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!

When FOMO Threatens Your Christmas

The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight. 

-O Little Town of Bethlehem

Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. 

-The Apostle Paul, 2nd Corinthians 3:17, ESV

REAL TALK. Christmas edition. 

Last night, I was super struggling with some Major FOMO* and its ugly cousin, Straight-Up Jealousy. I was leafing through Facebook, because that’s definitely NOT going to be a problem this time of year. Insert Eye Roll. Our budgets are tight this year (when are they not? Oh, and by budgets, I don’t mean just monetary. Energy and health-wise AS WELL), and I’m not even sure if we’re doing anything beyond putting the tree up and playing with the Little People Nativity set. Like, ANYTHING. Our tree is fake and we order presents on Amazon. So when Facebook shows me a beautiful array of dozens of Christmas tree hunts, dazzling Christmas light shows, frozen Christmas parades, and sweet Christmas cookie exchanges, I’m like whoa. Where was the time found to even get that done, on top of normal life living stuff? I mean, it’s only been December for about 5 seconds. So, like a normal person, I just sat on my couch and felt SAD AND SMALL AND SORRY FOR MYSELF. Oh, and it was felt in all-caps, I assure you. 

IS THIS WHAT CHRISTMAS IS ALL ABOUT, CHARLIE BROWN. 

I ASK YOU. 

Because it feels like everyone is out being CHRISTMASY and living SEASONALLY, and here I am, in my own particular set of limitations, struggling to get up and make dinner and make sure there’s clean underwear for tomorrow. Fibromyalgia and endometriosis take up so much of my time, I joke that I actually have more than one child to take care of. Well, it’s a joke and not a joke, if you get me. 

I have been thinking about that word, limitation, lately. Well, sometimes when I get a thought to myself, in the beautiful and giggly chaos that IS having a toddler. Mostly I hate all the limitations I have. The physical ones and the money ones and all the ones in between. They make me have to WAIT, something I’m quite terrible at. They make me slow down, something I’d rather not do, thank-you-very-much. They make me feel small next to my busy generation, which is invalidating. They make me have to prioritize, when I’d rather just have and do it all. 

Waiting. 

Slowing down. 

Feeling small. 

Prioritizing. 

When I look at this list, I feel annoyed. TO BE HONEST. This isn’t the To-Do List I had in mind for this season. But on better days, I can see it as a gift. Especially during this Advent season, which is all about the wait, isn’t it? I am forced to wait and slow down and prioritize. Even feeling small is a gift when it means I can have a proper perspective of myself in the world, when I can think of others as better than myself, as indeed I am called to, as a believer in Christ. I can only think this way because I am deeply loved by Christ, and that’s more than enough to sustain. It’s the only thing that can erase the fear of missing out. His love is the only thing that can redeem our smallness, our longing in the middle of waiting. It will allow us to give what we can, out of those very limitations and even brokenness. 

So if you’re feeling small this season, if you’re wondering if you should be doing more, if you’re feeling like the To-Do List will never be conquered, if your heart is longing for more this season, you’re actually in the right place. 

When we’re forced to wait, when there is no other choice but to slow down,we can begin to see it as a gift. Let Christ come to you, to me, in all our weary waiting. He is gentle with us. He is aware of all our limitations, and He wants to be our Great Helper. We wouldn’t see how we need Him, this Savior who was born to us in the city of David, if we didn’t have these limitations. These limitations can serve to remove our blinders of false productivity, of false busy-ness, of false hopes. When we actually accept our limitations, we can see how unlimited our Christ is, and the fears of all the years will certainly be met in Him. Our worries and fears will disappear in His great joy and delight in us, as we make room for Him. 

So I’ll be taking this Christmas thing one day at a time, just like I do in all the other seasons (although not always gracefully). I’ll be weighing what’s doable, what’s manageable, and what’s life-giving. I’ll be asking what I can give, in my limitations. And that will be enough and I won't have to compare my schedule to my neighbor's. I’ll pray that disappointments and all the waiting will only bring me closer to Christ and to His kingdom and to His people. As we celebrate His birth and the glorious realization of God being with us in our humanity, let’s rest and be refreshed in His limitless joy. 

*Fear of Missing Out; aka POSSIBLY THE WORST THING EVER WHEN YOU HAVE NO PLANS

We have a Very Helpful Toddler-Decorator this year. 

Bethlehem can be a crazy place. 

You can't see the mess jusssst outside the frame.  Hee hee. 

Motherhood and the Singing of Grace

Come, Thou fount of every blessing

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace

-Hymn

I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. 

-Jesus, John 15:5

There’s a lot about being a mom NO ONE TELLS YOU. 

Like, how it now takes 3 hours to watch a 45 minute episode. 

Or about the FLUID. Oh, the fluid. So much of life now is about the FLUID. 

