Love and Spit Up: A Short Story

 You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are gray

You’ll never know dear how much I love you

So please don’t take my sunshine away

-You Are My Sunshine

The Lord your God is in your midst,

    a mighty one who will save;

he will rejoice over you with gladness;

    he will quiet you by his love;

he will exult over you with loud singing.

-Zephaniah 3:17

It happened earlier this summer, this little story. 

There we were, waiting ever so patiently in the pharmacy drive-thru, our new family of 4. We wanted to get a few errands done, so we planned our outing around Newborn Son’s naps and feedings, and set out! SO EXCITING TO LEAVE THE HOUSE! Even just to run errands that involve drive-thrus! Postpartum life PLUS Covid….I MEAN. 

All was well. Toddler Daughter was happy. Newborn Son was quiet for the moment. I was merrily entertaining visions of checking off To-Do List Items. 

Then it happened. 

Newborn Son awoke to find himself NOT in the arms of a parental unit. To make his indignation complete, he was most uncozily deposited in a non-personal carseat. And he hadn’t eaten in a WHOLE HOUR. 

Wailing! Gnashing of newborn gums! Sobbing! Gagging on said sobbing!

Ugh, why are there so many cars ahead of us?

After a few minutes of trying to sooth from the front seat, I got out and took him out, carseat and all, into the pharmacy drive-thru lane and onto the sidewalk. I discovered an impressive display of SPIT UP, all over Newborn Son, car seat straps, car seat cover, and who knows where else. My poor little buddy! I rocked his seat back and forth on the pavement while masked strangers whisked past us and we waited to get back in the car and make our great escape back home. 

At home, I got him out of his soaked onesie and after I fed him, he spat up…again. Alllllll over me and my clean shirt. 

So what did we do? I settled him on my chest, wrapped him in a blanket, and soothed him to sleep. After I watched many, many episodes of The Posh Frock Shop, he woke up a couple hours in to smile up at me and then went back to sleep. 

And my heart was undone and my brain exploded. 

I didn’t care about my soaked t-shirt, my skin that would need a wet wipe once I got up from the couch (who has time for a shower?). I didn’t care about the car seat. Or the missed chance to get errands done. 

All I saw when I looked down at my son was the face of love. I couldn’t believe I got to be the one whose face he saw when he woke up, to be the one to comfort him and take care of him. Spit up and all. 

He is lovely. 

Lovely in his spit up. Lovely when we’re both frustrated at how hard breastfeeding is. Lovely when I have to change his diaper and clothes and crib sheets and sleep sacks YET AGAIN. Lovely when he smiles at me. Lovely when he needs me to hold him, lovely when he’s content to sit in his little cushion for a bit. Lovely when he’s sleeping peacefully, lovely when he’s grunting and wanting to eat at 4am. 

And friends, of course, Jesus finds you delightful and lovely. In all your moments. In all your versions of yourself. 

This thought occurred to me when, in the middle of changing him and running around the house trying TO DO ALL THE MAMA THINGS, I caught a brief glimpse of myself in the mirror and was instantly, knee-jerk-annoyed with my post-pregnant body. The baby weight isn’t coming off like I want it to, and that’s just messing with my brain, to be honest. I have this image of what I look like and the mirror is not reflecting that image back to me. 

That mirror is also telling me I’m not 20-something anymore. I see some wrinkles. I see frizzy bun hair, complete with some gray strands. I see very tired eyes. I see a belly that just won’t quit. I see hunched-over shoulders from hours of difficult breastfeeding. I see a body that is in between clothing sizes and making do with pregnancy clothes, because COVID. 

And yet, I am beloved. I am still lovely, because Jesus sees me that way. Scripture tells us He dances over us, exalts over us, sings over us. Not unlike a new and beaming parent, bubbling over with love and joy at the mere existence of a new and tiny person. Newborn Son can’t do a thing yet. He can’t solve any problems. He can’t do anything for himself or others. And yet just because he is here, he is lovely and worthy of everything I do for him. Right now, I don’t feel like any great version of myself. But glory be: His love isn’t based on my constantly fluctuating abilities, limitations, and appearance. 

