Our 2013 Christmas Letter
And if you don't...pshh...your loss. (Ha!)
Happy Last-Couple-of-Days-of-2013 from my family to yours!!
And Happy One Month Birthday to my adorable, fussy-pants Noah!
3
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year! (And Happy 1 Month, Noah!)
Well, my fine friends, 2013 has come and nearly gone. I hope that your holidays have been absolutely splendid. We are still in the throes of our Christmas vacation, so spending a bunch of time blogging is not an option. However, I wanted to send out our Christmas newsletter to each and every one of my adoring fans dear, blog-reading friends, even if only virtually. If you care to read the "really important" memorable moments from the past year, follow this link -
Our 2013 Christmas Letter
And if you don't...pshh...your loss. (Ha!)
Our 2013 Christmas Letter
And if you don't...pshh...your loss. (Ha!)
Imagined up by
Jennie
Presenting Shep5...
When I last posted, I suggested that my next post might be a birth story. I didn't expect that it would be nearly December before Shep5 would arrive, nor did I anticipate that it would take me over two weeks to get the birth story down "on paper" (though I'm sure I should have what with all the free-time and extra energy mothers of newborns plus four others have, especially approaching Christmas - ha!). At any rate, I am stringing together my spare moments today, few and far between though they may be, to tell the story.
On Wednesday, November 27th, the day before Thanksgiving, I felt generally crummy. I contracted off and on all day long, but like all the other days I'd done that things settled down when I took a break to rest. My parents were here, and they took care of the big kids for me while I lamented (not-so-quietly) the fact that I was still pregnant four days past my due date. As much as I know a due date is not an "expiration date," there is something about seeing that date on the calendar come and go that just does not do my mental well-being any good. When hormones are raging out of control, my back is hurting, my lungs are straining, and I'm just bone tired, all I want is to have that baby out of me. I'm not one of those moms who loves being pregnant, especially in the last trimester. I'm always happy to trade the discomforts of late pregnancy for a sweet, tiny newborn. And the amount of patience I have while waiting for the baby is directly proportional to the number of days until my due date.
When Sam got home from work, he took me out on a date. We hit up Panera, Rite-Aid (for their awesome sale on diapers), and Big Lots (because I really do love that store). Sam was still hungry after our Panera dining experience so he got himself some chicken tenders at Zaxby's. (This is relevant eventually.) I continued having mild contractions just about every 20-30 minutes, but not close enough or strong enough to care too much about.
That night around midnight, just as soon as it turned "Thanksgiving Day," I laid in bed knowing full well I was going into labor on my own. My contractions were ramping up slightly in intensity and were coming every twenty minutes (like, I could have set a clock by it). This didn't warrant running to the hospital, so I took my second long, hot shower of the night to help me relax and I tried to get some sleep. I was able to sleep through many of the contractions, but I would hardly call it my best night's rest ever. The next morning, I could hear my parents getting breakfast ready for the kids and my mom was no doubt starting Thanksgiving dinner preparations. I got up and took another shower and told Sam he needed to call his mom. My contractions were every ten minutes apart, and my doctor made me promise I would call her when they got to that point. Since this was my fifth pregnancy and delivery, she was fairly confident things would progress quickly (to the point that she actually advised me to keep a shoelace and some extra blankets in my car "just in case" we didn't make it to the hospital). With that on my brain, and not wanting to deliver my own baby in the backseat of either of our vehicles, I called the doctor who told me she'd meet me at the hospital (despite the fact that it was Thanksgiving Day and she wasn't even "on call"). I told my parents Sam and I were heading to the hospital and that I'd keep them posted.
We got there about 10am. By the time I checked in and they took me back to the room, it was 10:30. After a thorough history, hooking up my IV, checking my cervix (I was at 6cm), and some carefree chit-chat with the nurses (who, by the way, were super sweet despite working on a holiday), my doctor came in to break my water at noon. At that point, my contractions were about four or five minutes apart and increasing in intensity. (Please don't ask me what number on a pain scale of 1-10 because I honestly do not know how to answer that question.) When she broke my water, there was "thick mec," which means that the baby had passed their first stool in utero. This is concerning if the baby aspirates that fluid and it gets in their lungs during delivery. When I delivered Ben, my water had meconium in it as well, so I wasn't super concerned, but unlike with Ben my doctor ordered a fluid flush to help clear the nasties out of my uterus and also ordered pitocin as an additional precaution (Nooooo!!!!) because the baby's head did not come down after breaking my water the way all of my others had. This is a concern because a floating head leaves room for the cord to deliver first which can be extremely dangerous to the baby.
