we were on a break

it was unintentional, but oh, it was good.

the past two weeks have seen unexpected travel days, a sick day or two, and terribly cute visitors.

we hadn't planned on going home for Easter, but at the last minute, one of my dearest friends sent word asking if I would sing at her beloved grandmother's funeral, so we packed up in a hurry for a three day visit with our families. we'll be moving home a week from tomorrow, but it was nice to get back and spend the holiday with friends and family.

our friend Kelley and her little Talia [two months younger than Rowan] met us upon our return [our last return to this town as our home!], and we spent two days squealing and rolling around on the floor with two sweet babies. Rowan hasn't spent much time with other babies at all -- there aren't any other moms with babies in our church or campus group, so we're generally completely alone -- but she loved having Talia here to play with between naps!

next week we'll be in the midst of packing up our lives to put into storage + keep only the daily essentials while we live with family for the next few months.

BUT, there will be a whole bunch of excitement happening here next week! including a guest post from a lovely friend, a blog tour post for a movement I've been so blessed to be involved with -- Overcome the Lie, and a HUGE giveaway for two lucky ladies!

have a great weekend and make sure to check back through the next week for all the fun!

remember

this house is old.

the peeling wallpaper in the kitchen has known many years, seen many tenants. the scuffed wood floors have heard many feet, dancing, stomping.

but there's something about it.

the way the sun hits the sliding glass doors in the kitchen, filling the little dining nook with warm light + promising a new day. new mercies, fresh grace. hallelujah.

the large window in the living room at the front of the house. perfect for quiet days in, watching passersby on their way to life.

what it lacks in seating availabiltiy, it makes up in warmth; both a result of the multiple space heaters as well as the openness that we've fostered over the year we've been here. an openness we've fostered quite well, if I do say so myself.

we might be just a blip on this house's radar, one more family to add to the list of those who have lived within its walls. it may not remember us, but oh, we will remember it.

we will remember this as the first home we could call a home, and not simply another apartment to add to the list of those in which we've lived in this town. it was the first time we didn't have other familiies [related by blood or the blood of Christ] living above or around us. and it's been good.

we will remember this as the place where people came to escape, from roommates, from schoolwork, from life, and find peace. acceptance. family. always. no holds barred.

we will remember this as the home to which we brought our first child. where she has grown from a newborn who didn't make a sound even when she cried -- that jaundiced little thing -- to a thriving, healthy baby, crawling around on her chubby knees and calling to us when the mornings come.

these floors might not remember us, but oh, we will remember them.

writing with Lisa Jo Baker for Five Minute Friday. 

hop on over + see how others interpret remember.

seven years later

we were just kids.

at almost-eighteen and barely-eighteen, we were seniors at different {rivaling} high schools, best friends awaiting graduation, mere months away. the end of lockers, and it seemed a beginning for everything else.

he was the kind of friend I stayed up talking to until the wee hours of the morning. on msn. it was 2006 after all.

it was a snowy March weekend. a few cool people from our church were getting together with our sunday school teacher at her family's cottage for the weekend, and we were both going to be there. a weekend away from home, with minimal electricity + lots of blankets to share. a little house on the river with a giant bonfire pit in the back yard. a great big wooden cross erected where it could be seen from across the river on the main road.

we found ourselves almost alone one night, the others in the room having drifted off to sleep, and he made a move. just a kiss; nothing more, nothing less.

and it began.
the love affair that consumed our lives.
it kept us from Jesus for a season, but eventually brought Him nearer to us than we ever would have experienced had we remained in His hand from the beginning. His plan is far better. {amen + amen}

four years later we married.
three years more and we've listened to the call to be fruitful and multiply.

she's never allowed to go on weekend youth retreats to romantic little cottages.

rest

sometimes I just want the noise to stop.
I can't be the only one.

my husband's work is in shifts; long and only partially predictable hours, each week looking a bit differently. some weeks, the hours are so that I feel like a single parent. I know I'm beyond blessed to be able to stay at home with the baby for this season. I would do anything for her. I would give my right arm to keep her from suffering. but sometimes I just don't want to pick up the same toy from where she's thrown it on the floor for the upteenth time.

I want the escape of a cozy, busy coffee shop, where I can be anonymous yet present, productive in nothing but the ability to rest my mind + my heart.

we have only a month left here. three weeks of shift work, one week of packing, and we're off. to start a new chapter, at least for the summer, in our hometown. a chapter with joys and struggles of its own, in the form of family and church and the newness in general.

there is hope for rest there, in the midst of joy and struggle.

writing with Lisa Jo Baker for Five Minute Friday. 

hop on over + see how others interpret rest.

up

most mornings, I wake before the rest of the house opens its sleepy eyes.

especially since daylight saving time last weekend, rowan has been going down at her usual bedtime, but waking an hour later. my body is still accustomed to waking at 5:30 or so in anticipation of her little voice, talking to herself and letting out long, loud calls to us to come and get her after a long night of sleep.

many days, I stay in bed, tossing and turning and trying to get back to sleep [I rarely succeed] until I hear noise in the monitor. I then roll out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing water on my face and praying for grace for our day.

on the best mornings, I get out of bed shortly after my internal clock alerts me of the day's beginning. I make a cup of creamy coffee and quiet myself for a few moments in the stillness before the sunrise.

on days like today, my bible is opened and my pen is poised above the page, waiting, eager for the words to fill its white space. my homemade planner and catch-all notebook sit at the ready for quick inspiration or half-forgotten to-dos.

and then I hear her.

she moves quickly [note the blur in the photo]; her excitement for the new day is infectious and we laugh together as I say good morning, pulling her close for big hugs.

she's eight months old today. eight months too old for the fresh newborn I see in my arms. 

no matter the months that pass, I'll always see the same girl.
the one who greets me in the morning.

in the lacking

the world of mommy-blogging [though I don't really consider myself a part] is full of guilting + shaming. every mom believes their choices are best for their family, otherwise they [hopefully] wouldn't make them. however, many moms believe their choices are the best for everyone. I've gone back + forth on whether or not to post this, fearing the response from mothers who don't agree with my decisions. in the end, these are my decisions for my family, and this is my heart, so I'm going to share it anyway.

you may or may not have noticed that I haven't been overly present this past week.

