Keep me as the apple of your eye.... (Psalm 17:8)

Growing up, I always wanted to be someone's favorite. I was the middle child in a blended family, so always felt pretty much like I just was...there. I wasn't the oldest. I wasn't the pretty one. My father died 2 weeks before I was born, and I carried with me the idea that I brought back really bad memories for my mom, who was distant and depressed most of my life. My stepfather was unemotional (unless he was angry or disapproving) and unloving.

My sister and I loved being with our extended family. They were funny and loving and we felt special. But even then, we were kept separate from them, so we don't share a lot of the same memories. My mom moved us away from them early in life, so we only were able to spend summers here and there with them. We never were able to spend time with our father's side of the family....something I still struggle with today. I long to know them better, but feel at 48 like I've missed that opportunity.

As adults now, we find that we are just...on our own. We have each other, my sister and I. At Christmas this year we commiserated over it as we watched my children try to fit in, but they had that same look on their faces that Melissa and I had. We just weren't an intricate part of that family. We didn't belong. We weren't their favorite.

My children don't even know my mother. The last time she visited, Tucker and Griffin were 2 and 4. She has never met Annie. They quit asking about her long ago, after years of asking why she didn't visit, didn't call, didn't remember their birthdays.

I should interject here, lest you feel sorry for my kids, that Paul's mom adores the kids and spoils them. They love her so much....we all do. She drops whatever she has going on to help us out when we need it. She travels hundreds of miles to babysit when we need her. They are the grandmother that my kids need, and I am so thankful to God for her. 

I longed to be special to someone. As I got older, I wished that some boy would come along and adore me. I wasted a lot of time and gave away a lot of my heart to some fellas that were not worthy of it. But that is a. another story and b. the reason I want my kids to court, not date.

One day I was reading my Bible and came across Psalm 17:8 and it just gripped me. Keep me as the apple of your eye. Was *I* the apple of His eye?  I looked it up and found this as explanation:

 Apple, of the Eye:

ap'-'-l: The eyeball, or globe of the eye, with pupil in center, called "apple" from its round shape. Its great value and careful protection by the eyelids automatically closing when there is the least possibility of danger made it the emblem of that which was most precious and jealously protected.

And it all made sense to me. I am most precious to God. My children are jealously protected by Him. Earthly relationships are just that.....earthly. Eternally, my family is loved and prized and viewed as precious by the Creator of the universe.

My Christian family has always taken care of us. In illness, childbirth, postpartum depression, emergency rooms....it's the church that has shown up and loved us. Taken care of us. Made us feel important, remembered, and cared for. It was people that sometimes barely knew us that were the hands and feet of Jesus. It was truly Christ in them...the hope of glory.

So while I may long for someone to love my kids  like I do....someone to show up at their games and recitals, someone to tell them they are smart, funny and handsome....I know that we are blessed beyond measure to be members of a worldwide family of believers that love us and pray for us. From the Kings in Ecuador to the Rayburns in Argentina. The Stewarts in south Asia. The Benders and Lawrensons on the Outer Banks. The Howells in south Florida. The Samplers and The Fowlers. Our phenonmenal family from Our Lady of Perpetual Help, who taught us the beauty of their faith and the love of family.

And more than anything, we are loved by God the Father. We are the apple of His eye. We are that precious and protected part of Him.

This morning I read on a friend's Facebook page the link to a piece about the poor. One of the responses to her post was "I'm tired of helping those people".

It actually hurt my heart.

The person said that she was tired of people on food stamps being able to shop at "high end" stores while she shopped at Aldi's. That she had tried feeding homeless people that threw her food back at her, wanting only money.

I hear that a lot, and it never fails to make me cringe. You see, I have spent a lot of time around impoverished people. I have worked alongside them. I have fed them and clothed them and taught my children to love them because they are, after all, created in the very image of God.

I certainly can't make a case for every person out there that is on food stamps or medicaid or holding a cardboard sign in an effort to collect a few bucks, but I can speak for the people that I have come to know and pray for and, well, actually love. 