As of noon, I texted my dad and told him he might as well put Leah down for a nap and I'd let him and my mom know as things progressed when they should bring the kids over. Sam's mom had just arrived at the hospital.
As expected, the breaking of the water caused the intensity of labor to ramp up significantly, but it was compounded by the introduction of the fluid pumping through my uterus and the pitocin. I continued laboring for about an hour when I started sweating profusely. I could no longer talk through my contractions. And my daggone hair would not stay up in its ponytail (funny the things that we remember...). Sweet Sam retrieved me cool washcloth after cool washcloth and physically fanned me off with whatever he could find and my nurse fetched a giant floor fan and pointed it straight at me. It reminded me of those giant misters that football players stand by on the sidelines. It definitely helped. A few minutes later, tired of hurting and succumbing to the pain, I told Sam to get the nurse because I needed an epidural. He convinced me to let her check me because he didn't want me to have the same regrets as I did with Sarah's delivery (I had the epidural for less than ten minutes before she was born). The nurse checked me and I was nearly complete. She told me if I pushed a bit with my next contraction I could clear the rest of the cervix away. All I wanted was for her to get her hand out of "there," and I'm pretty sure I told her that. (Laboring women aren't very nice.) Lo and behold, I was complete and ready to push, and I didn't need the nurse to tell me that. There would be no epidural - and I was actually relieved. During Leah's delivery the amazing almost-midwife nurse that attended me told me that at the point in a drug-free delivery when you feel like you can't do it anymore, you're almost there. She was right. I should have known. With my next contraction, I said, "I'm going to push!" My doctor providentially walked in the room at that particular moment, heard the report from the nurse, took one look at me and said, "Don't push yet! Someone get me some gloves. We need to break this bed down. Do we have a supply cart?! Get the Stork Squad (pediatrician) up here!" I didn't really care if she had gloves on or not. This baby was coming out and I was not going to not push. The frantic movement of the techs and my doctor and the nurse at the other end of the room didn't faze me in the slightest. I needed that baby out.
Somehow, the team managed to get the bed broken down and my doctor got gloves on her hand in time for three or four tremendous pushes during the course of which I definitely said the words "I can't!" and screamed out loud, both of which my doctor chastized me for ("Yes you can!!!" and "Stop screaming! Just push!"). Within minutes of requesting that epidural, at 1:27pm, there on my belly was a beautiful new baby with a head full of fuzzy blond hair. I laid there in a state of exhaustion and looked at Sam and said, "What is it?!" And with a smile, he said, "It's a boy." It is amazing the relief and euphoria that comes just seconds after that baby is delivered. It's indescribable. Seconds prior I was screaming, quitting, ready to pack up and go home. Then suddenly I was completely relaxed for the first time in months.
Sam cut the cord, and they checked our little boy out. I could hear the doctor and nurses cleaning him up and commenting on how big he was. "I bet he's nine pounds!" I had no idea. I really was not expecting either a boy or a giant baby. Shows you how much mother's intuition is worth. Ha! When they finally weighed and measured him he was 9 pounds 13 ounces and 22 inches long. He scored an 8 and 9 on the Apgar test just like all of his siblings. He was delivered face-down (the way God intended them to be born).
Sam went out and made the announcement to the kids and grandparents in the waiting room.
My favorite part of the day was seeing the whole family march in to meet him.
And even though it might embarrass him someday, I want to commemorate the tears of joy on sweet Ben's face. I don't know that anyone has ever been happier to meet their baby brother.