I wrote a bit, but didn't read much, despite my desire to get through + comment on all of the Influence Network meetup posts. I scanned through twitter each day, but didn't add much to the conversation. I left emails unread in my inbox for a time when I could actually devote the energy required to dealing with them.

part of this lack has to do with the extraction of four wisdom teeth last wednesday. I had a pretty easy go of it -- no extreme pain or infection thus far, and I was able to eat solid food the next day -- although the sedation didn't work and I remember every last bit of it. my mother came down to spend the rest of the week with us, to help out with rowan while joey continued working, and it was lovely to spend time with her + watch her love on her granddaughter. I am so grateful to have parents who are willing to drop pretty much anything to help out; when rowan is involved, they'll drop work so quick it would make your head spin.

but the dental surgery has played a bigger part in a way I wasn't expecting.

I've been forced to make the very tough decision, in an extremely short amount of time, to wean rowan from nursing. up to this point, other than the addition of a meal or two a day of solid food the past two months, she's been exclusively breastfed. we were blessed with a great latch and a good supply from the beginning, without so much as a day of trouble. I actually really like nursing.

it's easy [for us -- I know this isn't the case for everyone!].
it's free.
it's always available.
until it's not.

a week or so before my surgery, I started pumping some extra milk, once a day, to amass enough to bottle-feed while I was on pain medication. I had enough in the fridge and freezer to last nearly a week, just in case I needed extra drugging to deal with excess pain. I pumped + dumped while I was still in the 24 hour window for the sedation to wear off, and while I was taking the tylenol 3 I had been prescribed.

when I tried nursing again, however, it was clear that my supply had dropped. significantly enough that rowan would still take almost a full bottle after I fed her. it has been a frustrating couple of days, to say the least. I attempted to build my supply back up with extra feedings and tried [unsuccessfully] to force rowan to stay on longer, to increase the demand. she wasn't having any of it. she didn't want to stay at my breast, getting nothing, when there were toys to be played with and floors to army-crawl on.

exclusively pumping hasn't seemed to work either. as much as I try, my supply is definitely decreasing. what used to be a 7-8oz pumped bottle in the morning is now down to 3-4oz, and decreasing each day. other than the first pump of the day, I can't pump more than an ounce and a half before my body gives up on me.

so, faced with an empty breast, a hungry child, and a can of formula I received in the mail [seriously: how do these people find out a woman is pregnant?!], I made the best choice I could, through tears, for our family at this time.

am I disappointed that I wasn't able to continue nursing throughout rowan's first year? absolutely. am I frustrated with and feeling betrayed by my body? um YES.

but I'm taking things a day at a time.
still trying to pump and give rowan all the breastmilk I can.
selfishly looking forward to not being the only person who can feed her.
weeping at the thought of doing life without that time together.
insanely grateful for the eight months I have been able to spend with her.

glimpses of pride

can I be honest a moment?

I've never been one to struggle with pride.

not that I have obtained anything or am perfect in any way. I have certainly been prideful a handful of times in my life, but nothing that lasted more than a short minute. nothing that swallowed me whole and threatened to drown me. as sin often has a way of doing.

no, I am confident in the fact that God has blessed me -- even while I wasn't actively seeking His will -- with modesty + respectfulness, with a willingness to submit to His authority.

but I have seen it.

or rather, I was smacked in the face with it.

but wait, let's rewind a little, shall we?

it was a friday night before the new year. I was at LIFE, the weekly worship service held on campus for + by the christian fellowship group there. I was singing for the first time in awhile, maybe even the first time since the beginning of the year, because of my shift in responsibilities in having a child. {what? you mean I can't just leave home + have a life like I used to? oh.}

I was leading worship with my husband + the band, and I was going for it. I was singing hard, I was worshipping hard, and I was loving every minute of it. the freedom to be out there, baby asleep at home with a sitter, was tangible. His presence was real + thick. I got caught up.

my voice broke.
and again.
the worst when all you want to do is sing forever, for His glory.

but was it?

I took extra sips of water + peppermint tea. I stood back from the microphone + let Joey take the lead on a few choruses I typically would have sung. I prayed that He would give me a voice to sing songs to Him.

but were they?

a few people were coming up to the front of the room, telling stories, sharing pieces of their hearts, and as I stood back, out of the light, I saw it.

or rather, I was smacked in the face with it.

I had become so caught up with singing into a microphone, I was no longer singing lyrics, praises to Him. the songs had become mere melodies, pleasing to the ear but vanity to the heart.

as the last person finished speaking + went back to the floor, we waited for whomever was to give the word for the evening; I stepped up to the microphone again, this time to share my heart. my pride, my sin in that current moment.

but I didn't.

I kept it to myself. I went down with the band + sat while the room listened to scriptural anecdotes. I cried out to God. I asked His forgiveness. I wanted to sing to Him, not just about Him. I wanted my voice to be used to bring Him glory in that space, not just to sound pretty.

