Just a Mom

This is not going to be a post in vindication of being "just" a wife and mother. There are lots of those out there in this blogosphere. That's not my purpose here, today.

A few weeks ago, I was talking to two kind and godly older women, who were talking about how terrible it is that women feel they have to do something outside the home to be valued, and how wonderful it is when they can be just a wife and mother.

I almost kept my mouth shut. I knew that they meant no harm, that they were trying to express their ideas of the importance of home and family, things that I think are very important, too.

In the end, though, I had to speak up.

"I can't say much about being 'just' a wife and mother," I said awkwardly, apologetically. "After all, I'm still a writer, and many days, if I have to choose between cleaning my house and writing, I choose writing."

From that, without ever saying it outright, one of the women in particular left me with the impression that to do anything that was not directly related to taking care of my husband, children, or serving the local church, was a waste of time and quite possibly sinful. Because I respect this woman, because I know she did not mean to be hurtful, and because she is over eighty years old, I did not challenge her on the matter. Besides, I know that I am overly sensitive in this matter. I feel guilty enough as it is when I let the housework go in order to indulge my own loves. Unfortunately, the conversation left such a bad taste in my mouth that it rankled for days afterward. Several times I caught myself defending my writing to myself, in my own mind, feeling like I had to justify my choice.

And that bothers me. Rather a lot, in fact, the more I think about it. I don't think I should have to defend, to myself or anyone else, doing something that I love that is not directly aimed toward my husband, children, or house. Does leaving the dishes for a day in order to write really make me a bad mom or wife? Is maintaining my house and always taking care of my family all that there is to me?

You never hear men say "I just want to be a husband and a father." You don't hear women say "I'm just a daughter and a sister." Somewhere along the line in our culture's fight against the uber-feminist notion that a woman has to work outside the home to have value (which in itself was a fight against the idea that women had no value at all and were only fit to stay at home), we've created this immense separation between two things. One can either be a working woman, or a stay-at-home mom, and whichever of those one does has to be ones life. No blending.

Apparently, if one is going to stay at home with ones children, that's all there is. Raising the children. Supporting the husband. Making the meals. Washing the laundry. Cleaning the house. Washing dishes. Etc, etc. And (so we are told), those things give us value. Those are the most important things we can be doing with our lives. We need not feel envy of those Other Women who have careers, because what we are doing is so Very, Very Good.

And it is. It is very good. But it's not all there is. And I am trying not to feel guilty anymore when I have to confess to people that I don't want that to be my entire life. That sometimes I let my kids play by themselves so I can write. That sometimes I hold them on my lap while I'm writing, so we can still be together but I can be getting something done. That sometimes (often) I let the housework go. That occasionally Carl and I both wander through the house in a daze, barely acknowledging each other, because I'm plotting a story and he's figuring out something theological.

We're a happy family, for the most part (aside from things like teething issues, potty-training, traveling stress, etc). But I so often feel that I need to hide the fact that I am both a stay-at-home mom and a writer, especially since I don't have anything published yet and many people would consider it frivolous. I feel that "they" (that amorphous "they") will judge me for not spending every waking moment in service to my family. I read blog posts and articles singing paeans of praise to the stay-at-home mom, encouraging her that she doesn't need to have anything else in her life to have worth, that she is complete just as she is.

Sure. Maybe for some. I'm not knocking that choice. But for me, I need more. I cannot identify myself solely on my family. I am not just a wife, not just a mother, not just a daughter and sister. I am all of these things, and I am more. I am a writer. A reader. An amateur historian. A student of human nature. A quilter. All these things and more make up Louise. Try to take any of them away, and I am less than myself.

Ultimately, I am a child of God. That is where my true identity lies. Any other attempt to define myself solely by my relationships borders on idolatry. As Carl mentioned to me when we were talking about this, children grow up and move away; spouses may pass away; etc. When they are gone, what then? Am I no longer a person? No, I am always complete, because who I am rests in Christ alone, the unchanging one.