On Wednesday, November 27th, the day before Thanksgiving, I felt generally crummy. I contracted off and on all day long, but like all the other days I'd done that things settled down when I took a break to rest. My parents were here, and they took care of the big kids for me while I lamented (not-so-quietly) the fact that I was still pregnant four days past my due date. As much as I know a due date is not an "expiration date," there is something about seeing that date on the calendar come and go that just does not do my mental well-being any good. When hormones are raging out of control, my back is hurting, my lungs are straining, and I'm just bone tired, all I want is to have that baby out of me. I'm not one of those moms who loves being pregnant, especially in the last trimester. I'm always happy to trade the discomforts of late pregnancy for a sweet, tiny newborn. And the amount of patience I have while waiting for the baby is directly proportional to the number of days until my due date.
When Sam got home from work, he took me out on a date. We hit up Panera, Rite-Aid (for their awesome sale on diapers), and Big Lots (because I really do love that store). Sam was still hungry after our Panera dining experience so he got himself some chicken tenders at Zaxby's. (This is relevant eventually.) I continued having mild contractions just about every 20-30 minutes, but not close enough or strong enough to care too much about.
That night around midnight, just as soon as it turned "Thanksgiving Day," I laid in bed knowing full well I was going into labor on my own. My contractions were ramping up slightly in intensity and were coming every twenty minutes (like, I could have set a clock by it). This didn't warrant running to the hospital, so I took my second long, hot shower of the night to help me relax and I tried to get some sleep. I was able to sleep through many of the contractions, but I would hardly call it my best night's rest ever. The next morning, I could hear my parents getting breakfast ready for the kids and my mom was no doubt starting Thanksgiving dinner preparations. I got up and took another shower and told Sam he needed to call his mom. My contractions were every ten minutes apart, and my doctor made me promise I would call her when they got to that point. Since this was my fifth pregnancy and delivery, she was fairly confident things would progress quickly (to the point that she actually advised me to keep a shoelace and some extra blankets in my car "just in case" we didn't make it to the hospital). With that on my brain, and not wanting to deliver my own baby in the backseat of either of our vehicles, I called the doctor who told me she'd meet me at the hospital (despite the fact that it was Thanksgiving Day and she wasn't even "on call"). I told my parents Sam and I were heading to the hospital and that I'd keep them posted.
We got there about 10am. By the time I checked in and they took me back to the room, it was 10:30. After a thorough history, hooking up my IV, checking my cervix (I was at 6cm), and some carefree chit-chat with the nurses (who, by the way, were super sweet despite working on a holiday), my doctor came in to break my water at noon. At that point, my contractions were about four or five minutes apart and increasing in intensity. (Please don't ask me what number on a pain scale of 1-10 because I honestly do not know how to answer that question.) When she broke my water, there was "thick mec," which means that the baby had passed their first stool in utero. This is concerning if the baby aspirates that fluid and it gets in their lungs during delivery. When I delivered Ben, my water had meconium in it as well, so I wasn't super concerned, but unlike with Ben my doctor ordered a fluid flush to help clear the nasties out of my uterus and also ordered pitocin as an additional precaution (Nooooo!!!!) because the baby's head did not come down after breaking my water the way all of my others had. This is a concern because a floating head leaves room for the cord to deliver first which can be extremely dangerous to the baby.
As of noon, I texted my dad and told him he might as well put Leah down for a nap and I'd let him and my mom know as things progressed when they should bring the kids over. Sam's mom had just arrived at the hospital.