So let us lift our tired faces to Jesus, the one who offers perfect acceptance, perfect rest, perfect comfort. He is as besotted with us as a delighted and deliriously sleep deprived parent, showing off pictures to anyone who will look. He doesn’t care about your hang-ups, your mistakes, those last 10 lbs, before you come to Him. He only invites you to come share in the perfect love He and the Father and the Spirit have for you. He will watch over us and guide us and comfort us, as the Good Parent He is. And as babies grow in leaps and bounds over their first months, we too will grow in abundant love towards Him and others. You are the face of love to the One who made you, and you always will be. 

Mmmmm, sunscreen and fussy babies...what the beach is TRULY for.

Consignment stores FOR THE WIN. 

Grapefruit juice and sparkling water and LIME= BE STILL MY HEART.

Snail shells and toddler hands. 

They Said This Would Be Fun: A Story of Misguided Baking Endeavors

Before the Dark Times. 

I am still in recovery, friends. 

No, not from the Snowmagedden we are experiencing in the Pacific Northwest. No, not even from having a toddler, being about 6 months pregnant, and having fibromyalgia. Although, all those things factor into the Tale of Woe with which I am about to regale you.

I attempted to make English muffins yesterday. 

Gluten free English muffins. 

And I thought it would be a good idea to start them at 4pm. 

4pm, my friends. 

Why, you ask? 

Because the need and desire and heart for breakfast sandwiches is STRONG. And powerful, overriding a bastion of common sense and knowledge that baked items made with yeast require TIME. Time, the very thing that a mother of a toddler knows is most elusive and fleeting of all, well, things. Especially around 4pm.

I think it all started with the Egg McMuffin. Let’s face it—those things are plainly delicious. And conjure up images of early morning road trips, pale orange juice from cool plastic cups, and cheerful, bright yellow wrappers. The Egg McMuffin is a pure thing, and should be thought of only with love and fondness. 

My next obsession with neatly presented breakfast food came from a little place in town called Torre Cafe, where the breakfast sandwich is indeed NEXT LEVEL. Fragrant rosemary bun. Ham or sausage or bacon. Perfectly scrambled egg. Melty cheese. Fresh tomato. Homemade pesto. A moment of silence for this culinary masterpiece that saw me through many a rough day. Pair it with a lovely handcrafted latte from this Italian gem of a cafe and all worries seemed to fade into a meaningless, faraway cloud. 

Fast forward to recent months—being pregnant with hyperemesis gravidarum in the first trimester. This means being incredibly nauseous ALWAYS which in turn means being hungry ALL THE TIME. When I could eat, I was SO HUNGRY. Breakfast sandwiches—even those filled with gluten, my usual arch nemesis, became very IMPORTANT. Full of satisfying carbs and protein—they helped me survive until reaching the 2nd trimester. Thank you, Starbucks and Crusin’ Coffee. You fairy godmothers. 

So here I am. Always craving the practically compact, yet delicious breakfast sandwich. I know I do better sans gluten in my life, and even in the Pacific Mecca of gluten free living, I haven’t been able to source a gluten free English muffin. 

SO WHY NOT ATTEMPT MY OWN, was my optimistic yet deluded thinking. Armed with 4 English muffin rings I received for Christmas (as I let my family know of my recent passion) and an online recipe that had over a dozen positive reviews, Toddler and I began yesterday, as I said, at 4pm. 

My usual style of baking these days is as follows: wet ingredients, dry ingredients, mix, dump, bake, eat. EASY. SIMPLE. 

And it started out easy. Mix dry ingredients together. Toddler and I are whizzing through this part—MERE CHILD’S PLAY. 

Boil milk and oil together—Ok, I have to do this part. And make sure Toddler doesn’t whisk all the dry stuff out of the bowl in her enthusiasm for the craft. 

Pour boiled mixture in with dry ingredients. Another mama-only activity. Toddler has moved on to other bigger things. I now must have eyes in the back of my head while I try not to scald myself with the boiling milk. Let sit for 20 minutes. 