First, let me start with the "I tried to give them a Big Mac and they said they didn't want it" people. One gentleman shared with me that he couldn't eat fast food because it gave him wicked diarrhea, and when you're on the street, diarrhea and no public restrooms in sight are not a good combination. Use your imagination here.....and let's just leave it at that.

I've never heard (which is not to say it hasn't happened, of course) of a homeless person turning away a healthy sandwich or fruit, water or crackers. Their bodies are malnourished (even if they're obese; see the latest study by the NIH on homelessness and obesity) so they actually crave nutrition. I heard a homeless woman at Wendy's one time turn down a Frosty being offered to her, saying, "I can't eat that, it makes me snotty." I could tell by the giver's face that she was appalled that a homeless, poor woman wouldn't accept her $1 charitable gift. But think about it. Dairy makes a LOT of people mucous-y. If you are living outside in allergy season, do you really want more snot in your head than you already have? Did this woman know how to verbalize that? Obviously not. But to become offended and walk away to tell your friends that you graciously tried to give a homeless woman a Frosty and she refused it.....well, that's a great story to tell, isn't it?

After all....those people don't really want our help, now, do they?

And what about those freeloaders at Whole Foods buying organic apples when I'm buying my $5 bag of pesticide ridden ones at Wal Mart?

First of all....very few poor people can crunch their food stamp budget enough to buy organic, but if they can and do, then more power to them. I rather like the idea of a poor single mama buying organic for her children. However, that is not the common thread of poverty. Most food stamp purchases are for cheap, non-nutritious foods, because they are, well, cheap. Most moms know the value of bread and fillers when they have a lot of mouths to feed and we're trying to stretch a meal. My mom was  a big pasta filler. She'd make a goulash for a family of 6 with one pound of ground beef and 2 pounds of noodles. My sister one time told me she made a Chinese stir fry for her family with ONE chicken breast, a few veggies, and rice. Rice, potatoes, pasta and bread are dirt cheap and can fill empty tummies. What I tend to see in too many shopping carts are bologna, bread, ramen, and little debbies. You can buy a LOT of crap for your allotted EBT money each month. Organic veggies? Notsomuch.

And really? I think if Jesus were going to head down to feed some hungry people, He'd pretty likely give them the very best.

Shouldn't we do the same? 

Guilt....a good thing?

Mommy guilt. It's a common phrase heard all the world over. For no matter who you are or where you live, along with the title "Mama" comes a familiar feeling: guilt. It all starts with the need to make a decision about something.

Epidural or medication-free.

Breast or bottle.

To circumcise or leave intact.

Vaccinate or not.

Make your own baby food or buy pre-made.

Cloth or disposable.

Homeschool, private school or public school.

Work at home, outside the home, or stay at home.

The list is never-ending. And as you're bound to discover, everyone has an opinion. And most are passionate about it. While it makes for good debate on the playground or message board, let's face it: when you get home and are alone, we all tend to question our decisions. Are they the right ones for us? For our family?

And as most of us have found out, guilt comes into play at some point.  Not to say sometimes we don't have a choice. I was fortunate to stay home for 7 years while my kids were very small. Now I'm back to work full time.  Do I need to be home? Absolutely. Do I have to work? Absolutely. Do I feel guilty enjoying my job? You bet. Do I feel guilty not even being a room mom? Yes indeed.

See? There is no easy answer for some questions.

But some decisions? The data is there.  How we rationalize interpret it is up to us. Recently I got into a conversation with someone who was afraid that moms might feel guilty when I suggest they should breastfeed instead of formula feed. My response is simple: do we patronize the moms that choose to smoke? How about the ones that choose not to put their infant in a car seat properly? How about the ones that leave their little one strapped in said car seat in the middle of the summer and run an errand?

I have looked a mom in the eye and told her that if she formula feeds, her child will have a *100% increased risk of ear infections, 178% higher risk of diarrheal disease, 257% higher risk of hospitalization for respiratory infections, 64% higher risk of diabetes,  and a 56% higher risk of SIDS.....and I've had that mother look straight at me and say she chooses to not breastfeed.