Or how you develop laser eyesight in the darkest of nights, searching for a fallen pacifier for your desperate infant. And your own desperate self. 

Or how 3 in the morning feels much the same as 3 in the afternoon. 

Or how you will cry more than your baby over trying to get her to eat. 

Or how you don’t really mind all the poops and diaper changes.

Or how you can live off your baby’s smiles FOR DAYS. 

Tonight I was dead tired. Like, so tired. I haven’t slept for a full night since the SPRING OF THIS YEAR. AND IT’S PRACTICALLY CHRISTMAS, PEOPLE. It’s just better not to think about it. And for the countless time, I had to go wash a sink full of bottle parts and pump parts because this is my life now and for the foreseeable future. WHEN ALL I WANT TO DO IS WATCH TV. That’s really ALLLLLLL I WANT TO DO. And eat snacks. My desires are oh so simple now. Oh, wait, that’s all I ever really wanted to do before…ahem. 

But alas. My task was in front of me—the approximately 2432587235 bottle and pump parts to wash. I stood in front of the sink, waiting for the water to heat up. And I had to while the Daughter napped. THIS WAS MY WINDOW. 

And a strange thing happened.

In spite of my aching exhaustion, in spite of just needing to zone out, in spite of feeling generally discouraged, I felt the urge to SING. 

Oh yes, that’s another thing they don’t tell you. 

As soon as they hand that baby to you, you become a freaking SINGER and SONGSTRESS. It’s innate. It’s inevitable. And thankfully, my daughter has a father who is NOT tune-deaf and can teach her to sing correctly. Her mother, on the other hand, loves singing but it’s a total happy accident if she sings in tune. 

Anyway, I’ve been singing pretty solidly for 6 months now. In the beginning, it was old Keith Green songs and hymns, as those were all I could remember at 2 in the morning. Now I’ve STUDIED UP and can sing some more common lullabies and baby songs, and let me tell you, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and You are My Sunshine are BIG hits around here. Also, Good Morning from Singin’ in the Rain, because this is ME we’re talking about. 

So there I am, the hot water spilling out of the tap, and suddenly, Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing starting spilling out too. And as I sang to myself about Jesus seeking me when I was a stranger, and rescuing me from danger, and how great a debtor I am to His grace, and asking Him to seal my heart for His courts above, my super annoying and very repetitive task wasn’t the worst. And my exhaustion, a very real thing, wasn’t too much. As I reminded myself about His gospel, His good news, I remembered that it’s good news for me now. 

In this new season of life. For a tired new mama with fibromyalgia and a million things to do and think and worry about. The gospel of Jesus—the news that God loves me, a sinner, and invites me into His kingdom—is a refreshing wind, a long and peaceful and deep exhale. As I moved into O Holy Night, I was more at peace. Not because anything had really changed. I’m still going to have to wash these finicky plastic pieces many more times. I’m still going to be exhausted for what feels like FOREVER. I’m still surrounded by temptation to worry and fret and complain about hard things. But the simple act of lifting my voice lifted my spirits and thoughts to the One who listens, who hears, and who is with me, always. 

So as long as motherhood feels crazy and wonderful and reveals HOW COMPLETELY OUT OF MY DEPTH I AM, I will be singing away. So for the rest of all time, really. So sorry not sorry. Good thing I’ve been practicing night and day, huh. 

Your coffee should be the size of your infant's head. 

What I Wish My Doctors Told Me About Fibromyalgia and Pregnancy

Lying in bed would be an altogether perfect and supreme experience if only one had a colored pencil long enough to draw on the ceiling. 

-G.K. Chesterton, In Defense of Sanity

I love you, O Lord, my strength. 

The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, 

my God, my rock, in whose I take refuge, 

my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold. 

Psalm 18:1-2

Sounds like the perfect clickbait title, doesn’t it? Which is exactly WHY I picked it! Bwhahahaha. 

Because you probably can guess what the answer is…

ANYTHING. 

ANYTHING AT ALL. 

That’s what I wish they would have told me. 

Well, maybe that’s not fair. What one doctor told me was “Pregnancy and being a mom is really hard anyway, and fibromyalgia will complicate that.” THANKS…THAT IS REALLY HELPING ME MAKE THIS LIFE-ALTERING DECISION. When I was researching pregnancy and fibromyalgia, all I really found was that studies show that fibromyalgia will probably make the first trimester even more intense, as far as depression, aches, and fatigue go. NO, REALLY. DID NOT SEE THAT ONE COMING. I do know, however, that it’s not true across the board, as a relative told me that her fibro improved immensely with pregnancy. 

So there you have it. My entire load of research, in one pretty unhelpful paragraph. 