I'll tell you: He listens. He hears your groanings. He covets your praises. He covets your life.

and when you're willing to give it to Him,
He will let you sing.


in what ways have you seen pride in your own life? how have you battled it?

the big green rug

the story of my floor has been on my heart this week, after seeing that Nadine finds peace on hers. when I saw that this week's five minute friday was centering on the ordinary, this is what came out.

it was just a big green rug. 

nothing spectacular. 

of course, we loved it: it was the perfect shade of weird green to match our personalities, and would fit perfectly in the apartment we were beginning to outfit + would inhabit once our I dos had been whispered.

and so we placed it on the floor, in the only spot our tiny, bachelor apartment would allow, and it was another piece of furniture. often sat upon [when the not seating options are a bed and two small chairs, behinds find their way to the comfiest piece of floor], but not seen as much more than just an ordinary rug.

but is it, just?

three years + three different living spaces later, that rug has become the go-to spot for visitors. despite having aquired two cozy armchairs and a couch since the rug's first days, people end up sitting [or more often lying] on the floor.

we open our home + hope that everyone who graces it knows it as a safe space; I think for the most part we have been able to maintain that ideal. the green rug is at the forefront. 

what has become my ordinary tells people to come inside. it opens up the door, gives them the bread and the cup and tells them to seek comfort in whatever way necessary. we dismiss the table in favor of a more intimate dining experience on the floor. together. finding beauty in the spilled food, spilled tears, spilled hearts. 

the green rug has seen many feet + many behinds. and we love it. ohm do we ever love it. it has been more than mere carpet in our home. it has become a friend, a piece on which to sit + love. to be loved. to be connected with, and get connected on.

far from just an ordinary rug.

writing with Lisa Jo Baker for Five Minute Friday. 

hop on over + see how others interpret ordinary.

a weekend c/o instagram {+ lots of hyphens}

our weekends are typically pretty quiet. we're still getting used to the whole having-a-baby-while-still-living-in-a-university-town-with-pretty-much-all-university-minded-friends thing. while it means a never-ending supply of {free!} babysitters, it also means a strange kind of isolation, even if we're in the thick of the noise.

on friday nights, unless there are very strange/emergency circumstances, we have someone come to the house right around Rowan's bedtime + we head out to LIFE for the evening. we aren't usually out late + it's certainly not a date-type-situation, but it's a night out we've been blessed with since Rowan was just three months old.

this past friday night, our longest-standing friend in our community offered to come + babysit {aka watch criminal minds on our couch while Rowan slept} so we could go out. we worshipped, we ate poutine + mozza sticks + we came home before midnight.

to this.

yes, that is a post-it note stuck to our toilet.
yes, there is a bad word written on it.

obviously Joey photographed the offense + uploaded it to instagram.

this is Joey's weekend off, so saturday was spent in our pjs. the only one who got dressed was rowan. 

and that's only because she spit up on her pyjamas.

after an awfully cute sleep.

on sunday morning we went to church -- Joey heading out an hour earlier than Rowan + I, as he was playing with the worship team. Rowan + I arrived at the church {already late} with our crockpot full of chickpea curry, and as I attempted to be supermom + carry all the things into the church in one trip, I spilled half of the curry. all over the interior of my car. so bad. I had to put Rowan back into her seat for a minute while I used two receiving blankets to try + scoop most of the mess off the passenger seat. 

my sunday afternoon was spent hunched over the passenger seat with a bucket of hot water + rags + a toothbrush. 

but it's all good, guys, because we made pizza for dinner + I drowned my crankies in fluffy dough + diet pepsi. 

and this girl.

unquenchable fire

I have a confession to make.

I've been riding on the passion of those around me, allowing the mob mentality to carry me through. it's not that I don't have passion, but that I don't have enough. I have barely enough passion of my own to get by on my own.
I want more -- I need more of Him in my life.

in fewer than two months, I'll be gone. moving back to my hometown for the summer will certainly hold many struggles {interspersed, of course, with much goodness}. the most difficult to surpass will no doubt be forging our own community. for so long I've been a part of a group of believers who, while certainly not perfect, have their eyes set on Perfection + actively seek after Him with their lives. for this group of young people {many of whom live together in what has been a fairly good example of community + real church}, seeking God's heart means running fervently + passionately after it. 

our church back home is a wonderful body. it has been through extremely difficult moments over the past eight years, but it has growth through + in spite of them + is thriving with new pastors + new movements + new excitement. I can't wait to get back to serve in the place where I truly feel at home, the church in which I first fell in love with Jesus. I often, however, while visiting on a Sunday morning, notice a lack of the outward passion + urgency for Jesus I've grown so accustomed to swimming in within my current community. I rarely hear Jesus' name outside a church service, unless my husband or I bring up the topic. I miss the desperate prayer, the hours-long conversations about where we see the Spirit guiding + leading us.

I know what needs to happen. 

I know that if I want to see passion, I need to step out, get radical, and bring passion.

I can't ride on someone else's fire any longer. 

I don't want to.

keeping up appearances

scandal.

I know, it's kind of backwards; usually you see people starting out with blogger + switching to wordpress once they've got their foot in the blogging door or have become a bit more established + know what they're looking for.

I, on the other hand have been blogging for the past ten years, almost exclusively with wordpress + never with blogger.

my curiosity got the better of me + once I set up a blogger account to take a look around, I kind of fell in love. I mean, pretty much everything else google does is gold in my books -- why wouldn't blogger be the same?