To which I reply, "You go, girl. I'll see you and that precious bundle of yours at 3 a.m. in the ER." "Please consider the facts, and call me if you have any questions or change your mind."

Guilt is a motivating factor for many. Many moms have heard my plea and agree to breastfeed. Many of them go on to breastfeed for a year or more. Some breastfeed while they are in the hospital and then quit the moment they hit the door. They tell me in follow up calls that their milk dried up or they weren't making enough or the pediatrician told them they had to wean. And you know what? I praise those moms for giving their baby those few days of colostrum. I tell them that the colostrum still sealed their babies intestines and their precious ones got antibodies and all sorts of good things that can never be taken away.

According to the journal Pediatrics:

“If 90% of US families could comply with medical recommendations to breastfeed exclusively for 6 months, the United States would save $13 billion per year and prevent an excess 911 deaths, nearly all of which would be in infants ($10.5 billion and 741 deaths at 80% compliance).” 

I hate guilt. But it does serve a purpose. It keeps me from eating another brownie. It gets me to quit playing Words with Friends and go take a bike ride with my kids.

And it just may persuade one more mom to breastfeed.

*statistics from The Surgeon General's Call to Action to Support Breastfeeding

Low Milk Supply....or not?

I have never met a single mother who hasn't at one time or another wondered whether she was making enough milk for her child. I thought it with my first baby. I recall vividly laying on our sofa nursing my sweet little boy and crying, on the phone with anyone who would listen as I explained his 45 minute nursing sessions, 15 minute nap, and then the rooting for another meal. Certainly I wasn't making enough milk for this little boob-leech precious bundle.

"How are his diapers?" Fine. 6-8 wet; 3-5 seedy, yellow stools.

"How is his weight?" Fine. Back to birth weight by 2 weeks and steady gain after.

"Then you're fine."

What? Certainly these chicks on the other end of the phone didn't mean to imply that I was actually, well, making enough milk for my baby?

I pumped. I never got more than an ounce. If that. Oh my, this child would definitely starve.

"Why are you pumping?" asked the pediatrician, when I casually mentioned that perhaps she should force me to give some sort of supplement since my precious one was, after all, starving.

Why was I pumping? Isn't that what you're SUPPOSED to do? I bought a Medela Pump In Style because, well, I'm a sucker who does what she sees anyone else do that's what all pregnant moms do.

Suspicious, I picked up a flyer in that same pediatricians office and found myself at a La Leche League meeting, where I learned all I needed to know about mothering. About supply and demand. Unlimited and unscheduled feedings. That co-sleeping was not just OK, but they reinforced what I knew in my heart -- that it was better for both of us. Everyone oohed and aahed over my little newborn and told me I was doing well.

That group of granola-esque mamas saved my sanity and my little Tucker's life. He has only been sick a couple of times in his 12 year existence and I can proudly boast that the little fellow has only been on one antibiotic ever.

And he is brilliant. Really.

My second boy? Honestly I never contemplated milk supply. I tandem nursed Tucker and Griffin for over a year -- including all night, every night  -- and perhaps I was too sleep deprived and semi-conscious to wonder.

Nah.

My body made enough milk to sustain a newborn (a chunky one at that) and a rambunctious toddler (who was never a fan of the solids, save for pizza) and I spent a blissful 3 years in nursing oblivion.

Then came my third, finger sucking, never good at the breast daughter. Plugged ducts and an actual low supply proved that underwires really were overrated and Fenugreek really did made one's skin smell like maple syrup. Oatmeal became my constant companion. I was hydrated for perhaps the first time in my life. Now I knew what a low supply was.

The latch that I knew was never quite right.

The constant look of hunger in her little face.

The drinking at the breast and then repeated bursts of rapid sucking in a frustrated attempt to get another letdown.

The slow weight gain. 

The one stool every 6-7 days.

I was able to get my supply up enough to keep her nursing for 18 months. I'd have given anything to keep her at my breast. She was (and still is) an independent gal with a mind of her own. So I take what I can get and treasure the memories (even the memories of her and I spending late nights on the sofa so as not to wake anyone, watching marathons of "Dog the Bounty Hunter". Don't ask.)

