't have a choice. In the book "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" the Herdmans are trying to understand why Mary and Joseph had to put Jesus in an old feedbox. Then, the oldest sister remembers they had to put the youngest sister, Gladys, in a drawer when she was born. My space-efficient apartment is cluttered enough right now to not even allow room in a drawer.
I'm so grateful that kids don't care, however. Mancub said the other day, "Maybe [the Poopy Pirate] and I will have to start sharing a dresser so there is room for the baby's clothes." I just hugged him and gave him a kiss. His clothes are already jammed into a two-drawer end table from my master bedroom set. In five years he has never had a proper dresser. Does he care? Of course not; he just wants to share so that we can make room for the baby brother he is already so excited to have that he laughs and wiggles every time he touches my tummy.
Back to my rearranging . . . .
I'm so grateful that kids don't care, however. Mancub said the other day, "Maybe [the Poopy Pirate] and I will have to start sharing a dresser so there is room for the baby's clothes." I just hugged him and gave him a kiss. His clothes are already jammed into a two-drawer end table from my master bedroom set. In five years he has never had a proper dresser. Does he care? Of course not; he just wants to share so that we can make room for the baby brother he is already so excited to have that he laughs and wiggles every time he touches my tummy.
Back to my rearranging . . . .
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