more kids

Sometimes my husband makes jokes about trying one more time for another boy and I just can’t hide my disdain for the idea.

I love our family the exact size it is now. What, with like a total of 4 people? I pretty much forget how many kids I’m actually in charge of. It boggles the mind that my body has been a vessel for getting no less than 5 little souls into this world. I’m honored and also, terrified. While I’ve successfully screwed up more than a few times with more than a few of them, I hope I can manage to steer my kids to a semi-decent path which they then navigate all by their lonesome, cause I can barely handle taking more than 2 steps on my own most days.

There have been a few challenges adjusting to big family life, specifically with Arbor and the new baby. For the most part, she’s taken really well to big-sisterhood. And then there are those moments where Arbor comes directly into a room and bops Lucy on the head with a closed fist for no apparent reason.

We’re figuring it out.

Breastfeeding a newborn with a two-year-old watching is fun and interesting. I read all the articles and gleaned all the wisdom, hoping to help Arbor understand and appreciate how a mother can feed a baby with her body. I used proper terminology and discussed the process in a nonchalant manner–this is nature’s way, this is no big deal, this is easy, mommies do this all the time–and now?

“Mommy! Are you feeding Wucy with your breasts? Is those your breasts? Why you got ugly breasts? Are you making milk in your breasts? I got milk in my breasts? I feed Wucy? Is that milk on your shirt you make with your breasts? Mommy! Come quick! Put your breasts in the baby’s mouth! Wucy needs to eat your breasts!”

Arbor has breasts on the brain and no conversation is safe from (LOUD) boob-talk. I probably can’t take her out in public for a while.

Not that I want to go out in public–I love being at at home cuddled up with my family, but the thought of taking my weepy, sweat-pouring, breast-milk-leaking self more than five minutes away from the quiet comfort of my couch works me smooth into a downward spiral of post-partum anxiety. The past three weeks have finally caught up and I just now realized that–holy crap–I gave birth recently. Also–holy crap–the last five years happened and is this my life?

Because I am one sleep-deprived but very lucky girl.


The new girl

It’s been a week.

We have baby Lucy in our arms.

Cheyenne is here, cooking up a storm and all hope is lost, as far as me losing any pregnancy weight goes.

Mia and Merrick and Arbor are in love with their new little sister.

Caleb and I are exhausted but probably no more than usual.

We’re gearing up for a visit from Florida fam; it’s exciting to think that in just 3 days, we will all be gathered around Lucy, watching her sleep and breathe.

Lucy got here after the world’s longest pregnancy. I’d never been so painfully uncomfortable so a two-week early induction date was welcome, if not begged for.

(Insert accurate comments about being ready to pop HERE.)

Lucy took her time making her grand entrance, which was totally cool since I was all doped up on those good, good meds in a quiet hospital room with free wifi and HGTV. I did have to make it through a few hours of questionably tolerable contractions before I was given the option of an epidural but I figured “last baby, last time to remember how much of a pansy I really am”.


After 3 weeks of solid pre-labor symptoms, 8 hours of pitocin-induced hardcore but pain free actual labor, 1 minute and two pushes, I finally got my Lucy.

And I love her, I love her, I love her.

I’ve only wanted a Lucy since I was 12; Valor–“bravery, courage, spirit; especially in the face of danger“–was a shoe-in for her middle name, because being a “brave light” is everything we want for her.

Let your light so shine so that others will see and glorify God.

Matthew 5:16

God has blessed us with a healthy little girl. I’m overwhelmed by the love and support we’ve received from our friends and family. I’m also still in a bit of a sleep-deprived brain fog and getting ready to eat the world’s most delicious brunch, cooked by my sweet oldest daughter:

Life is insane.

And really, really good.

Day 4,081

Week 34: I am without an ounce of energy. I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t walk, and can’t think. Not even really sure how I’m moving my fingers to type or how my brain is coming up with words right now.

All I do is burp. Sometimes I weep softly, like when I’m lying on the couch helplessly burping.

It boggles the mind to think that I waitressed at a busy cafe when I was this pregnant with Mia, or that I walked three miles in the soupy heat of a Florida August one week before I gave birth to her. Pregnancy is definitely meant for the young…

…And for the stupid–I cannot tell you how many things I worry about that never crossed my mind ten years ago. What if my platelets are too low I can’t have an epidural and subsequently die from pain overload? What if I went into labor at home by myself? What if I have to have a c-section and then I throw up, what happens to the stitches? What if my baby is a dwarf? What if my baby is too gigantic? What if she is a gigantic dwarf? Do we need a special car seat? What if we can’t settle on a middle name?