I was attracted to the amount of freedom blogger provided to keep up appearances, instead of having to pay to get exactly what I wanted in wordpress. once you're in, you're in; you have full access to change the coding around + make what you wish of the space. + as someone who likes to have things look just so, blogger definitely appeals to me.

but it left me wondering, when I really sat down + pondered my jump from what I thought was blogging perfection to what I always considered to be a starting point.

what am I more concerned with, when it comes to my blog? is it the way it looks, or the content? is it the fact that I can style everything exactly the way I want, or is it the gospel being read on the pages? 

instead of keeping up appearances, I need to let the dirty show. I need to cut through the guck + grime, revealing what's underneath. to show Jesus + let Him shape my appearance, overcoming my need for perfection.

He died a gruesome death so that I might live.

sure, I can live + write in a space that looks nice.

but it's nothing without Him in it.

five.

I was blessed to have all four grandparents, along with all four of my great-grandmothers, alive for at least a portion of my life. As a child, and as I was growing up, I spent a large amount of time with my paternal grandparents, and with my grandmother's mother, with whom I had a very special relationship.

When she lived on her own, I would spend time with her reading books or playing with the little trinkets she always had sitting out for me when I came. {most notable were a Japanese fan + a tiny red dictionary that fit in the palm of my four-year-old hand.}

I loved to sit with her on the white + blue floral couch in her living room, admiring her hands, soft + worn through long, hard years. I remember loving to touch the blue veins clearly visible on the back of her hands, hoping that mine would one day look the same.

Despite my hope of being married outside, because my Granny would not be able to get around the field + wouldn't be able to hear the ceremony against the wind next to the water, we chose to have our wedding ceremony take place in the church where I grew up. It wasn't even really a choice -- Granny had to be a part of the day, and so I was happy to be married in our {fortunately newly renovated + no longer orange-shag-carpeted} church.

Granny moved from my grandmother's house into a special care home earlier this year. My grandfather hadn't been doing so well after a series of small strokes, and caring for both of them had become too much for my already-busy grandmother. The home was a perfect fit for my 97 year old great-grandmother, where her sister-in-law also lived, and where she had a measure of independence alongside much-needed care.

In August, when Rowan was just three weeks old, we took a four-hour drive to visit with her grandparents, her six great-grandparents, and her great-great-grandmother. Those who hadn't already met her were very anxious to greet the new addition to the family, and first among them was Granny.

It was one of the most emotional moments of my life thus far, watching my beloved great-grandmother holding my daughter on her lap, marveling at her tiny feet + praising her chubby {healthy!} thighs. I sat near Granny's chair + tried my best to keep my eyes dry as Joey snapped a few precious photos of the two sharing a special first time together.

We visited Granny at the special care home again while we were still in town and I snuck a photo of her and Rowan, together for what would be the last time.

Granny was admitted to the hospital because of a minor infection about a month after these photos were taken, but my family quickly noticed she was no longer herself. The former teacher who, at 97, remembered each one of her students, when she had taught them, what they had done with their lives, and where they were now, suddenly wasn't sure who was visiting her hospital room. The medication she was on was only making things worse, causing her to be confused + tired.

We were able to come home just over a week ago, and when we visited with Granny in the hospital, I left unsure of whether or not she had fully known who had been there to visit, if she would even remember we were there at all. She hadn't been terribly alert, and only made a few small comments toward the baby, referring to her as "he". I walked out of her room with a very heavy heart. A few days later, my grandmother told me that when she spoke with Granny the day after we had visited, Granny told her, "Courtney has an awfully pretty baby."

It was bittersweet, knowing that though I had just spent what were very likely my last few moments with Granny, at least she knew who I was, and recognized her great-great-granddaughter.

Granny passed away peacefully in her sleep on Thursday morning.

We packed up quickly, arriving home that evening to spend some time with my family as they prepared for the funeral service that was held this afternoon.

It was a beautiful service, truly celebrating who Granny was, and continues to be, in the hearts of those who knew her. There were a number of laughs throughout the eulogy and the few short, memory-rich speeches that followed it, and I believe it was just as Granny would have liked: kept simple, nothing fancy.

five generations represented:

Granny [97], Nanny [75], Dad [50], me [24], + Rowan [3 weeks]

I thought she would live forever. And in the little things -- the mounds of hard candy that were always close at hand, the vivid stories of days long gone, and the blue veins I admired each time I was with her -- she will live on.

make evident my joy

It had been awhile. I knew that much.

I went out one Friday night a few weeks ago, after the LIFE service held by the campus' Christian fellowship group. I was really only intending to do just that -- go out -- but it ended up doing a lot more for me than the feeling of freedom that comes from walking out the door without your exclusively-breastfeeding-three-month-old.

As we sat in the chilly fall night air, everyone sitting a bit closer than they might normally around a dancing fire, I laughed. Most of the things I laughed at, I couldn't even recount the next day -- they were, for the most part, silly little things that would normally only warrant a small titter. But I laughed.

I laughed hard and I laughed long. I laughed so well that one friend turned to another and, while I don't think she realized I could hear her, commented that she had never, in the previous three years she's been here + known me, heard me laugh like like that. I took it as it was meant -- a lighthearted comment -- and continued to giggle with the best of friends.

It wasn't until much later, well into the early morning as I finally crawled into bed, that the weight of the words spoken really hit my heart.

Someone who had known me for years and had spent plenty of time with me in groups where I feel more than comfortable to be myself had never heard me laugh so fully. Me, the girl who was once known for her tendency to laugh at everything, to always have a smile on my face.

