FYI

If you suck in when you step on the scale, it doesn't change the number.

Although it does make it so you can see the number.

But that might not be a good thing.

Opposition in all things

Yesterday I got in the shower and had just shampooed up my hair when, as if on cue, the baby monitor lit up and the wailing began. I felt like I was experiencing deja vu. I vividly remember the exact scenario happening when Mister was a baby, a very colicy baby, I might add. I remember standing there as the water poured over me and crying. I was just a new mother who simply wanted to take a shower at 1 in the afternoon. "What about me? What about me?" I said to nobody. And, amazingly enough, Somebody answered me. The thought came into my head forcefully, as if it had been said out loud: "It's not about you."

That was a turning point for me, my own personal Moses-moment, when I really understood for the first time that life in general is not and should not be about me. A thought that, at the time, like Moses, "I never had supposed."

So I have been thinking this past week, as I have been juggling a crying baby around the house and as I have been sitting out on the patio in the 112-degree head to calm his little stomach, about opposition and the paradoxes of the gospel life--loosing yourself to find yourself, receiving all only after giving all, and so on. The three postpartums I've experienced have been very difficult for me, physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, as I'm sure they are for most women. But that's probably part of the paradox. Would I treasure this so much

without this?

Would I love so deeply without giving so dearly?

In her book A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard describes the horror and viciousness of a giant water bug that poisons frogs, fish, and insects with one bite. This bite dissolves the victim’s insides—all but the skin, through which the giant water bug sucks out the victim’s body. Dillard then writes, “That it’s rough out there and chancy is no surprise. Every live thing is a survivor on a kind of extended emergency bivouac. But at the same time we are also created. In the Koran, Allah asks, ‘The heaven and the earth and all in between, thinkest thou I made them in jest?’ It’s a good question. What do we think of the created universe, spanning an unthinkable void with an unthinkable profusion of forms? . . . Pascal uses a nice term to describe the notion of the creator’s, once having called forth the universe, turning his back to it: Deus Absconditus. Is this what we think happened?”

Before Dillard answers her own question, she spends a great deal of time in her book describing her walks along Tinker Creek where she was privileged to see God’s creations and to experience what she calls “beauty, a grace wholly gratuitous.” She then ends her book, saying, “Divinity is not playful. The universe was not made in jest but in solemn incomprehensible earnest. By a power that is unfathomably secret, and holy, and fleet. There is nothing to be done about it, but ignore it, or see.”

Dillard looks at the oppositions in the world—the cruelty and the beauty—and can only make sense of it by concluding that our purpose is to take the time out of the busyness and nothingness of life to really see our surroundings and give thanks for them.

Although I agree with Dillard about the importance of taking time to really see, and although I find her writing beautiful, I’m glad I know that opposition in all things—even in the creation of the giant water bug—has a deeper purpose than she gives it. I’m glad I can find comfort and joy in the togetherness of my family because I have been single and lonely. I’m glad I can feel the peace of watching my baby sleep because I have felt the turmoil and helplessness of watching my baby cry.

Dillard searches all over creation, trying to philosophically think of the answer herself without doing what she should do the entire time: going to the Creator Himself and asking Him the meaning of opposition in life. After 271 pages exploring (among a few other things) the coexistence of both extreme cruelty and breathtaking beauty in nature, Dillard ends without a definitive answer. Despite that, she ends as she should, by praising and thanking God for the oppositions. I’ll quote her because I wish I could express praise and gratitude the way that she does: “I go my way, and my left foot says ‘Glory,’ and my right foot says ‘Amen’: in and out of Shadow Creek, upstream and down, exultant, in a daze, dancing, to the twin silver trumpets of praise.”

I admit that, unlike Dillard, I'm not to the point of glorifying and amen-ing the sleeplessness and pain and mood swings that is postpartum, but I am trying to cherish the moments of these first few weeks while I survive the larger portion of the days (and nights). And I do offer plenty of "Glory"s and "Amen"s when I watch my little baby and his ever-changing expressions as he sleeps.

Stylin'

What happens when Mommy does your hair after your first bath:

What happens when Daddy does your hair after your first bath:

Our newest addition

is finally here! Do you want the story? It begins on a dark and stormy night. You laugh, but it's true. My water broke at 2:15 am in the middle of thunder and lightning and pouring rain. A house on the way to the hospital was hit by lightning and went up in flames and even the hospital was hit. We arrived to "code red" status and fire alarms. But no worries. Labor and delivery was nice and peaceful.

Skipping now to the necessry information and the best part--the pictures. Our new little guy

made his entrance promptly on his due date, July 21, at 12:45pm. He weighed 8 lbs, 8 oz and measured 21 1/2 inches.

Meeting baby brother

Coming home

July Poem of the Month: "The Ninth Month"

Guess what the poem of the month is about this time?! It's a fitting end to my first poem of the month about this pregnancy. I love this poem because as uncomfortable as I am right now, there really is nothing like the experience of "being a duplex," of feeling the "tapping friendly on the wall," and of the "sweet proximity." And I am counting on the fact, as my children grow up and gradually away, that these bonds of love and labor will reach beyond a block, a mile, a hemisphere.

"The Ninth Month"

by Carol Lyn Pearson

Being a duplex,
I have been happy, my dear,
To loan you half the house.
Rent-free and furnished
as best I could.

You have been a good
Tenant, all in all,
Quiet, yet comfortably there.
Tapping friendly on the wall.

But I hear
You have outgrown the place
And are packing up to move.
Well, I will miss
The sweet proximity.
But we will keep in touch.
There are bonds, my dear,
That reach beyond a block,
Or a mile, or a hemisphere,
Born of much love and labor.

I approve the move,
And gladly turn from landlady
To neighbor.

Dear Baby Boy,

We need to have a little chat. Here I am, a week away from your due date. Note my stern face. (You should be on the lookout for that in the future.)

For contrast, here is a picture of me just before your big sister was born at a nice 7 lbs 15 oz. Notice the smile. It's probably because I was not carrying a massive amount of weight around on my front. (You should know that it's not very comfortable.)

Let's just say I'm getting a little concerned. We first started putting in our official requests for you about 2 1/2 years ago. I had hoped the delay in actually getting you was due to a backorder of healthy, reasonably sized, cute, calm, non-colicy, sleeping-through-the-night babies. That's not too much to ask, right? Again, to me, you seem to be growing beyond the "reasonably sized" option, which makes me concerned about the possibility of the others as well. So, you have a week (more or less--hopefully not too much on the "more" side). Please do not grow much bigger.

Thank you,

Your loving mother

You aren't really free until . . .

you can jump on the couch. So says Sweetie in regards to the 4th of July. So, she will celebrate the holiday but please keep in mind that she is not really free.

Despite the sad, oppressed state that Sweetie finds herself in, we did manage to celebrate the 4th of July. I am sad to report that I failed to play Neil Diamond's "Coming to America" for my children. Oh well, there's always next year. And hopefully next year won't find us in the firework-forbidden, sparkler-forbidden, heat-ridden desert for the 4th. Because it's just not very fun to watch fireworks when you yourself feel as though you might catch fire just from sitting outside.

But we did our best this year and it was actually a really good 4th. We ate our share of pancakes at the ward breakfast, we swam, we ate our share of Scooby Snacks (as the pic of Mister below attests), we swam, we ate our share of burgers and steak, we swam. And we made a few festive hats, we tried to make some festive homemade suckers (but our experimental flavoring didn't go over so well, as you can see in the pic below), and we set off a few fireworks that were left over from last year.

1. holidays with family, 2. freedom and opportunities, 3. date night to see Wicked with J