T-H-R-E-E spells three!

To kick off his third year, Henry's Grandma and Grandpa threw him a GRAND barnyard bash complete with a petting zoo and pony to ride.  Grandma even hired a gal from her church to take photos and they turned out so well!  I wish I could just include all 200, but I quickly chose some good ones to tell the story of the day:

Are you ready, Henryboy?!

Barnyard Treats!

Decorate-your-own-cupcakes

Uncle Baker grilled burgers

The fort was put up just in time for the party

The partygoers: 

Starting with the youngest: cousin Boone

Cousin Bailey

Little brother Amos Dean

Cousin Audrey

Cousin Wylla

Great  time with family

The Petting Zoo

Aaaaand the crown jewel: the pony ride!

I love you so, Henry Lawrence!

A tribute to my grandmother

A picture of Grandma on my wedding day.  She had just put her sapphire ring on me for "something borrowed and blue"

What a grace-laden gift that Grandma was able to trade in her tired earthly body and be freed of the pain and discomfort she has felt for so long.

I will always think of Grandma as full of joy and adventure.
Whatever living there was to be done, she did it. I have to believe she is the kind of woman, who, on her death bed, would turn around to the life in the shrinking distance and say-- "I did it good. I got the marrow out of the bones."

I also think of Grandma as the ultimate lady. Perhaps it was the lace gloves she wore to the wedding "because Andrew likes them" or the little spritz of perfume she offered me as a grade-school girl that gives me this impression of her. Surely others besides myself saw this charm waft into their own encounters with her.

A few years ago, we were driving through a more rural part of Maryland on the way to David and Lauren's reception and Grandma was talking about the changing leaves in October with such pride and then pointed out a little farm she said she called "my farm" for a  reason unknown to me. I'd like to think that-- today-- she is walking on heaven's version of that farm, hand-in-hand with The Lord under the most magnificent autumn foliage we earth-ridden can imagine.

She leaves 6 wonderful children, 16 grandchildren and 23 great-grandchildren (and counting!) to follow her example of trusting and loving The Lord in every venture.

I am so glad we took Henry to meet her last year and sorry that Amos never got the chance. But a little piece of her is in both of them and I am hoping it is her sense of optimism and good humor.

A big thank you to the cousins and my mom, but especially, to my aunts and uncles, for taking such good care of her these last few years. If I lived closer, I would have loved to have a turn.

My heart hurts today for me, but it soars for her in the relief and peace she has beginning today, October 8, 2014.

Facebook, I just can't quit you

For lent this year, I decided to completely abstain from social media (Facebook and Instagram, for me) Monday through Saturday, and "lift the hold" on Sundays.  My decision to choose social media this year was due in part to my maternity leave-- freeing up my schedule in a way that seemed to leave my phone permanently attached to my palm.  It was starting to disgust me and I knew that a removal from social media six days a week could only help things.  I knew what to expect from my social media detox, having removed myself for a full advent once and also after reading Glennon Melton's brilliant distillation of her 40-day social media removal:

http://momastery.com/blog/2014/01/14/best-momastery-2013-5-reasons-social-media-dangerous/

There is really nothing I can add to her apt summation of what social media does to our minds and behaviors--nor could I even sum up my experience with such eloquence--but I thought I'd share it nonetheless.  The most fascinating thing to me about what constant engagement with social media has done in my life is the strange relationship it creates with time and the present moment. Let me share an anecdote to illustrate what I mean.
In the middle of the posting fast for advent in late November 2012, I was walking under four large oak trees near a building in which I work. The walkway from this building to my office was thickly carpeted with saffron and paprika-colored leaves-- and the ones that remained on the trees seemed to glow, backlit by the autumn light. It was utterly beautiful and instead of breathing the scene in deeply and thanking God for such majesty, or even just being still and quiet in that moment, I was thinking: "I have to have a picture of this! And darn it, I want to post it THIS SECOND so everyone else can see what a beautiful scene this is!"
I immediately stopped and reflected on this reaction. As for the first part of my reaction-- I have come to accept that my love of taking pictures to capture awesome (or even just mediocre) moments is just my way of enjoying my world. My grandfather was an amateur photographer and I inherited his love for beautiful photos, an admission I make without apologies. But the second part of my reaction kind of rattled me. Why must everyone else see that I am enjoying a moment of autumnal grace? So that I can be affirmed that it is, in fact, beautiful and breathtaking when someone "likes" it? Or even better-- comments on it? Why do I need this affirmation? It is beautiful and breathtaking and I'm not sure how I became so reliant on other people's validation of that beauty. Or, more frighteningly, does it go even deeper than momentary validation? Do I need affirmation from others that my life is in fact full of grace and beauty?