So no, I am not just a stay-at-home mom. I am many, many things, a stay-at-home mom being one of them, and I rejoice in them all.

What about you? What defines you, helps to make you complete? Are you able to find your joy only in your family, or do you have other interests that help complete you? What are some ways in which people have purposely or inadvertently made you feel guilty about your loves and interests? As always, I would delight to hear your thoughts, even (or especially) if you disagree.

The Measure of Love

This weekend, I was chatting with someone, and casually mentioned that Carl and I have and are considering adoption, possibly, sometime down the road. She immediately started giving advice - adopt young, no older than six months, and adopt internationally. I explained that while I used to want an international adoption, of late I have become convicted that domestic adoption is the way to go.*

She was rather emphatic (surprisingly so, for a woman who has never adopted) about not adopting domestically. Her reasons? Because children in the US foster system have major abandonment issues, even the babies, are co-dependent and attached, and are more likely to have problems than international babies.

I didn't say anything, but inside I was positively dancing with rage. First, that is one of the most ignorant statements I've ever heard. International adoptees, from everything I have studied, have just as many attachment issues and problems as domestic, and they have the added difficulty of trying to assimilate to a new culture.

Second, and far more importantly, so what? Do we adopt because it's easy, or do we adopt to give a hurting child love and a home? Adoption is not, should not be, about what's going to be the easiest for the parent. It is about the child. Always, it is about the child. The more wounded a child is, the more love we ought to show him or her.

There are a host of dangers in domestic adoption. Of course there are. I'm not a naive fool (not completely, anyway). But to me, adoption should be an act of selfless love, not about what's going to be easiest for me. I'm not interested in adoption to look impressive, or to gain brownie points. I'm interested because ever since I was a little kid, it has always broken my heart to see children in pain, and this is one way I might be able to make a difference.

There are, according to one website, 123,000 children in foster care in the US today. Do the fact that those children have suffered horribly, have been treated terribly by our system, make them less worthy of our love than those from other countries? Again, shouldn't we be more concerned about the fact that these are children, the members of society who should be the most protected, the most loved, because they are the most helpless, and do what we can to alleviate their suffering?


I am not a saint in this matter. If I was, I would be considering becoming a foster parent, to take in children and give them love and a home knowing that they will not be staying with me permanently. That is the truest sort of sacrificial love, and I am not there. I still want to know that a child is going to be in my family forever if I take them in. But I will not be scared away from adopting a child just because he or she "might" have some issues. The children that are born to me "might" have issues. That didn't stop me from getting pregnant.


So, thanks for the advice, but I think I'll pass. I know it was sincere, well-meant, and only said out of concern for us, but it was, quite likely, some of the most offensive advice I've ever received. In fact, after that, I'd go out and adopt half a dozen kids in this country tomorrow, if only I could. Someday, Lord willing. Someday.


*I am not opposed to international adoption on principle (well, aside from the atrocious laws, or lack thereof, in international adoption). I know many, many parents who have brought children home from other countries and given them a wonderful home. I just know that for me, I had more of a romantic, idealized, glamorous idea of international adoption. I love other countries, other cultures, and what better way to express that love than by international adoption? Slowly, though, the Lord impressed upon my heart the importance of taking care of our own before stretching out to other countries. Adoption, again, is not about me, not about indulging my fascination with different lands. It's about loving a hurting child. And there are plenty of those right here in our own nation. So, for me, domestic is the path God is leading me down. What path he might have for you, I would never presume to judge.

Tuesday Tidbits

To my surprise, Carl and I only got one anniversary card this year. I'm not complaining, certainly, because all we ever do with cards is display them on the mantle for a few days (or weeks if I'm feeling lazy) and then toss them. Still, we usually get several in the mail, from family at least, so now I'm wondering if once you pass that five-year mark people don't send cards?

These are the questions that occupy my mind, and (one of) the reason(s) my husband thinks I am strange.