I've come to realize, not only in my own personal experience but also my professional, that our bodies are made to produce enough milk for the child (or children) we are currently nursing. No more, no less. Just enough.

In our society where more is more and the practice of hoarding is now a reality show, I talk to moms every day who are anxious because they aren't able to nurse full time and get a freezer stash going fast enough.

Really, it isn't normal to produce so much that you have a roly-poly baby and 87 bags of frozen milk in the deep freeze. 

Herbs and prescription meds to increase supply should be your last resort. Actually, I wouldn't suggest them unless there is a weight issue with baby. I have moms who start Fenugreek as soon as their milk comes in. They want more, more, MORE milk now.

It isn't natural.

We as a society need to embrace the concept of moderation, of slowing down, of letting nature take it's course. By all means, intervene when there is a problem, but for the vast majority of moms, there isn't an actual problem, only a perceived problem.

Bottom line? Just nurse your baby. Snuggle -- a lot. Take warm baths together and sleep right next to each other. Let him or her nurse all.night.long. (That is truly when they get their best nursing in!) Eat well. Drink to thirst. Eat oats.

I venture to say that if you do what you know in your heart is the right thing to do, you will be just fine. God gave us that marvelous thing called "mother's intuition" for a reason, and He made babies to know precisely what to do in order to not only survive, but thrive.

*Remind yourself of this next time a marathon nursing session has you contemplating cutting off your breast and leaving it in the bed while you go to the bathroom.

So. Forget the freezer stash.

You need room for more ice cream, anyway.

Change the world...

My family has been watching The History Channel's miniseries "The Bible" for the past few weeks and the kids have been waiting (im)patiently for Jesus to come on the scene.

As an aside, they have heard Bible stories all their lives, so they were rapt with attention to detail...and sorry, Mark Burnett, but according to 9 year old Griffin, you got quite a few details wrong.

So tonight, much to our delight, Jesus was born.

Annie and I cried. Really, we did.

It was so real, so dirty, so beautiful....a newborn baby born in a stinky, dirty stable.

I thought immediately of the Mark Lowry song "Mary Did You Know?".....as I looked at the young actress portraying the Mother of our Lord, gazing into the face of God -disguised as a newborn baby- I wonder what she thought. I wonder how it felt to know that your child was born of God. Was God. Is God.

But then...

Fast forward to when Jesus comes on the scene, coming to be baptized by his cousin (who, by the way, was rocking some righteous dreadlocks). I loved the baptism scene. I loved the scene with Peter even more.

"What are we going to do?"

"Change the world."

I smiled....no, I grinned from ear to ear, with tears streaming down my face.

After all, that's precisely what Jesus tells each of us. He calls us to follow him, just like he called the original disciples. Those boys dropped their nets and abandoned ship....literally. Sadly, we don't do the same. We list 67 excuses why right NOW isn't convenient for us. We tell Jesus our list of to-do's just can't be postponed. Our kids have a dentist appointment. Our jobs have deadlines. Dinner needs to be cooked. That extra money was going for a new car.

"Change the world."

I wonder....if we knew that our obedience would bring the Kingdom a little closer....would we do it?

If it meant that a hungry child would eat tonight....would we do it?

If it meant that a dying man would meet His Savior....would we do it?

"What are we going to do?"

"Change the world."

Will you?

On the Road Again...

I hate moving. Have I ever mentioned that?

You'd never know it by looking at our family's moving history. While I don't take the entire blame for our gypsy-like roaming, I suppose at some point I could have put my proverbial foot down and insisted we stay put. However, I wanted my husband to be happy and content, and so we have moved. And moved. And moved a few more times.

I can say with 100% accuracy that God has orchestrated all of our moves....doors opened miraculously, jobs and homes found easily....so part of me says that God moved us this many times. I can see in each place we've lived at least ONE reason that God placed us in that particular place at that particular time.