In my current 86% absence (off 6 days a week and on Sundays) from social media, I have noticed similarly disturbing results in my fast during advent. And the subjects of these unsettling moments are even more precious than a pile of gilded leaves-- my sons. I just gave birth to my second son and since I am now so acutely aware that the first year in a baby's life is somehow set to "warp speed," I have had my camera out a lot to try and capture the ever-so-fleeting images of this tiny being who by the end of the photo shoot might have outgrown the very onesie I just put him in. Admittedly, the very act of taking too many pictures is in issue in itself-- I recoil at the fact my newborn son tries to gaze at my face with a smile and his line of vision is soon blocked by a glowing rectangle, just so that I can show everyone else how sweet and happy my boy is. Amos doesn't care about these people. Amos can live a full life without ever flipping through a digital book with 500 images of himself as a baby. People have done it for centuries.

Amos needs to see his Mommy's face for an uninterrupted stretch of time. Amos needs his mommy to stroke his little legs and place her forefinger inside his right fists and hum a little song to him.In short, Amos needs his mommy to teach him to be present in the moment. Not to try and sell this moment on Instagram for 36 likes and 4 comments. Amos needs to be taught to be still and grateful, not to constantly seek attention or validation.

The problem is that this addiction runs deep into our brains. I am not a scientist--ok let's make an even more honest concession--I never got higher than a B in high school science classes--so I'll leave the chemical-reaction in our brains part to someone else, but I can tell you in general terms that we humans are hard-wired for connection. It feels good to connect with other people, especially when other people give us positive attention. And so when Janet so-and-so posts a picture of a sunset and a glass of Chardonnay and someone writes on that picture "what a lovely evening you are having-- wish I were there," it feels really good to Janet. She knew already that the sunset was beautiful and that, paired with her favorite adult beverage, it was a recipe for bliss. But now that she has received positive feedback about her post she just got a nice shot of dopamine or whatever (enter scientist, please!) to her brain and is creating patterns to seek that good feeling again when this one wears off.

See, the good feeling that comes from connection isn't anything biologically new-- it's the instantaneous-nature of social media that turns it into an addiction. We learn that we can have that feel-good connection sensation minutes, sometimes seconds, after a post.

And so my absence from social media for 86% of the week has helped cleanse and rework the patterns of my brain a little bit. At the very least, it has helped me separate the moment I am enjoying with my family from the immediate approval of my social world. Yes, I still am taking lots of pictures-- but I know that if I take that picture, it is for me and for my family's purposes-- not for the immediate approval of hundreds of acquaintances.

Of course, the cleanse has not occurred without a bit of weaning.  My poor relatives in California have had to endure some pictures sent to them via text, as this was an allowable part of my lenten fast.  I found the need to share my newborn's milestones with my loved ones impossible to resist entirely. Hey, I'm a recovering social media addict, give me a little break.