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Yesterday I sent a query letter re. "Frozen Dreams" (I have obviously been writing too much Narnia fic lately - my fingers automatically put an "s" in Frozen instead of a "z," which means I have been doing British spelling more than US recently) to a new agent. I also emailed a cover letter and first ten pages of "The Magic Garden" to Carl to print out at work (our home printer has decided it doesn't like us and doesn't want to play anymore), so I can mail that off to the next publisher on my list. I feel pretty good about getting to that! Once I get word back from my beta readers on my most recently finished MS (tentatively titled "The Eldest Sister") I'll do the final edit and start looking into agents/publishers for that one. This is the part of writing I don't like, but there are bits in every job that are unpleasant, and one cannot expect everything to be simple and fun.

That's my philosophy, anyway.

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Once I am finished with the quilt I'm currently putting together, I am going to take a break from doing projects, and actually organize (organise) them. I'm going to get a bunch of plastic totes and sort out all my sewing, knitting and scrapbooking supplies, putting them in totes according to whether they are unfinished projects, free fabric (or yarn) (or paper), and any projects that I don't think I'm likely to ever finish are either going to be given away or thrown out. My closet is stuffed full of disorganized bags and boxes of crafting supplies, and if there's one thing I have learned from four moves in six years, it is that disorganization is bad. When we leave here in (hopefully) three years, I don't want to have to mess with it all then. My goal right now is to organize it, and then finish all my current projects before we leave, and before starting any new ones.

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Remember, a while back, how I wrote that we've been calling the girls "Doodles and Noodles"? Well, Joy now calls half of her toys "Oodles" (or sometimes "Poodles") when talking to them: "Let's go, Oodles. Oodles ... listen. Come here right now!"

She cracks me up.

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Gracie took her first unassisted steps on Saturday, and in true Gracie form, didn't just take one or two, but calmly walked about half a dozen paces across the living room before losing her balance. She hasn't gone it alone again since, but she now thoroughly loves holding our hands to walk. Baby's growing up!

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And Joy has been bringing me stories for the last twenty minutes, so rather than keep interrupting this to read to her, I'll just end it now. No offense to you all, but reading to my kid is even more fun than blogging random bits of my life!

Six Years Ago ...

(The best man, home on leave, rented this awesome convertible for our ride from the ceremony to the reception. And then he even let Lis wear his hat. You rock, Ethan.)

(Carl and his thugs .... I mean groomsmen! But still, I wouldn't mess with any of them.)

(I wouldn't really want to mess with any of these ladies, either, for all they LOOK so innocent and sweet.)

(I call this picture: A Contrast in Heights.)

(We came a long way from our LEGO-playing days, didn't we, Ethan?)

(Cue the "Sisters" song from White Christmas ... "Lord, help the mister who comes between me and my sister; And Lord, help the sister who comes between me and my man!")

(I get all teary every time I see this picture. My Pop.)

(The beautiful, beautiful dress my mother made for me! Many hours of watching Pride & Prejudice and Emma while doing all that intricate beading.)

Happy Six-Year Anniversary, my love!

Friday Finish

Yeesh. Almost an entire week without posting.

However, in this week I have cleaned my entire house from top to bottom (the in-laws are coming in tomorrow). I have also managed (just barely) to refrain from tearing out my hair over potty-training. Joy's bedroom has been thoroughly mopped, due to her utter refusal to wear diapers during naps, and her refusal also to come out and use the potty. At least she's going on the floor, not in bed.

And more importantly (to me, anyway), I finished the MS. After the first, basic, edit (which was completed late last night), it stands at 61,000 words. I've sent a copy off to Dad and to Carl (my two best critics—well, Dad is more the "I loved it, you're a great writer" type of critic, which isn't always useful, but it is grand for boosting my confidence in the book), and am also looking for beta readers who might be interested in perusing it, letting me know of any style or grammar issues, and also telling me how it works as a story. Anyone interested?