Now that I’m 7 months pregnant, I can understand why there’s not more information out there. Pregnancy and fibromyalgia, at least for me, have often intersected to the point where I’m not sure if symptoms are from one or the other. THE LINES ARE BLURRED, MY FRIENDS. Very blurred. And I don’t really bother talking with my OBs about it, because the symptoms are so very similar, and what can they do anyway? “Oh, doctor, I’m EXTRA EXHAUSTED AND EXTRA ACHY!” “Well, that’s pregnancy for you! Exercise when you can and eat well and sleep well!” This is not to get all down on my OB team, because I LOVE THEM. They are AMAZING. But honestly, there’s just not much they can do.

So here’s a few things that I wish someone, anyone, would have told me about fibromyalgia and pregnancy. 

1) You won’t know what’s fibro and what’s pregnancy sometimes. Like I said above, they can feel OH SO VERY SIMILAR. Feeling like you’ve been hit by a truck? Everything hurts, even areas of your body you weren’t aware of before? Can’t sleep? Digestive issues? Everyone telling you look great when you feel like a gremlin? COULD BE EITHER. It’s easier to assume that it’s pregnancy, because then you can focus more easily on the AMAZING PART OF GROWING A HUMAN AND HAVING AN ADORABLE BABY AT THE END OF ALL THIS. PS. totally assuming my baby will be adorable. DUH.

2) What is recommended for fibromyalgia will sound EERILY similar to pregnancy advice. Because your doctor is RIGHT. Eat well. Pace yourself. Get enough water. Sleep and rest when you can. Exercise carefully, but definitely exercise. Ask for help. Manage priorities and let go of what’s not essential. Seek support from other people in your situation. Take a multivitamin and fish oil and magnesium and probiotics. What’s annoying is that it’s all PRETTY TRUE AND SOLID ADVICE. For pregnancy and fibromyalgia and LIFE.

3) Get the body pillow. B got me one of those U-shaped ones for Christmas and IT IS INCREDIBLE. I totally wish I had one of these BEFORE pregnancy. With all the mandatory resting I do, having the extra and total support is really nice. REALLY NICE.

4) Researching symptoms will completely stress you out, because NO ONE KNOWS ANYTHING ABOUT FIBROMYALGIA OR PREGNANCY. As in, lots of conflicting information and not very many studies. Sure, there are the basics, like no sushi or soft cheeses or alcohol or a lot of prescriptions, but most of your everyday decisions will be based on gut instinct and rapid texting with someone else who is pregnant or has been pregnant or someone who is your mom. And be prepared for all the opinions, both in person and online. Pregnancy and chronic illness both stir up lots of feelings and advice. This can result in lots of UNMERITED GUILT. So not unlike fibro, where you just have to stumble along and try to DO THE BEST YOU CAN, pregnancy is the same. I’m guessing actual parenting is QUITE like this, as well. Also researching baby registry items will stress you out, but that’s not really related to fibro, so NONE OF THAT HERE.

5) Realize that you are the only one who can give your baby the love they need. There will be a lot of freak-out times and insecurities about the future and taking care of your infant once they’ve arrived. Every parent-to-be goes through this, but with a chronic illness, these feelings get pretty intense. Just like you’ve managed your life and your illness (really, you have! Even when it doesn’t feel like it!), you will welcome your baby and figure it all out. I’m realizing more and more that just like in every role we have in life, being a parent means just doing what you can with what you have, and it’s going to be hard and messy and complicated and totally wonderful. Am I nervous? HECK YES. Do I already cry often? UM DUH. Am I worried about not being able to be what my child needs? DON’T MAKE ME LAUGH. There will be days I won’t be able to get down on the floor and play or where we will just watch tv and eat easy food because Mom can’t get off the couch. There will be things I might not be able to participate in, because I have to pace myself and rest. But I am going to give my child all the love and help and guidance and compassion and mercy and grace and laughter I have in me. I am going to show my daughter how to take care of herself and ask for help and realize her worth isn’t in what she does, or in her accomplishments or appearance or housekeeping or goals or bank accounts or health or social standing. I am going to teach her to love God and love others, and that these two things, well, these make for a very wonderful life no matter else what we have to face. 

Oh, THAT'S what my belly looks like now. Thanks, Goodwill dressing room. 

My parents' cat, inspecting the cradle for safety purposes.

Hello, belly and bright sunny day!

$15 CHANGING TABLE. Because we are GENIUSES. 

My most common view these days.

When Going Gluten Free isn’t Enough; Or, The Joys and Thrills of Pregnancy

“‘Ron, why don’t some people like breakfast food?’

‘Because people are idiots, Leslie.’” 

-Parks and Rec

People GET gluten free these days. At least here in the Pacific Northwest. And it’s great! It’s taken years and years, but finally the heads of loved ones and restaurants don’t spin in confusion and a deep personal sadness when you have to decline Great Aunt Phyllis’ famous chocolate cake or ask for a bun-less hamburger. Whew. GLUTEN FREE PEOPLE ARE FINALLY BEGINNING TO BE ACCEPTED, EVEN IF WE ARE NOT UNDERSTOOD. I call that a win. 