All of this is not to culminate in some grand and dramatic gesture in which I delete my Facebook and Instagram accounts and throw my iPhone into the woods.  I still believe that the merits of social media outweigh the drawbacks.  I love staying in touch with my friends in Tucson, San Diego, New York, Los Angeles, etc., and how would I be able to see the sweet pictures of my kids' cousins in the Central Valley, in the Maryland area and in Germany?  But I now truly recognize the addictive nature of these sites and have resolved to keep myself in check.  In fact, it feels so nice and freeing in the "off" days that I think I will continue to spend more time off than on even after the cessation of lent.  Maybe I will allow myself Wednesdays and Sundays on, and the rest of the week off, with posting only on one of those days?  And I know that when I start to see the phone interfere with my face-to-face engagement with my sons that something's gotta go.  And spoiler alert: it's not my sons.

The weekend we met Amos

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Waddling around the neighborhood

The week leading up to Amos's birth was difficult. I had spent the previous week in a nesting frenzy, getting everything organized for the new baby.  That week had gone by quickly.  But my second week of maternity leave was trying.  Of course the discomforts of late pregnancy nagged me: "Ok, I just went to the bathroom twenty minutes ago... how can I possibly have to go again?!" But, truly, it was the rollercoaster of start and stop labor that I found challenging. I would have a series of contractions that would be coming at short intervals and I would start to get excited, only for them to fizzle out, leaving me in disappointment.  So the week continued this way and come Friday, Valentine's Day, I decided to go visit Henry's daycare to get my mind off the false start labor.  Henry was particularly fussy this day and cried for me to take him home with me.  I was glad to have the company of my little boy to kick off his last weekend as an only child. I should have kept him with me that week, in retrospect, but the constant contractions made me constantly on guard for labor. So I took his already packed lunch to the closest park and we had an impromptu picnic.

Valentine's lunch date

 Looking back, the weekend before Amos's birth was really lovely.  There was no way of knowing that those were our last days as a family of three, but we ended up sending off that chapter of our lives with some really sweet memories.  For instance, the next day we went to Lake Ella to let Henry climb the tree and to do some labor-encouraging walking.  We ate dinner at a new little "Mexican" joint called Barbaritos (I put that in quotes because there is no real Mexican food out here) and Henry entertained us with his usual silliness at the table.  Then we went to Small Cakes cupcakery to get a few cupcakes for "Drew's birthday" (I put that one in quotes because Andrew could care less about cupcakes on his birthday-- it was more for Henry and me).

In the climbing tree

 Saturday night, I had another pretty intense series of contractions, but they tapered off and I was able to fall asleep. Sunday morning, Andrew's 33rd birthday, we woke up and went for donuts, which was Andrew's only birthday request.  The contractions were coming steadily at this point, but they weren't painful at all.

 So we decided to take Henry to Tom Brown Park to let him run off the sugar.  Andrew and Henry played on the playground equipment and I sat on a nearby bench and started to time my contractions.  They weren't terribly intense, but they were coming quickly. I remembered my doctor's advice to not delay coming into triage with a second pregnancy, so I told Andrew that maybe we should go home and make arrangements for Henry.  I knew he was skeptical because the whole week had been a series of non-starts.  But we dropped off Henry at my parents' house and decided to get checked out since we would have to report for a fetal stress test the next day anyway.  

*          *          *

The exam revealed that I was 4 cm dilated and that I was in early labor with steady contractions, but they probably admitted me because my blood pressure was elevated (I was definitely excited/nervous).  The strange thing was that I was really not experiencing pain.  It was not the early-active labor that I remembered with Henry.  Drew noticed this and was a little annoyed to be spending his birthday playing what seemed to be the neverending waiting game.  I swapped Andrew out for my mom so that he could get Henry down for a nap (and let's face it-- so he could eat something and be a little less cranky when he returned).  My mom and I were moved to the delivery ward and started walking the halls to try and get labor to progress to the painful part that actually brings the baby. The doctor showed up and asked why I was still smiley.  She knew that was not a good sign for labor progression.  Her exam revealed 5 cm at that point, but still the contractions were not painful, so after weighing all of the options, we elected to have my waters broken at about 2:30pm.  The breaking of the bag of waters revealed meconium, which meant the NICU would have to be present at the birth to suction Amos's lungs in case he swallowed any.