As always, I was left after finishing it with a mingled sense of joy, relief, satisfaction, and disappointment. Typing that final line, sitting there and realizing it was done ... and then going through and editing it, and realizing I was done again, at least until I get some feedback from others ... well, it is a very odd feeling. Especially when before you really have a chance to take it all in, you immediately have to go make lunch for the children, or clean up a potty accident, or think about what to make for supper, or wash the dishes, etc. It's an odd juxtaposition, this balance between writer and wife/mother/housekeeper.

I learned something very important, also, through this writing process. I found that, when the research is all completed and I can just write, I usually manage to get about 3,000 words written in a day. I don't write every day, and obviously less gets written during the beginning stages, with all the looking up and figuring out and plotting and outlining ... but even calculating those in, if I really manage to buckle down to it, I should be able to complete a 60,000 word MS in about six months. That's a rate of two books a year, or one a year if I'm doing a longer work. This doesn't affect me much now, but when the girls are older and I really have time to focus more on my writing, it's encouraging to think that I'll actually be able to have some prolificacy.

My next project (non-fanfic project, that is) is going to be another children's story. I found writing "The Magic Garden" both challenging and fun, and this past winter Dad mentioned something that sparked a plot idea, and it's been simmering ever since. After that, I'll probably break down and write the sequel to my romance novel. After that ... who knows? I do have a couple possible ideas for a sequel to the MS I just finished ... maybe after two more works it'll be ready to write.

And maybe, just maybe, eventually I'll get better about submitting these things (that's next on my agenda, after the in-laws' visit is over), and at some point, maybe someone will start accepting them.

So that's been my week. Cleaning, potty-training, and writing. What has happened to you this week?

Monday Miscellany

First: thank you, everyone who commented on my last post, for your kind words and thoughts. I do want to clarify: I'm in a good place right now. Not so much has changed about my physical situation, but I am finally learning what (I think) God has been trying to teach me through this. Consequently, I am calmer, more joyful, and more steadfast in my faith. So, these trials (surprise, surprise) have really been a blessing. Funny how that works, eh? ...

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Of course, at this very moment, I'm in a nervous place. Joy has been going through a growth spurt lately, both physical and mental. This has resulted in a lot of good things: she's eating better than she has in over a year; she's starting saying things like "Thank you, Mamma" spontaneously (and appropriately, as opposed to before when she would just drop "thank you's" at random times throughout the day); she's getting taller and stronger; she's understanding and communicating more; etc, etc. 

However, as always seems to happen with her, progression in some areas means temporary regression in others. In this case, potty training (well, and few occasions where she just randomly does something she's never been allowed to do (like climb up the wine cabinet - um, no?) and then looks shocked when we discipline her). She had to be in diapers for most of our travels, and I think that contributed to the reversal in training. Before all of our summer adventures, she was almost entirely trained; we were just waiting for her to figure out sleep and [WARNING POSSIBLE TMI] poop. Now, she's started only wanting to go in her diaper (or underwear), and this morning she trotted downstairs sans diaper, and when I went up to her room to check, she had a perfectly dry diaper on the floor, and soaked sheets.

So she is not wearing anything on her bottom right now, and we've gone back to the first days of potty-training, where I'm watching her like a hawk and making her sit on the potty for an hour if necessary. It's a little stressful (especially with Gracie crawling around trying to climb into the potty and wreaking other havoc), but I'm kind of hopeful that once we get over this stretch maybe she will also have figured out the concept of staying dry during naps and bedtime and [WARNING POSSIBLE TMI] how to go poop in the potty, too.

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Did anyone else watch the World Cup final yesterday? I was cheering for the Netherlands, mostly because part of my family heritage is Dutch, and also partly because many people were predicting Spain was going to win and I like to go against the predictions. Yes, well-justified reasons, I know.

However, round about the time the Netherlands was getting its five hundredth yellow card, I found my allegiance slipping. Spain's footwork, also, was breathtaking. And Xavi was just incredible. So I think overall Spain just played a better game. Sorry, ancestors.

(See that, Lis? I didn't give away the outcome, just in case you and David haven't watched it yet!)