So how do I answer people who make fun of us? Some are well meaning, just kidding kind of folks. But there's a whole other realm of "kidding" -- the point at which it actually hurts. What I want to say is "Take it up with God. Make fun of HIM. He's the one that keeps us hopping."

But then I wonder.....is it Him? Or is it me?

And if it is me....is that bad?

I have always said I wanted roots. I wanted my children to know one place as HOME. I moved so much as a child that I never felt secure or a sense of belonging.

That's IT! Belonging. I don't know where I fit. In Manteo, I was Paul South the columnist's wife. In Bardstown, I was the new mom in town (and the Editor's wife). In Biloxi....now there I can say I fit. I loved it. Loved the people, loved my house. But hubs wanted to go to seminary and he was in a bit of a post-Katrina depression/funk/job thing, so we moved to New Orleans (when most of the city wasn't even up and running again).

I fell in love with this city. I love the culture, the music, the food, the language, the color. I love my job. I love being a part of someplace so unique. I never thought I'd leave.

Until we left. It's difficult to live in this city without a good bit of money. Schools cost a small salary (unless you're brave enough to send your kids to public school or lucky enough to make the Lusher lottery). We felt we had no choice financially but to leave.

But....

Lafayette stunk. There's no other way to say it. I regretted it the moment we got there, and it only got worse. I was hated at my new job and had no one to back me up. I knew instantly that I wouldn't be able to stick it out. But the stubborn part of me didn't want to give in and move back because of what others would say about me...about us.

Eventually the whole family was begging to go back to New Orleans, and so we came back to try to make it again. And again, we stretched and saved and sacrificed as long as we were able. Illness made us realize we were all alone without a back up plan. Well meaning friends are always available, but when you're looking at life and death situation, you need family. You just do.

So here we are again, on the cusp of a new adventure. I won't say it's our last move....I can't see into the future. But I hope and pray it is. I hope that the kids make amazing friends and love their schools.

I hope we all find contentment and peace and joy.

I hope we all feel a sense of belonging.

I hope we all feel we are finally home.

Impressions

Yesterday while perusing Facebook, I ran across a picture my aunt had posted on my sister's wall. It was a picture of my dad as a teenager.

Yes, I inherited my father's eyebrows.

Now, I've seen a lot of pictures of my daddy over the years, and I've seen this one before. But when I looked at it yesterday, I saw my Griffin. Plain as day. It was Griffin's goofy little 9 year old face staring back at me. So I went and grabbed a picture off of the wall of my dad as a young boy.........and sure enough, it was my little Chi-Chi.

Griffin got a big kick out of the picture. "He looks just like me!" he exclaimed.

Sadly, my father died 2 weeks before I was born. I never knew him. But I know of him.

My entire knowledge of my dad comes from stories I've heard from my family. My mom, my aunts, grandparents....they are the ones that created the image I have of my father.

It's funny when you think about it. What someone SAYS about a person becomes the truth of that person's existence.

It makes me think about what I say about my children, my husband....my God.

When others don't know who I'm talking about, my stories define that person to them.

Ouch.

I don't know about you, but I tend to worry/complain/stress/whine a LOT. I don't intend to...but I always wind up "venting". It is one of my worst qualities, and I've fallen under conviction in recent months to stop it.

Isn't it funny how God begins to orchestrate change in your heart months before you can see the problem clearly?

My New Year's resolution was to have a more "gentle and quiet spirit" (1 Peter 3:4)
and more specifically, Ephesians 4:29: Do not let any talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.

I don't want to give others the impression that my Lord is not able to solve my problems. I have no reason to worry or fret or complain. He is abundantly able to do far more than I can think or imagine.....He always has and always will.

When I am surrounded by unbelievers, it is my job to relate to them that Jesus is my Healer, my Savior, my Everything. He is the Master Problem Solver.

So, if you run into me and I'm talking trash about my family or giving my Lord a bad name, just smack nudge me and say "Ephesians 4:29".

After all, I readily admit I need the accountability.

And really....who doesn't need a good Scriptural slap in the face every now and then? ;-)