As soon as the bag of waters was out of the way, the contractions were instantly painful--and long-- just what we wanted!  So I had my mom text Lindsey the awesome labor doula to come help me through active labor.  I labored in the tub for probably two hours-- breathing deeply through the painful contractions and continuing to top off the tub with more warm water.  Andrew showed up during this time and "helped" by making jokes about the labor noises I was making. It's a good thing I love him.  It was time for the next dilation check.  The contractions were quite intense at this point and I hoped that I was 8 or 9 cm because I felt like it couldn't really get more intense and that something had to give.  She said I was 7 cm dilated. I could have cried!  The typical "rule of thumb" is that a woman in active labor will dilate about 1 cm per hour-- translation: approximately three more hours at that level of pain and intensity. She said she would return in two hours to check my progress-- I wanted to cry all over again.

So I said a little prayer: "God, I have no idea how I am going to make it another three hours.  Let me just get through the next contraction and then I will worry about the next one after that."  As I was praying this, Lindsey suggested that I turn around and hug the back of the hospital bed, which was raised into the chair-like position.  She convinced me to crouch in a squatting position to let gravity help things along.  As soon as I did this, the contractions immediately changed.  They weren't the same pain of dilation, but the incredible squeezing and pushing sensation that I remembered from the end of Henry's labor.  It's pretty indescribable- I had them get a vomit bag ready because I remembered that the squeezing pressure moves the baby out one end, but it also sometimes moves food out of the other.  But I hadn't even time for much of that because I felt that I was crowning.  "He's coming!!" I yelled between other various "Ahhhhh!!!!" screams.  Andrew said the nurse gave a skeptical look because the doctor had just declared me 7 cm minutes before.  But she looked, and there was Amos's head!  I could hear a little panic in her voice because she did not have any of her equipment set up and, technically, I don't think she is the one who is supposed to catch the baby.  She even told Lindsey she would have to help because there was no one else around.  "Someone buzz another nurse!" Someone did (I have no idea who), but it now tickles me to think back to the nurse buzzing back in a calm voice: "Yes?  How may I help you?" only to be met with my response: "AAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" 

When I pushed Henry out, I remember it to be a much more calm and calculated affair.  I would intentionally push a little, and then the midwife told me to rest, so I would.  This was not the case with Amos.  I couldn't NOT push.  My body was doing things beyond my control.  It was pushing so hard and with such force that the nurse said Amos's body came out in two pushes... mere minutes after the doctor told me I was at 7 cm.  And of course, the doctor missed the whole thing.  I think Andrew cut the cord, but again, I am not sure.  As I labored a little more to deliver the placenta, the NICU rushed Amos over to the newborn bassinet and starting working on suctioning him.  It was hard not having him brought to my chest like I remember with Henry, but they have to make sure the babies are okay, and I understood that.

*          *          *

What mercy God bestowed on me! I called to Him at my breaking point and he brought Amos into this world minutes later.

Amos was almost a duplicate of Henry at birth!  They were both about 20" long and Amos weighed 6 lbs 14 ounces compared to Henry's 6.12.  And upon initial inspection, I could see Henry in Amos's features, but neither me nor Andrew.  

First embrace

 Amos had a low body temperature, so they put a heating blanket over us, which felt so nice and helped with my after-birth pains as well.  I also remember that I had to fight to get some saltines to eat after Henry was born because it was 1 am, but because Amos was born at 5:30 (yes, only three hours after they broke my waters), a nurse came in with a plate of chicken fingers and potato wedges and Lindsey got me a big glass of apple juice with that awesome pellet ice. Baby on my chest-- labor over-- and a big plate of food-- there's a moment for the record books.

A kiss for baby

A kiss for mama

Welcome to the world, baby. Amos means "borne by God" and yes, you are, little one. He will carry you all through your days.