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I am waiting not-so-patiently for Gracie to start talking. She makes a lot of sounds, but so far she hasn't put any of them together to make words, not even Mamma or Papa. I know that's not uncommon in second children, and certainly she has developed much quicker than Joy did when it comes to things like walking, but I still just can't wait until I have two chatter-boxes around. Some parents dread that day, but me, I love having conversationalists around.

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As my final bit of miscellany this morning, I am extremely happy to report that I hit 55,000 words in my YA fantasy. Considering my goal is 60,000 words, I should be able (even with the massive amounts of cleaning I have to do to prepare for Carl's Georgia family visiting next weekend) to complete the first draft this week. Hurrah!

&

I lied - one more thing. Joy just found one of my cami tops and asked to wear it. With the judicious use of a few safety pins, it actually makes a pretty darn cute dress on her. Is my daughter destined to become a fashion designer? 

(I'll try to put some pictures up tomorrow, if she ever slows down enough for me to take some.)

Happy Monday, everyone!

Fixing My Eyes On The Prize

Yesterday as I was folding the mountain of clean laundry that was threatening to take over my entire house, I listened to a Jerry Bridges sermon online (thanks, Gospel Coalition! {link in my sidebar}) on Hebrews 12:1-2, some of my favorite verses in all Scripture.


The first part, to be perfectly honest, really didn't resonate with me. I almost turned it off, because he seemed to be indulging in too many cliches and ignoring the big picture. But I decided to keep listening, give it a chance. Jerry Bridges is, after all, one of my favorite authors and speakers.


Then he got to the part about the "sin that so easily entangles." He brought out something I had never thought of before: while that sin could be any and all sins, the author is most likely talking about the same sin he has been discussing throughout the letter - the sin of unbelief.


Always before in my life, I've been able to dismiss that sin (for me). Of course I believe. I've been a Christian since I was about three years old, and I've never doubted God. I never had that "Jonah moment" I've heard people mention most long-time Christians go through, where they temporarily turn their backs on God (though to be perfectly honest, I really dislike that generalization - I know MANY Christians who have never had a Jonah moment).


Well, I've still not had a Jonah moment. But in the last couple of years, I realized as I listened, I have fallen into the sin of unbelief. Not of doubting God's existence, certainly. I could as easily doubt the sun's existence as the Lord's. And I have known, logically, of his goodness and his love, his perfect wisdom.


But oh, this has been such a dry period for me. And somehow, in my heart, I've started to doubt. I've caved to my emotions, started to let myself believe that God didn't care about me anymore, that he wasn't listening. When my prayers were met with blank silence, or worse - the opposite of what I'd been praying for - I stopped praying, convinced I was only setting myself up for disappointment.


"Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing." -James 1:1-2


"More than that, we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us." - Romans 5:3-5


Did you catch that? God has not been letting me endure this desert spell just to torment me, or because he doesn't care. It is, according to James (writing under the influence of the Holy Spirit), to make me perfect. And the silence I've been meeting in my prayers was not to make me lose hope; it was to build it. And, as Paul so eloquently puts it, hope will not put me to shame. It will not fail me. God has not, will never stop loving me. His love is "poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit." Poured. Not trickled, not filled once and then no more, once that's used you're done, all gone love. Poured. You know what that makes me think of? That passage in 1 Kings, where Elijah comes to stay with the widow during the famine, and as long as the famine endures, she has enough oil and flour to make bread for them to eat. She keeps pouring it out, and it never runs dry. (1 Kings 17)


This has been a season of drought and famine for me, spiritually speaking. Yet God's love is still there, pouring into my heart, through the Holy Spirit. Do I know why he has let me endure these trials? Well, not the specifics, but yes, I do. As James says, it is to make me perfect. Through suffering comes the strengthening of faith, which makes me more steadfast, which will make me more complete. More like Christ.