As expected, the breaking of the water caused the intensity of labor to ramp up significantly, but it was compounded by the introduction of the fluid pumping through my uterus and the pitocin. I continued laboring for about an hour when I started sweating profusely. I could no longer talk through my contractions. And my daggone hair would not stay up in its ponytail (funny the things that we remember...). Sweet Sam retrieved me cool washcloth after cool washcloth and physically fanned me off with whatever he could find and my nurse fetched a giant floor fan and pointed it straight at me. It reminded me of those giant misters that football players stand by on the sidelines. It definitely helped. A few minutes later, tired of hurting and succumbing to the pain, I told Sam to get the nurse because I needed an epidural. He convinced me to let her check me because he didn't want me to have the same regrets as I did with Sarah's delivery (I had the epidural for less than ten minutes before she was born). The nurse checked me and I was nearly complete. She told me if I pushed a bit with my next contraction I could clear the rest of the cervix away. All I wanted was for her to get her hand out of "there," and I'm pretty sure I told her that. (Laboring women aren't very nice.) Lo and behold, I was complete and ready to push, and I didn't need the nurse to tell me that. There would be no epidural - and I was actually relieved. During Leah's delivery the amazing almost-midwife nurse that attended me told me that at the point in a drug-free delivery when you feel like you can't do it anymore, you're almost there. She was right. I should have known. With my next contraction, I said, "I'm going to push!" My doctor providentially walked in the room at that particular moment, heard the report from the nurse, took one look at me and said, "Don't push yet! Someone get me some gloves. We need to break this bed down. Do we have a supply cart?! Get the Stork Squad (pediatrician) up here!" I didn't really care if she had gloves on or not. This baby was coming out and I was not going to not push. The frantic movement of the techs and my doctor and the nurse at the other end of the room didn't faze me in the slightest. I needed that baby out.
Somehow, the team managed to get the bed broken down and my doctor got gloves on her hand in time for three or four tremendous pushes during the course of which I definitely said the words "I can't!" and screamed out loud, both of which my doctor chastized me for ("Yes you can!!!" and "Stop screaming! Just push!"). Within minutes of requesting that epidural, at 1:27pm, there on my belly was a beautiful new baby with a head full of fuzzy blond hair. I laid there in a state of exhaustion and looked at Sam and said, "What is it?!" And with a smile, he said, "It's a boy." It is amazing the relief and euphoria that comes just seconds after that baby is delivered. It's indescribable. Seconds prior I was screaming, quitting, ready to pack up and go home. Then suddenly I was completely relaxed for the first time in months.
Sam cut the cord, and they checked our little boy out. I could hear the doctor and nurses cleaning him up and commenting on how big he was. "I bet he's nine pounds!" I had no idea. I really was not expecting either a boy or a giant baby. Shows you how much mother's intuition is worth. Ha! When they finally weighed and measured him he was 9 pounds 13 ounces and 22 inches long. He scored an 8 and 9 on the Apgar test just like all of his siblings. He was delivered face-down (the way God intended them to be born).
Sam went out and made the announcement to the kids and grandparents in the waiting room.
My favorite part of the day was seeing the whole family march in to meet him.
And even though it might embarrass him someday, I want to commemorate the tears of joy on sweet Ben's face. I don't know that anyone has ever been happier to meet their baby brother.
Okay, actually, they're all pretty smitten.
Even Leah.
And that's the story of Noah Matthew Sheppard.
Our precious Turkey.
We are praising God for a safe delivery and a healthy baby boy. We are so blessed.
We are praising God for a safe delivery and a healthy baby boy. We are so blessed.
Edited to add the relevance of the Zaxby's chicken tenders (that's what I get for trying to write a coherent blog post at 1am) - I had a bunch of people ask how the hospital's turkey and dressing was. Because Noah was born after "lunchtime," I missed out on turkey and dressing...but they did give me a turkey sandwich around 2pm. That counts, right? Poor Sam didn't get to eat anything until around 4pm that day, and naturally, nothing much was open except for Cracker Barrel (so it turns out he had a nice, solo, sit-down meal on Thanksgiving Day). As it turns out though, he joked that he was glad he'd stopped for those tenders because he really would have been hungry if he hadn't had those to tide him over. And that's the story of the chicken tenders. It's as if he knew... Ha!
Imagined up by
Jennie
Fewer Words Wednesday (Because we all know I don't "do" wordless)
Rather than focus on the recent failure that was my "Facebook hiatus," I'm going to instead do a brief report on the best days of our life.
The ones that look like this:
Being able to take creative license with the way toys are actually supposed to be played with...
So to that lady at the grocery store tonight who scoffed at me and my ginormously pregnant belly as I tossed two little girls into a car cart for a speed run through Publix, I say this - maybe you "don't miss those days" because you didn't realize what you had while you had it. Maybe I agree when you say, "Better you than me," because even on the hard days, I know that these babies are a gift that God has lent to me but for a short time and I'm able (in retrospect at least) to appreciate their charm and wit and shenanigans and pure, unadulterated love for each other and for Sam and me.