Also, you guys? It’s May and I miss the beach. I put on “Soul Surfer” one morning while I was miserable just so the waves in TV could calm me and then a shark came and gobbled an arm and now Arbor won’t stop flipping out and I’ll probably never be able to get her to the beach again.



Baby’s room is coming together, and by that I mean it is completely cleared out and empty and ready for us to put on the final touches, and all the other touches that come before the final touches. I have discovered online shopping–which is magnificent for burpy couch-ridden humongously-pregnant old ladies–and baby stuff is arriving daily. Things are coming together; my only concern is getting through the next 4 weeks with all my mental facilities in tact.

I’ve never been so scattered or emotional. (Which is saying so much, for real.)

Everyone in the family is awesome. My friends are awesome. Caleb is awesome. The dogs are awesome. We have a hedgehog now and it is awesome as well.

And although I am physically down for the count, life is good. More than good.

Caleb’s mom moved up to Oklahoma last year and has been such a tremendous help and encouragement to us. The past several months have overall been wonderful–it’s nice having after-church family get-togethers; someone to meet in town for lunch; an actual mother-in-law to talk to and laugh with and sit next to in church. The kids love having a local grandma who comes to their games and school plays and science fairs. They think it’s just so cool to stop by Grandma’s little house when we go in town and eat their weight in Dum-dums. She dotes on them–absolutely dotes–and it’s a beautiful thing.

Even more beautiful is the opportunity my husband has been re-given to do what sons do for their mothers. I’ve watched him go from bitter to forgiving; from remorseful and worried to light-hearted, caring, and protective. There has been a strengthening of his faith and a restoration in their relationship; I’m so extremely proud of the changes he’s gone through as a person to get to this point. It’s so good for my heart to know that I have married a man who unselfishly forgives–and asks forgiveness–and who loves and takes care of his family.

I thank God for making possible moments like this.

Joy sometimes

If you know me at all, you know I joke around…entirely too much. I love to make people laugh even more than I love laughing myself, which is a lot.

Humor has also always helped me process and deal with difficulties and hardships, so when I joke about the tough stuff I often run the risk of offending at least one person I love and respect. Sometimes that person speaks to me directly and we reconcile our differences and go on being friends laughing over coffee; but sometimes I hear it through the grapevine that I’m on someone’s “list”. This is sad to me because 1) I assume my friends and I are all adults and we can speak freely to each other and work things out. 2) The amount of which I love to laugh is equal to the amount of which I hate hurting my friends’ feelings–I am more than willing to apologize and ask forgiveness when I have hurt someone. 3) Assuming that everything is fine because no one has directly told me otherwise, I am now onto something totally different and cracking up over the next joke and they’re totally missing it and I have no idea why, which sucks. For them.

And also: I have zero patience for grudges. No patience. None. I don’t even have enough patience to hold legit grudges of my own.

Because I’m too busy coming up with over-exaggerated and hilarious descriptions of real-life observations/brainstorming ways to protect my home from impending alien invasion/cleaning up crap from my 1,009 children/wife-ing my 84% more attractive husband/ snorting fat rails of pure white granulated sugar off the kitchen counter in the afternoon in front of the kids and trying not to have the diabeetus/chasing broody hens out of the woodshed/etc etc etc.

So for the record: Diabetes isn’t a simple diet-curable illness and I’m sorry to perpetuate misconceptions about the disease by laughing uncontrollably at Unicorn frappe jokes. I have never snorted sugar nor have I ever planned a Skittles-n-poptarts party, for crying out loud. If anyone asks for my advice, I shall give it to them prayerfully and whole-heartedly to the best of my ability based on my personal experiences and my understanding of God’s hope for us all. Extreme liberals and extreme conservatives drive me dang near crazy equally, just so we all know. I don’t hate 9-year-olds with iPhones, or their parents. I don’t actually think anyone is stupid, and if you didn’t already know that, you’re stupid. I love our church’s Wednesday night kids’ program. I fully support a parent’s right to homeschool their children. Your dog is cute but I will murder it if it bites me while I’m out walking. I do love all my kids and I am blessed to be able to get pregnant just by breathing. Jesus is undeniably, inarguably Lord of Heaven and Earth.