I spent a little while crying, big fat tears of disappointment. Disappointment in myself for letting it get to the point where happiness wasn't my default, where my joy wasn't evident.

And then I stopped crying.

It had been awhile. I knew that much.

What I didn't know was how truly necessary it was. How much healing and restoration would come from it.

this is what You do

I've felt them.

The cold hands, feeling around, intertwining with mine.
Reaching around + grabbing hold of my mind, my body, my heart.

Seven years ago, I felt them first. They felt natural, like they had always been there, as though I merely hadn't noticed them there before.

I ran into many arms, trying to prove those hands wrong.
I lost parts of myself I could never get back.
I cried.
I bled.

It was never enough.
The cold hands never loosened their grip.

It took a long time before I ran into the right arms.
Arms that shook those hands away + made me come alive.

Full of shame, guilt + rottenness, I fled from the cold hands + into warmth, into arms offering honour, freedom + new life.

When I bled to try and save myself, I was telling Jesus His blood was not enough to cover me.

The problem was my blood was no good

This is what You do.

the post-birth story

I had a baby.

Three months ago today, in fact. Time goes by awfully quickly.

It has taken me this long to get back to writing. The easy way around it would be to blame how busy things are -- because life with a baby is certainly busy. But that's not the reason. I would have found the time to write if I had been able to write.

I wanted to have my birth story written down while it was still pretty fresh in my mind. I know I will treasure that story for the rest of my life, but I've got to admit it: I was basically forced at gunpoint to write it. Joey poked + prodded me along until finally I sat down to write [+ write, + write], but I had no desire to do it.

I had no desire to do anything, really.

Yes, you've guessed it by now, I'm sure.

Post-partum depression.

Of course, given my past, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

And despite my continued promises otherwise, I kept it bottled up as best I could while living with two people who know me as well as my husband + Alyssa. Alyssa was out a lot from the time the baby was born until the end of September, so I didn't have to do much pretending there. Joey was more aware, I'm sure, than I give him credit. I myself tried to stay as unaware as I possibly could.

The truth is, I felt cheated.

Cheated out of the most precious time a mother can spend with her baby.

Cheated out of the instant love + bond I was supposed to feel.

When Rowan was taken from me, moments after she breathed her first raspy, grunty breaths, at first I thought it was kind of a good thing. I had a few moments to myself to process what had just happened, for my introverted self to recharge after five hours spent in a room with people + one hour of intense labour + twenty-five minutes of pushing.

In the days that followed Rowan's birth, I came to know that despite the extra sleep I was able to get, those first eleven hours my baby spent in an incubator were not good for me. Not good in the slightest. I struggled for weeks to really bond with my little girl, some days not even feeling as though I'd had a child -- and if I had, this one in my arms certainly wasn't mine.

If I'm being completely honest, I've got tears streaming down my face just thinking about it all.

On top of my battle to bond with this child, I was dealing with an immense amount of guilt. Guilt for not being able to get the housework done or cook meals. [Even now I find myself doing the vast majority of the housework simply because I feel too guilty about asking for help.] Guilt for spending time doing the bit of housework I was able to do instead of spending that precious time with my baby. Worst of all, guilt for sometimes not even caring that I was spending time doing other things instead of wanting to cuddle this little girl.

Three months later, I'm doing much better.

I'm able to admit that I've been dealing with these issues, despite my deep shame in feeling the way I have toward this tiny, beautiful being.

I'm able to get up in the morning, excited to see the girl I've missed through the night.

I'm able to look at her all day long, no matter her disposition, and tell her that I love her -- and mean it from the deepest part of me.

I'm able to write.

hello mornings

For the past two weeks, I've been working on being intentional. Not just saying that I want to be intentional. Not just repeating the word over + over to myself, writing it down, or mentally preparing myself to be intentional. Actually bringing intention to my life, every morning.

I've been fairly quiet about it, even in my own house among my husband and best friend, in fear that life with a newborn would get the best of me, I would quit six days in + have to explain myself. Now that I've got two weeks under my belt + am a bit less afraid of the groove ending, I'm beginning to realize that I need to stop fearing my impending failures [otherwise they're more likely to happen!] and live my life with not only intention, but open intention.

The first week of Hello Mornings, following along with the Kept Study, was an introduction to Peter, beginning in Matthew as Peter denied Jesus, and moving into Acts + 2 Corinthians. This past week had us reading through the five chapters in the book of 1 Peter for a quick overview before beginning to dig into the content next week.

In the wee hours of the morning, usually around four o'clock when Rowan wakes for her night time feeding, I've been reading about Peter. I use the YouVersion app to read while she eats, and then I try to get a few extra hours of sleep when she goes back down [Mama needs her rest!]. Once we're all up for the day, I keep coming back to the day's reading, going over it multiple times and underlining an embarrassingly large percentage of the chapter.

What began as a challenge to get myself out of bed in the morning has quickly evolved into motivation to not only start my day off in the Word, but also to stay in those pages throughout my day. I know this is mostly because of the fact that it takes all day to really underline my way through a chapter, but hey, whatever works.

I've remained accountable not only to myself, but also to a group of ladies on twitter, [although I'm not great at checking in, since I'm normally doing the reading for the first time in the middle of the night!]. Apart from mere accountability, these ladies are all over praying for each other, and it's really neat + encouraging to know that a group of women in the Pacific Time Zone are praying for me most days, as I pray for them.