And it's not as if I am alone. We have no church, I have very few friends, nobody that I ever see? Christ left perfect communion with the Father to come to a cold, unloving world, where people only wanted what they could get from him, not he himself. I am mothering two small children who threaten to destroy my sanity at times? Christ wept for the rebellious heart of his children, mourning over their waywardness. I never have a chance to breathe, to do anything for myself? Every time Christ tried to escape the crowds for a moment alone, they followed him, clamoring for his attention. People's expectations are unreasonable and seem overwhelming? The people expected Christ to destroy the Romans and physically restore Israel to her former glory. And when he didn't, they murdered him.


Every single thing I have ever endured in my life, Christ has endured first, and far more. He knows how we suffer. He has been there. And he overcame it. And since we are in him, we can - we already have - overcome it as well.


My faith has been tested, and I have failed. I have faltered. I have let the sin of unbelief tangle me up, keep me from running the race as I ought. But thanks to a well-timed sermon, and the Holy Spirit moving in my heart, nudging me back on the track, I am casting it aside.


My eyes are back fixed where they ought to be.


On Christ.

Sisters, not the same person

Ever since the girls were born, we've been hearing comments on how much they look alike. And for a little while, they really did. As they grow older, though—especially as Gracie gets older—their similarities have grown less and less, at least to my eyes. They still look like sisters (certainly more than MY sister and I do), but Gracie is not an exact replica of Joy.

Proof?

Joy at somewhere between 13 and 14 months (I was too lazy this morning to look up the exact date)

Grace at 13 1/2 months.

Two different kids. Two very different personalities. Both fill me with delight, in her own unique way.

But not twins. Not replicas of each other.

So, people we know and strangers we see on the street? Stop telling me that they are so much alike. It's really starting to irritate me.

Thank you.

Beautiful Girl

We are back from my in-laws. We apparently had a hot-water leak in the basement while we were gone (we left on Friday), so we basically walked into a sauna when we got home. Oh, and did I mention that the entire East Coast has been hit by a heat wave this week? At 93 degrees, it was cooler outside than in when we got back.

Yeah. Fun times.

So instead of a post of ranting, or one that has any sort of clever words (because my head is pounding like mad), I will leave you with picture of Joy in her flower girl dress, at my mother-in-law's. I think they speak for themselves.

Summer Travel (and travail)

Lis and David dropped the girls and me off here at home a couple hours ago, and then turned around and went back home. Carl is on his way home from PA and should be here in time for supper. I unpacked (translate: threw almost everything in the laundry); fed the girls lunch; put them down for their naps; ate my own lunch; and am now just waiting on one load of laundry to finish so I can put the next in. Why? Because tomorrow afternoon we are picking up and heading to Carl's family for the long weekend.

Can someone just wake me up on Tuesday?

While we were home, Joy got her hair cut:

(you can't see here, but it's stacked in the back.)

And I got mine cut as well:

(I was making a face at Gracie.)

We got out a stepladder so Carl's could reach the black raspberries that were way up high:

(I love the look of concentration on his face.)

And then we ate said berries:

There were some not-so fun things, too - my parents' next-door neighbor for the last nineteen years, the man from whom they bought their house, passed away yesterday morning. He'd been in the hospital from a stroke, and it was expected (he was ninety-five or ninety-six, I don't remember which), but nonetheless rough.

The girls weren't always perfect angels, and I wasn't always the perfect mother, and Mom, Lis and I spent ages cleaning Lis and David's part of the house so that my grandmother could sleep over there without asphyxiating from all the cat hair (I scrubbed my sister's toilet and shower on my hands and knees!), and the weather, as it has for the last YEAR every time we visit home, sucked ...

But it was good.

And I'm tired. 

After we're back from Carl's folks', we have to clean our house from top to bottom (and ORGANIZE, not just clean) in preparation for a visit from some of his other family, and then we will be getting together with some old college friends later in the month, and then in August we're vacationing on the St. Lawrence river with my family. And then we rest. Hopefully.

Summertime is crazy. But I suppose it makes us appreciate the relative peacefulness of winter?

In the meantime, any suggestions on a simple meal to make for supper tonight?