Ooops, have made the water for the yeast and sugar mix TOO hot. Must let cool off. I run around after Toddler—it’s obviously time to play Grocery Store. I try not to think about the growing stack dishes in the sink. Or how the time on the clock is sped up to H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine speeds. 

Water now (hopefully) cool enough to add yeast and sugar. Wait another 15 minutes. Toddler asks nicely that I help put the Grocery Store back together so she can dump all items in her TJ Maxx paper bag. Must attend. Dishes continue to pile up, because that’s the kind of person I am. 

FINALLY add yeast mixture to flour-milk mixture. LET RISE FOR 30 MINUTES. It is completely after 5:15pm now and the thought finally enters my brain that oh, we are not having breakfast sandwiches for dinner. I let this go, although not gracefully, and search in my heart for what else WE COULD POSSIBLY HAVE FOR DINNER. I am sitting on a kitchen chair at this point, exhausted by my endeavors and making sure that Toddler doesn’t pull another kitchen chair over on herself or up to a counter and get burned or something. The dishes in the sink are now spilling over on the counter and I am ignoring their existence. 

Finally, I preheat the oven and oil up the English muffin rings and heat up a skillet. THIS IS IT. I add in two egg whites as the last of the ingredients and we are at last READY. This batter is really impressive. Hope is RISING. I am determined to see this process through, even though Toddler and I have each officially entered the Witching Hour, being hungry and grumpy coupled with not enough outdoor time. 

I dump the dough into the rings in the skillet and try to wait. Then Toddler pinches her pinkie in the little washer/dryer toy and needs my immediate nursing skills and the fox ice pack from the freezer. We sit on the floor and I do my best to comfort and soothe. Aware of time passing and my muffins probably needing to be flipped at this point, I notice from my position on the floor, that there is SMOKE rising from my skillet. Not a lot of smoke, just enough to make me freak out a little. I scramble to my feet, which takes a lot of effort given my with-child-ness, amidst a sobbing, clinging child. Uttering a choice word, I flip over the molds with not a lot of aplomb, and behold, MY MUFFINS ARE BURNED. 

All I can do is stare. 

It is 5:37pm. I have a whole bowl of batter waiting. The oven is ready to go. My child is staring up at me with tear-filled eyes and a sore finger. I haven’t decided what to make for our actual dinner, let alone started it. I suddenly feel bone-tired. The desire for silence, chocolate, and a nice, cozy murder show are suddenly very strong. 

AND YET HERE WE ARE. 

So I make some very quick decisions, influenced by my worsening attitude (“ENGLISH MUFFINS ARE STUPID ANYWAY”) and growing hunger and upset child. I use the last two ring molds in another pan, as the first pan has BLACK BURN MARKS. I start some boxed mac and cheese. I get my poor little love in her booster chair with some books and some water. I proceed to burn the last two muffins AGAIN because apparently I didn’t learn the first time. I finally am able to bestow the four sad muffins into the waiting oven and can focus on my mac and cheese. I ask Toddler if she wants blueberries. She says yes and dumps some on the floor. I keep my cool, against all odds. She eats the mac and cheese and tuna. Grim-faced, I throw the rest of the batter in a plastic bag and dump it in the freezer like one of the bodies from my murder shows so I don’t have to think about it for a while. I manage to get the muffins out of the oven without further incident and ignore their mocking presence while we get on with our evening routine. 

We all survived, I am happy to report. 

We even managed to make it to lunch today, when Toddler asked for some of the Muffins we made yesterday. I pull the least offensively burned one out, and split it in half. IT IS NOT BAD. I toast one half while she nibbles on the other. THE FLAVOR IS ACTUALLY REALLY GOOD. Texture not bad either! Oh yes, still burned a bit but TASTY. I mean, Toddler is eating it! 

So….SUCCESS! 

Will I ever attempt English muffins again, you ask? 

It is too soon to know for sure BUT this I do know: 

Definitely not at 4pm. 

Definitely not then. 

Here is the link to the delicious recipe: https://gluten-free-bread.org/step-by-step-to-the-best-gluten-free-english-muffins. May your luck and timing be WISER than mine!