I've often struggled with leaving my quiet time to the late evening, and then never actually getting any quality time in because of busy days, too many things going on, or just plain exhaustion, especially the past seven weeks of having a newborn to care for around the clock. Following a devotional plan along with thousands of other women and being encouraged via twitter every day has made it difficult not to stay on track! I find myself wanting to keep up with the group, to be able to interact with others doing the Kept Study, and even just to know what they're talking about when I read their tweets. Getting up with intention every morning is an easy way to get quiet time in by myself [which I definitely need!] while still keeping me accountable to others doing the same study at the same pace, checking in and sharing what I've been learning as I go.

There are eleven weeks left of the Fall Hello Mornings Challenge, and waking up for my daughter instead of to her cry is the perfect reason to stick with it.

Rowan's story {part three}

{in case you missed them, you can read part one + two of Rowan's birth story here + here}

As the obstetrician came to me + suggested oxytocin to progress my slowed labour, the feelings of disappointment and frustration with my own body overwhelmed me. {Pitocin [artificial oxytocin] was pretty much the last thing I wanted to be involved in my labour + delivery process. I'm no expert, but have read + heard + seen enough to know that can be a gateway to all kinds of other interventions during the birthing process. I would have been too far along at that point to receive an epidural, but many women who receive Pitocin ask for an epidural because of the intensity of the contractions. These newly severe contractions can also cause undue stress to the baby, which heightens the possibility of the use of different extraction tools, and even c-sections. I didn't want to take my chances, especially since the baby's heart rate was already elevated.} I asked if they could just break my water at that point, and we would reassess after an hour, at two o'clock.

My mother had told me numerous times throughout my pregnancy that labour happened quickly for her, and that if my water broke at home, not to wait the 24 hours they say you have before heading to the hospital. I had to get there right away. Boy, was she spot on! Once my water was broken [which took a few tries, but thankfully wasn't too uncomfortable], things moved quickly. Almost immediately after the midwife broke my water, the OB checked me to find that I had already hit 8cm dilated, and she was confident that things were picking up speed + pitocin would be unnecessary [thank you, Lord!].

Transition came on like a beast, and my calm, quiet contractions were no more. Even though I still had two centimetres to go, I was feeling the urge to push big time. With every contraction, I was trying my best to breathe through the urge need to push, using every ounce of my mental + physical strength to keep from pushing. {Pushing the baby further down at that point could have irritated my cervix, causing it to swell + making it more difficult to dilate fully.} The time ticked by slowly, every minute feeling like an hour as the contractions came harder and faster, leaving me with very little time to breathe and regroup in between. When I told them I wasn't sure I could go on, Nicole looked at me and told me I just had to [this was exactly the kind of straightforward personality I needed while giving birth!] and asked if I would like to try the nitrous oxide. I said I would give it a try, and gave the mask a few good sucks before throwing it aside, as it wasn't providing any amount of relief -- it was really just a distraction as I tried to breathe as deeply as possible. Marie checked me just before two o'clock [although I had no idea what time it was + I felt like I had been in transition for ages] and I must have been dilated to a large 9cm, although I have no recollection of her announcing exactly how far along I was at that point [I'm sure she must have let us know, because she had been all along!].

Ten minutes later, Marie + Nicole could tell I was starting to lose steam; I wasn't able to help pushing with the contractions, despite my best [although waning] efforts. Joey had been applying pressure to my back the entire time as I laid on my side [even when I lost control of my bowels -- sad day], and even this didn't seem to help any longer. Marie decided to check again, and at 2:10am, told me I was ready to start pushing. I was going to meet my baby.

{this would be a great place to stop and leave the rest of the story for another post, but I just can't do that to you -- you're getting the full meal deal today!}

I will spare you the grisly details, but I rolled onto my back and held my own legs for leverage as I pushed while Joey held my head forward. Marie applied counter pressure and instructed me to push just a little bit at a time as the baby's head crowned, so as to hopefully avoid any tearing. I don't remember too much, although I know my contractions slowed down a bit, giving me a moment of sweet relief between pushing. I also remember asking at one point if the baby's head was fully out, as I thought I could feel it just kind of dangling there. [It was, in fact, out.] With one last push to get past the shoulders, the baby kind of slithered the rest of the way out [there really isn't any other way to describe it; even Joey said the same thing] and was placed on my chest at 2:35am.

What followed certainly wasn't the beautiful mess of tears you see when a baby is born in a movie. Marie + Nicole both moved very quickly and quietly as they cut and clamped the umbilical cord [they apologized to Joey for not allowing him to do it as we had requested], and wiped the baby off a bit. I was in a bit of shock and still am relatively unaware of what all happened and in what order, but I do know I asked Joey at this point whether we'd had a boy or a girl; he looked at the baby, who was being wiped off by another nurse, and she opened the baby's legs quickly for Joey to see. His face and voice were dripping with confusion as he told me we'd had a girl. [He had been certain throughout my entire pregnancy -- even though we didn't choose to find out the sex -- that we were having a boy.]

Our daughter was whisked away to the warmer on the other side of the room while the obstetrician, who had just reentered the scene, checked me out. [I had only a very small tear -- so small they normally wouldn't even have bothered stitching it -- but since I am redheaded and very fair, they decided to suture it to be on the safe side.] Nicole was explaining that the baby had swallowed some meconium and they had to make sure she was breathing properly.The baby was very grunty, having let out only a few little cries, and Nicole said they wanted to hear "big, lusty cries!" Even after attempting to suction the gunk out of her mouth, they still weren't able to get lusty cries out of her, so after giving me a few more minutes with her, Joey followed her into the nursery, where she was put into an incubator and given oxygen.