For now, I wait (however impatiently and uncomfortably) for the arrival of our newest blessing. And I pray that he or she will know from the moment they are born that they have been loved from the moment we found out they existed. They have a home in our family. And we are so glad God chose us for him or her.
(Hey, if you've got a minute or two and care to wager a guess as to the arrival stats of Shep#5, click here.)
Hopefully my next post will be a birth story.......but I'm not going to get my hopes up that it will be within the next 10 days. I've been burned too many times with unwarranted optimism. (Such is life as a cynic, I suppose!) Hope you've all been blessed in (but not necessarily because of) my absence!
The ones that look like this:
Being able to launch and re-launch and take home a rocket for the first time in four years at the annual RA rocket launch.
Being able to literally lay down during school lessons, because, for some reason, this works for our wiggle worm.
Being able to emulate your big sister. For better or for worse.
Exhibiting OCD tendencies early on - by ordering the cleaning products from under the sink in a nice, neat row while Mommy tends to something in the next room for a total of 15 seconds.
Prepping for Shep #5 (10 days and counting until the due date, folks!)
Quality sister time on the backyard swing...clothing optional, smiles required.
Monday mornings. The same whether you're 7, 27, or 57.
One on one time with this girl, her reaching arms, and her sad little plea of "Bees!" (which is please to the unacquainted listener).
The unfailing smiles and imagination of this girl and her potato chips in a backyard hideaway.
Today was a great day.
And as the clock ticks down on our time as a family of a mere six - I feel the need to vocalize how abundantly blessed I realize that I am.
For now, I wait (however impatiently and uncomfortably) for the arrival of our newest blessing. And I pray that he or she will know from the moment they are born that they have been loved from the moment we found out they existed. They have a home in our family. And we are so glad God chose us for him or her.
(Hey, if you've got a minute or two and care to wager a guess as to the arrival stats of Shep#5, click here.)
Hopefully my next post will be a birth story.......but I'm not going to get my hopes up that it will be within the next 10 days. I've been burned too many times with unwarranted optimism. (Such is life as a cynic, I suppose!) Hope you've all been blessed in (but not necessarily because of) my absence!
Imagined up by
Jennie
Fun Friday...Quotable Quotes
I'll get straight to the point. These are actual conversations I've had with my family members of late. For your reading pleasure.
Ready, set, go!
Me: (in bed trying to get comfortable) I can't sleep because I keep hearing this grinding noise in my neck.
Sam: (with a smirk) Maybe you should get some earplugs.
Me: (in the car, just making conversation with the kids) What do you like best? A cow, a horse, or a donkey?
Sarah: Horse!
Abby: Well, actually, a goat.
Ben: Do I have to pick?
Me: (assuming he's taking his usual diplomatic stance on favorites) What is it, Ben? Don't want to hurt any of their feelings?
Ben: No. I just don't like any of them.
(Clearly he inherited his mother's feelings about farm animals.)
While discussing Halloween costumes and explaining to Abby that I would prefer for her to wait to be a witch until we can borrow Grandmom's awesome hat (or really never, but you know) Sarah pipes up, "Why does Grandmom have a witch hat? Did she have a coupon?" (I think you really have to know Joyce to appreciate how perfect this comment was.)
Sarah: I'm afraid of the dark! I don't want to close my eyes.
Sam: What do you see when you close them?
Sarah: Bats.
Sam: We don't have bats in our house.
Sarah: Well...is the alarm on?
Sam: Yes, the alarm is on.
Sarah: So bats and bad guys can't get in?
Sam: Right. And we don't have bad guys here. They all live in California. Sorry, Mrs. Sharon.
(Sweet follow-up the next morning)
Sarah: I didn't dream! And I held Abby's hand and I stayed in my bed all night!
As we checked into our first hotel in Montreal on our trip, the kids went downstairs to look at the pool (apparently, the only reason to go on vacation at all)
Abby: They don't have a hot tub.