I have dabbled in gluten free living over the past 6 years, from straight-up elimination dieting to choosing the steadily-more-palatable-but-still-not-exactly-nutritious-processed gluten free items because I know I SHOULD. Last summer, my acupuncturist and a horrible gut and body ache after part of a breakfast burrito convinced me to give gluten a MISS until further notice. I don’t have celiac, but I do feel much better about life in general when I don’t eat gluten, leading me to strongly suspect that I have a non-celiac gluten sensitivity. I’m sure it’s snuck in here and there, but for the most part I’ve been pretty good at avoiding it. I did sneak a couple bites of B’s crisp bean burrito from Taco Time because those things are LIFE and I am pregnant and achy everywhere ANYWAY. 

Speaking of PREGNANCY, I have had to give up other things than just gluten. And I’m not even talking about the typical alcohol, soft cheeses, processed lunch meats, etc. I mean, whatever. I am looking FORWARD SO MUCH to a cold deli sandwich once the Gummy Bear arrives. Like, I can’t even say. But I’m talking about things that no pregnant woman should even have to think about giving up. LIKE…SUGAR. 

I love SUGAR. 

IN ALL FORMS. 

I love cake, pie, cookies, doughnuts, brownies, blondies, candy. I love baking cake, pie, cookies, doughnuts, brownies, blondies. Haven’t really delved into candy, because that stuff is FINICKY. Also I need a candy thermometer. I also love all the sugar in condiments (you know ketchup is MOSTLY sugary tomato paste, right?) and on top of cereals (oatmeal without brown sugar? Cheerios without white sugar?) and in granola bars and in fancy coffee drinks. Even more than gluten, sugar in SOME SWEET FORM OF GOODNESS is in everything. Of course, I’ve been using more “natural” sugars the past few years, like honey, maple syrup, and coconut sugar. Because did I mention elimination diets? And I read too much online? I have worked with dates for sweetness before, and can I just say, my IBS did NOT appreciate those particular efforts. 

Anyway, GUESS WHAT. Natural sugars? STILL SUGARS. Well, crap. 

All this to say, I KNOW I feel better with less sugar in my life. My skin clears up, my lingering nasal congestion gets easier, all other foods start to taste better. So when faced with a couple of non-urgent but annoying health conundrums during pregnancy, I knew it was TIME. Time to give up my favorite pastime. My favorite way to TREAT MY SELF. 

For those of you who worry about the Gummy Bear*, I haven’t given up ALL sugar—still eating fruits and carbs and even the granola bars I keep in my purse for emergencies. I have to keep from going completely insane during pregnancy, and she needs a wide range of foods. I have also discovered sugar-free, dairy-free ice cream (oh yes, still don’t do straight-up milk or ice cream) and Stevia-sweetened root beer for those times when I ABSOLUTELY NEED SOMETHING SWEET OR I WILL GO POSTAL. 

It’s now been about 5 weeks, and that first week was NOT COOL. But I am a survivor, my friends. It hasn’t stopped me from gazing longingly and lovingly at the bag of Reese’s Pieces a fellow mom-to-be was eating during one of our birthing classes, or at the gf chocolate cereal waiting patiently in my pantry. My doctor did say that chocolate was still ok to eat and so I got some very dark chocolate (even though I really just want milk chocolate, if I’m honest) with a low sugar content, and I don’t even eat the full serving size, but that has helped with my brain a little, for which we’re ALL VERY THANKFUL. 

So that’s how pregnancy is going. Although this doesn’t even begin to cover other glorious topics like acid reflux (IT’S A SERIOUS TOPIC, COMRADES), needing the bathroom at all times, shortness of breath, trying to remember if I took my prenatal, dropping and bumping into everything, and wondering if moving from my couch is even THAT necessary. Of course the most glorious thing of all is feeling the Gummy Bear kick and move, and this is me actually not even being sarcastic. Feeling her move and squirm makes all these other things so worth it, from the diet changes to the acid reflux to the lack of sleep to the extra aches and pains. Like I seriously forget how uncomfortable I am when she starts doing the Gifford Baby Rhumba and I smile like an idiot. Yesterday, we felt her head about to poke out of my belly like the creature in Alien and B and I both lost it. In the best way, of course. 

So while we dream about chocolate peanut butter pie and coconut mochas, pass the Stevia and the fish oil and the cucumber slices for me and the Gummy Bear. Although not all together-that would just be gross. 

*Goodness me-I just realized our nickname for our baby is essentially SUGAR. I told you sugar is everywhere. 

There is a baby in there, I promise. Also, that's the beautiful cradle my grandpa made!

The remnants of my sugar-free AND delicious breakfast. 

How many water containers does a pregnant woman need? DON'T ASK.