At this point, although I'm sure it wasn't on purpose and Nicole was horrified when she returned, I was left alone in the room. I had been cleaned up, Joey had handed me my phone before he left with the baby, and I was so thankful for a few moments to myself. It sounds ridiculous, but other than holding my baby, which was obviously not possible at that time, the only thing I would have wanted was to be alone for a few moments. As an introvert who had been surrounded by people for hours during what was already an exhausting experience, I just needed some time to recharge.

Shortly before 4am [about twenty minutes after they took the baby to the nursery], Nicole came back into the room with a wheelchair to take me to see the baby. I felt lightheaded after only a few minutes seated upright, but I took my time staring at the little being we had brought into the world.

Eleven hours after she took her first breath, she was finally able to come out of the incubator and into our room. By this point, she had a first name: Rowan. It felt like I was really holding my baby for the first time, since the actual first time had been so rushed.

As scary as it was that she was finally here + fully dependent upon me, she was mine.

Rowan's story {part two}

{in case you missed it, you can read part one of Rowan's birth story here}

When we left off, I had just been taken off the monitor after only having been hooked up for a few minutes, since I was already dilated 6cm and was well on my way to 7cm, according to the obstetrician on the unit that night. The nurse in the room, Liz, handed me a hospital gown as the obstetrician told me to get changed and head two doors down to the delivery room -- I was going to have my baby that night, there was no doubt about it.

Joey and I took a moment as I changed to try to absorb what was finally happening. At a week past my due date, I had pretty much come to the conclusion that this would never happen, but here we were! We headed to the other room, me in just my bra and a johnny shirt, and met Nicole, the labour + delivery nurse who would be with us that night. She was just finishing up a chart for the previous delivery [there were only two of us that night, and we had heard the other baby's first cry from the labour room just a very short while before], and then she began to prepare the room for our baby's birth. She was fantastic, explaining the use of each little tool as she got everything ready, and treating us as friends instead of patients. [It was at this point that I realized Nicole was our friend Tiffany's preceptor the year before during her co-op at the hospital, which was a nice little connection!]

We got settled in the room around eleven o'clock, I in the bed + Joey between a chair + my bedside. I had thought going into labour that I would want to move as much as possible through my contractions, but quickly discovered that I was much more comfortable lying down. I certainly had the option to move about -- I was only hooked up to the monitor for a very short while once we got to the delivery room, and only because I had been sick to my stomach a few times and was a bit dehydrated. At this point, Marie, my midwife showed up, having just settled into bed when she received the call that I was in labour + asking if she wanted to join the party. I was so happy to see her -- I had thought the obstetrician would be delivering my baby, which of course wasn't a bad thing either, but had really wanted to go through the whole experience with one of the midwives, and especially Marie. [The hospital where I gave birth has a shared care practice, and so I saw three obstetricians and two midwives throughout my pregnancy. The obstetrician on call that night was the one I had seen most often and the one with whom I was most comfortable, and I was happy she was there in case an emergency situation were to arise!]

For a long while, I just laid in the bed, quietly breathing through the contractions on my own. They became increasingly painful, but still weren't anything to complain about, to be honest. The only trouble I had was dehydration. Because I had vomited a few times that evening + since arriving at the hospital, and also hadn't eaten dinner that night or been drinking very much, my heart rate as well as the baby's were slightly elevated. I tried for awhile just drinking water to try and solve the problem, but wasn't able to keep enough down to really make a difference. They inserted an IV and pumped me full of fluids, which made me feel quite a bit better and worked to lower both of our heart rates. I was also very warm in the room, which posed a bit of a problem because I tend to faint when my temperature changes quickly. Joey and Nicole were constantly going between the bed and the sink, soaking cloths in cold water and putting them on my face and neck, keeping me at a comfortable temperature.

I was checked several times, seemingly by everyone on the unit, and had made it to 7cm, but wasn't really getting much further than that. At midnight, Marie came to me and said I wasn't progressing as quickly as they would like, which is typically half a centimeter each hour. She then spoke the words I dreaded, telling me that the OB would suggest Pitocin if I didn't get much further within the next little while. I asked if they could break my water instead, to avoid needing to artificially induce contractions, and Marie agreed to wait an hour to see if I progressed on my own before breaking my water, and then revisiting the oxytocin option after that, if necessary.


One o'clock came, and I still hadn't made it far enough to rule anything out. The obstetrician had come into the room and was talking to Marie. I had a silent moment of disappointment as the doctor turned to me and suggested we start an oxytocin drip …

{read part three here}

Rowan's story

I realize Rowan is two weeks old + I am just now getting around to posting her birth story, but I've been busy enjoying my newborn! If that's not a good excuse, I don't know what is!

Two weeks ago, on Friday the 13th at 6:11am, I awoke knowing something was very different. My contractions had changed overnight from sharp twinges in my belly that came and went sometimes imperceptibly to more noticeable [although still not painful], definitely crampy pains. When Joey woke up about twenty minutes later, he almost jumped out of bed, he was so excited at the prospect of something finally happening, six days past my due date.

{these contractions were different enough that I knew I wouldn't want to actually be tweeting about them & what was really happening throughout the day, not wanting anyone to know I was on labour until after our baby was born. there was no way that I could have gone the entire time without somehow tweeting about it, so I used an app called Momento to record what was happening tweet-style without actually posting anything online.}

I had had my regular weekly appointment at the clinic the day before, and while everything looked good [dilated to 2cm + fetal heart rate sitting around 145bpm], they wanted to make sure the baby was still doing well and scheduled me in for a biophysical profile on Friday morning [including a non stress test + an ultrasound to check my fluid level]. Our NST wasn't technically scheduled until 9am, and the ultrasound at 10:30, but I knew they would just hook me up to the monitor as soon as I got there anyway. By 8:30 I was settled in the bed in a labour room, the baby was doing everything it was supposed to be doing, and they even noticed some pretty strong contractions on the monitor [which I couldn't really feel at all].