Me: Not all hotel pools have hot tubs, Abby.
Abby: Do Canadians know what hot tubs are?
Maybe I shouldn't have laughed at this, but it's not like Canada is behind the Iron Curtain or anything.
Abby: Mommy! Sarah's sucking on her fingers again!
Me: Sarah Katherine!!!
Sarah: Mommy Sarah!!!
Sarah: You don't fit through small doors because you have a baby in your belly.
Sarah: When you bounce "up and down, up and down" the baby goes up and down too! (Seriously though, there is very little bouncing being done these days.)
I was singing different tones to Leah at different pitches while I was changing her diaper and she was doing her best to copy me, but she clearly prefers the lower notes. I said to her, "You can't go high?" And she immediately smiled, waved, and said, "Hi!" Duh, Mommy. Of course I can say "hi."
(At the dentist after having two, pretty large teeth extracted)
Dentist: Ben did great. I wish all of my patients were as relaxed as he was.
Ben: (shrug) I didn't even know they'd already pulled my teeth out. I thought they were still getting me ready. Ahh, to be blissfully oblivious like Ben.
Sarah: Do we do "finders keepers" in this family?
Me: I don't think so.
Sarah: So..."finder NOT keepers?"
Sarah: We're having sausage for breakfast?! Yummy!!! (pause) Let's name the baby "Sausage!"
And one final one for the road -with 4.5 weeks to go at the time of the photo:
Ready, set, go!
Me: (in bed trying to get comfortable) I can't sleep because I keep hearing this grinding noise in my neck.
Sam: (with a smirk) Maybe you should get some earplugs.
Me: (in the car, just making conversation with the kids) What do you like best? A cow, a horse, or a donkey?
Sarah: Horse!
Abby: Well, actually, a goat.
Ben: Do I have to pick?
Me: (assuming he's taking his usual diplomatic stance on favorites) What is it, Ben? Don't want to hurt any of their feelings?
Ben: No. I just don't like any of them.
(Clearly he inherited his mother's feelings about farm animals.)
While discussing Halloween costumes and explaining to Abby that I would prefer for her to wait to be a witch until we can borrow Grandmom's awesome hat (or really never, but you know) Sarah pipes up, "Why does Grandmom have a witch hat? Did she have a coupon?" (I think you really have to know Joyce to appreciate how perfect this comment was.)
Sarah: I'm afraid of the dark! I don't want to close my eyes.
Sam: What do you see when you close them?
Sarah: Bats.
Sam: We don't have bats in our house.
Sarah: Well...is the alarm on?
Sam: Yes, the alarm is on.
Sarah: So bats and bad guys can't get in?
Sam: Right. And we don't have bad guys here. They all live in California. Sorry, Mrs. Sharon.
(Sweet follow-up the next morning)
Sarah: I didn't dream! And I held Abby's hand and I stayed in my bed all night!
As we checked into our first hotel in Montreal on our trip, the kids went downstairs to look at the pool (apparently, the only reason to go on vacation at all)
Abby: They don't have a hot tub.
Me: Not all hotel pools have hot tubs, Abby.
Abby: Do Canadians know what hot tubs are?
Maybe I shouldn't have laughed at this, but it's not like Canada is behind the Iron Curtain or anything.
Abby: Mommy! Sarah's sucking on her fingers again!
Me: Sarah Katherine!!!
Sarah: Mommy Sarah!!!
Sarah: You don't fit through small doors because you have a baby in your belly.
Sarah: When you bounce "up and down, up and down" the baby goes up and down too! (Seriously though, there is very little bouncing being done these days.)
I was singing different tones to Leah at different pitches while I was changing her diaper and she was doing her best to copy me, but she clearly prefers the lower notes. I said to her, "You can't go high?" And she immediately smiled, waved, and said, "Hi!" Duh, Mommy. Of course I can say "hi."
(At the dentist after having two, pretty large teeth extracted)
Dentist: Ben did great. I wish all of my patients were as relaxed as he was.
Ben: (shrug) I didn't even know they'd already pulled my teeth out. I thought they were still getting me ready. Ahh, to be blissfully oblivious like Ben.