LIFE IS FUNNY Y’ALL. It is. Especially the tricky parts. I try not to take myself too seriously but it happens. Ain’t nobody got time for anger and bitterness and grudges. Talk things out. Reconcile with your brothers. Find ways to connect with other people. Be joyful in all things; it has been gifted to us. Share that joy.

A mother’s watch

Can we just? For a second?

Parents of middle schoolers and high schoolers please hear me in this: 80% of you are killing me. With the iPhones for 10 year olds, and the phones in the bedroom and the unrestricted access to the internet. And the Instagram and the snapchat. (Shudder: especially the snapchat.)  YOU ARE KILLING ME. I am dying.

I thought we were on the same team here.

My daughter is twelve–12–TWELVE. Know what I was doing when I was 12? Playing with Barbies and drawing pictures of horses, and eating dinner with my parents and sisters almost every night, making lemonade with real live lemons, and learning to sew scrunchies with my mom, and playing catch in the street with my actual dad not a paid private coach, and reading books and traveling and sightseeing and being forced to listen to Kenny G and Nat King Cole every time we drove anywhere.

It was a idyllic childhood for sure, but here’s what all of my friends, including those less privileged than me, were NOT doing:

  • Face-timing boys in our room until midnight.
  • Taking fifty duck-lips selfies per day and posting them on the internet for literally everyone to see.
  • Feeling increasingly depressed as the day goes on because the number of “likes” we got on any given picture of ourselves is not equal to or greater than the number of likes we got on a similar selfie the day before.
  • Being asked by a seemingly nice boy to send a picture through text.
  • No, a better picture than the ones on Instagram.
  • No, a better picture.
  • A better one.
  • So that he can show it to a friend.
  • Or getting dumped by a seemingly nice boy because you’re not available to snapchat on an almost constant basis–while other girls most certainly are.
  • Sending or receiving pictures through social media accounts that your mother would kill you over.
  • Worrying that you wouldn’t be cool or accepted because you didn’t participate in such a manner of online activity.

Hey I could go on–I really could–but we all get the idea. My kids are not perfect, by far: but this internet stuff is friggin’ out of control and scary.

(For time’s sakes let’s not even zero in on all the sickos out there that can super easily get their demonic eyes on pretty much any photo of our child that is sent into the digital universe.)

Prostitution: bad. Sex slavery: bad. Human trafficking: bad. Child pornography: so bad. And if we are genuinely angered by rape culture and violence towards women, and people who prey on children, or women who sell sex and men who buy it–we have to take it upon ourselves to change society, starting with our very own precious children and the way we passively allow them to adopt such casual views towards sex.

We have to actively teach them that a person’s worth has nothing to do with a heavily edited sexually suggestive disappearing photo sent through an Instagram direct message. (Did you guys know that’s a real thing now? Yeah. I just figured it out.)

If you live in my town and our kids hang out regularly, I almost guarantee you are the type of parent who wants their daughter to at least develop a healthy concept of self-worth. You want her to take care of her body and her soul, and you want her to make safe and strong decisions one day regarding sex. She cannot do that without your guidance and protection, as a 12-year-old faced with the kind of pressure these kids are faced with these days. I can’t even imagine it.

It is up to us to guard their hearts and minds. It’s up to us to make and enforce rules especially when it comes to parts of culture that have such a potential for spiritual damage. It’s up to us to say “We don’t do that and this is why.”

Let’s promise each other that, from now on, we will monitor and limit our children’s access to the internet. Let’s make rules about their social media accounts. Let’s talk to them about sex and sexual predators and most importantly, let’s teach them to respect themselves and others–let your words and actions set good examples.

Set boundaries because your seventh-grade girl? May not know exactly how to say “No, it’s not okay to ask me for a ‘better’ picture, or any picture at all, and it’s not ok to be mean to me when I say no.” Check your son’s phone. Place restrictions on their browsing and googling capabilities. And keep watch even as they get older.

I don’t want my son getting addicted to pornography any more than I want my daughter to have to compete with it. I don’t want their hearts and minds damaged by it. I don’t want to unintentionally set my kids up for a lifetime of sexual temptation and spiritual struggle. I don’t want their future spouses and children to suffer because of what I neglected to teach them about and protect them from.