My midwife came in to check me at the end of the twenty minute strip and told me I was still about 2cm dilated, and asked if I would like my membranes stripped again while I was there. She knew I didn't want to be artificially induced [I had an induction date scheduled for Tuesday, July 17th], and this could very likely get things moving a bit faster. The OB/GYN I had also seen at intervals throughout my pregnancy came in to check me [she had been the one to check me the day before & thought it would be good to compare one day to the next] and do the stretch & sweep, and then we were off to the ultrasound portion of the day, although all I wanted to do was stay in that bed & sleep awhile! Fluid levels looked good on the ultrasound, and we got to see a good amount of hair on the back of baby's head as well as a little foot measuring 7cm long. The OB/GYN then told us to have a good weekend [I told her that was a terrible thing to say!] & we headed home to wait yet again.

By 3:30 that afternoon things had definitely become consistent, with contractions coming every 7-10 minutes. They still weren't at all painful -- I could easily talk through them and would miss them if I wasn't really paying attention. Joey and I went for a few little walks around the neighbourhood and around our yard, I ate an apple [I wasn't at all hungry for supper], and we grumbled a bit about the neighbour's pool, wishing we were spending the dreadfully hot day in a nice cool pool instead of our hot, air conditioning-less house.

We decided to watch Mean Girls shortly after 7. Supper obviously wasn't happening as I had been queasy, queasier, and sick. My stomach wasn't having even the lonely apple I had eaten in the afternoon. Contractions were now coming every 5-7 minutes, but I wanted to stay at home as long as possible, since we only had a three minute drive to the hospital.

When the movie finished around 8:30, I got Joey to run to the store for some gum and a few little things, and he put our bags into the car while we waited, just in case it all ended in a mad dash. By this time, contractions were coming every 3-5 minutes, and as much as I knew I had to go, I really just didn't want to leave my house. It was so strange thinking about leaving as two and coming back as three.

I finally managed to peel myself away from my nostalgia and get into the car. We drew a big, smiling face on the board in our kitchen to let Alyssa know when she arrived home that this was it, and stopped at not one but two grocery stores before actually getting to the hospital just before 9:30.

When we arrived at the nurse's station on the Women's & Children's unit, there wasn't anyone there. We stood around in the hallway for a few minutes before someone noticed us, and I meekly said, "I think I might be in labour." We ended up having to go back out to admitting to get some paperwork, and then they took me in to the same labour room I had been in that morning and hooked me up to the monitor once again. My OB/GYN came in a few minutes later, and I praised her handiwork at that morning's stretch + sweep.

I had only been on the monitor for a couple of minutes, but when the doctor checked me and noticed that I was already 6cm dilated, they didn't even bother to finish the strip. It was pretty obvious I would be having a baby at some point that night ...

{read part two here}   {read part three here} 

what's in a name

I'm not the type to have romantic aspects of my life dreamed up in advance. Not once did I picture how my marriage proposal might go, and I didn't have any preconceived ideas about wedding day details. I was definitely not the nine-year-old planning her wedding with a pillowcase draped over her head like a veil.

In the same way, I hadn't really given much thought as to what my future children's names might be -- at least not until I actually had to start thinking about such things.

A few months ago, Joey told me that we had to start looking at names and narrowing down our choices. I was hesitant -- this is someone's name, something that they're stick with for life! We had a relatively simple time choosing a few names each for a boy and a girl, compiling nice little lists fairly quickly to sit on and pare down once the time got a bit nearer.

I looked at those lists of names only a handful of times over the last months of my pregnancy, only really giving them serious attention around week 37. I knew the baby could come pretty much any day and we wouldn't be at all prepared to give it a name! We sat down again with our lists, intending to narrow down our choices to just a few boy and a few girl names. We were able to get the boy list down from seven or eight to four names that we really liked. The girl list, on the other hand, went from five names to eight.

We told no one any of our choices [and still aren't sharing any of the runners up, in case we want to use them with subsequent children], and didn't even have any one name in mind for either a boy or a girl, knowing we would need to see our baby to really know what the name would be.

After our girl was born, we took a bit of time before our families arrived to sit down with that darn list of girl names and see what suited the brand new face we couldn't help but get lost in. Our eyes traveled down the original five names, finding none fit our little girl, and each of us, separately, decided on a name that I had put down, a name that Joey didn't even like when we came across it.

Rowan. An old Irish name meaning "little red one," we thought it was the perfect blend of old and uncommon, without being too weird or old-lady-ish.

Rowan's middle name took a bit longer to find -- we wanted something classy, more traditional, and it had to be a girl's name, not anything unisex. We didn't want "Rowan" to sound like a trendy name, we like that it's an old name, so we wanted something suited to it in that way. She didn't have a middle name until the evening of her second day, when the baby and I were alone in our hospital room.

Eleanor. Very much a girl's name, classy, traditional, and flows well with her first name.

It still feels strange to have chosen a name for someone, especially someone we had known for only a few hours before making such a huge decision. I still have moments when I doubt our choice, not because I don't love the name, but more likely because it's such a big, weighty thing to do, picking a name that will forever be tied to someone as important to us as our daughter.