Will they face these temptations one day? Will they have tough decisions to make after they leave my home? You bet. But I will not allow them to swan dive into this raging fire while they are still tender and still learning and still growing.

I vow to be a better preparer. I vow to do my job as a parent to raise kind, caring people who love God and others.

Pierce the night

I used to hate spring. Used to think, “Ugh, allergies. Ugh, 2 more months of school. Let’s just skip it and move straight into summer.” Maybe it’s because Florida winters were never really cold and bleak enough to make me long for spring warmth.
And then, Oklahoma: where the wind comes sweeping down the plain and murdering my nerves with 20 degree temps hurled at my face at 80 mph for a solid 4 months. I have never hated winter more. Dark, cold, dead–that’s what real winter is like, and it is literally the worst.

Springtime in Oklahoma, though–that first mildly warm day, those first green buds on bare branches, little green shoots of grass breaking through my crunchy brown lawn–is a welcome and celebrated season for me now. Oh how good that sun feels on my face! Thank you God for this warm-ish day, for these little purple weeds adding color to the landscape, for these extra few hours of daylight. 

And how much more easily I can grasp the true joy of Easter–after a dark and cold and dead three days, a light shoots forth; it has got to be the most beautiful light there ever was. Never is there a more welcomed glimmer of sunrise than after a long, scary, pitch-black night.

Jesus is that light. He is miraculous life after a painful and tragic death.

One of my favorite songs is “O Praise The Name (Anastasis)” by Hillsong. Aside from Hillsong lyrics being like cursive in my mouth anyway, this song is pretty much the most bombest Easter song there ever was:

“His body bound and drenched in tears,

They laid Him down in Joseph’s tomb

The entrance sealed by heavy stone

Messiah still, and all alone.

…Then on the third, at break of dawn

The Son of Heaven rose again.

Oh tremble death! Where is your sting?

The Angels roar for Christ the King!” 
Jesus has been God’s plan of rescue and redemption from the beginning. He is God in human form and He is for everyone. The hardest heart. The worst sinner. The most unrepentant unbeliever. He came for the most broken, the hurting, the angry, the vengeful, and the lonely. He came for us, all.

There is no ground too frozen that He can’t break through. No dark corner where His light can’t reach. There’s nothing and no one in this world that is so far gone that He can’t heal and fully restore.

And spring–new life, green buds, purple weeds, warm sunshine–is a physical reminder of this good news: His love for the people He created, and His power over death.

Feeding wolves

For the record: today, forgiveness is hard. Today, forgiveness just isn’t my world; it cannot possibly be required of me today. Today, I wanna bring up old shit because, know what? It’s all the sudden fresh in my head. I feel beaten and abandoned. Today all my scars are itching, and my head is pounding, and I am tired. And all the wrong doers who wrongly did wrong to me need to suffer, if only just a little bit, because dangit–I suffered. I still suffer. I thought suffering would go away by a certain point, but as it turns out, some hurts will never ever completely fade away.

And I don’t want to pray about it. Why should I? That friend needs to pray. That family member needs to pray. That dang spouse needs to pray. Not me. I want to wallow in my anger and sadness and jealousy and of course, sarcasm:

Today it’s not fair, and bitterness is festering in my heart, and not only am I allowing it to fester, I have been feeding it.

Maybe it’s lack of sleep. Maybe it’s pregnancy hormones. Maybe it’s just, idk, Satan tryna drag me and everyone else down.

You guys.

This day of all days is when I need to pray the most. This day is when I have to read my bible, it is when I must continue to forgive.

This is when my friend, my family member, my dang spouse, needs me to show love and mercy instead of hate and discouragement. This is when doing the hard and holy things is not only at its hardest but at its holiest. I’m not capable in my own strength.

This is when I need to remember that I, too, have been forgiven, and I have received grace and mercy. (Grace: getting good things I by no means earned. Mercy: not getting what I did deserve.) Because my relationship with God is based on these things, so must it be with others. And when I boil it down (well, when it is boiled down for me) forgiveness is required of me every day–it’s a pesky non-option if I expect to be forgiven by my Father in heaven. (Mathew 6:14-15)

Today is when I must put aside my wrath, and bitterness, and strong urges to throw all the shade. Today I chose compassion and gentleness and love. (Ephesians 4:31-32)

And I breathe.

And I keep trusting the One who is always trustworthy. And I keep going.

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