Sarah: Do we do "finders keepers" in this family?
Me: I don't think so.
Sarah: So..."finder NOT keepers?"
Sarah: We're having sausage for breakfast?! Yummy!!! (pause) Let's name the baby "Sausage!"
And one final one for the road -with 4.5 weeks to go at the time of the photo:
"I didn't know I was pregnant."
Happy Weekend-ing to You All!
As for us, we are having our first-ever yard sale. Wish us lots of success unloading our excess. And if anyone has any tips they're dying to share with us, I'm all ears.
Imagined up by
Jennie
Whatever You Do...
I'm not going to blame my Facebook departure on anything other than my inability to cope with differing opinions and bad news. (For the record, I'm never particularly great at coping with these things, but pregnancy hormones are having a field day with my emotional state right now.) However, if you'd like a small glimpse into one of the things I read that I can't shake, and if you happen to not have stumbled across it in your day-to-day, here is Matt Walsh's blog post entitled "You're a stay-at-home mom? What do you DO all day?" (Many apologies if you think I'm about to beat a dead horse. That's not my intention!)
Let that be our starting point, and I will try to explain some of the thoughts I've had since reading it.
When I first read it, I found myself nodding along. The irony of this was not lost on me. Five years ago, reading a blog post like this would have had me shaking my head (and probably my fist) as I thought things like, "How dare this guy demean working moms in this way?!" Having entered the realm of "staying at home" nearly three years ago, however begrudgingly, (!!!! Say whaaaattttt!? Where has the time gone?!), I obviously have a different perspective on not only the task of being at home, but the title of working mom.
As I read it now, the words paint for me a picture of a man who values the work his wife is doing at home with their children. It shows a respect for the vocations of wife and mother. And it suggests (albeit not subtly at all) that these positions are worthy. To stay-at-home moms who don't get performance appraisals, pay increases, promotions, or awards, words like these are invaluable. Yes. Even from a complete stranger. (Note to husbands - they'd be even better coming from you. wink, wink)
Thinking back on how I would have read it five years ago, I'd have heard a man who had no appreciation for my need to exercise my brain, use my education, set an example for my children by working hard and being successful in my career, and my adept ability to manage both a home and a career. The guilt I was already told I should feel for leaving my kids in someone else's care all day long would have been compounded. I would have felt devalued as a successful career woman.
But...why? Why would I have felt this way?
Because in my feeble mind, the only way to pour value into one thing is to rob it from somewhere else.
Thank GOD, it doesn't work that way.
My God - the Creator of the universe, the One who knew me before I was conceived, the One who redeemed my sin with the blood of His Son - is the giver of all value.
This is good news, folks. Because at the end of the day, it doesn't matter what Matt Walsh and his blog followers think of you or me. Or what our Facebook friends think is true. Or what the eye-roller at the grocery store thinks as you check out with your whole brood along for the ride. Or what the mom at the coffee store drive-thru says under hear breath as you grab an afternoon pick-me-up for yourself and your coworkers back at the office.
There's only One opinion that counts. And that opinion comes backed up with grace upon grace, who knows we'll screw up and loves us unconditionally anyway.
The problem is that our identities are tied up in what we do instead of who we are. Our value doesn't come from accolades and performance, whether at our workplace or in our homes. It doesn't come from a tidy home or a merit-based promotion. Our value comes from the God who created us and loves us.
What does this have to do with "work," you ask?
Because we all work. Men and women, white-collar and blue-collar, at the workplace and at home, earning six-figures or barely making ends meet. I'm not going to suggest that one works harder than the other or has a more valuable job. Our culture is good enough at that without one more person chiming in on the matter.
Instead, I want you to think of the last person you encountered (or anyone you've ever met) who embodied these verses:
It's the breakfast attendant at the Residence Inn in Amelia Island, Florida who not only walks around with her wet rag ready to sop up the syrupy mess my kids will undoubtedly leave behind but with a sheet of stickers and coloring pages to pass out to every child in the room simply because she loves bringing joy to their faces.
It's the janitor at our church who sings worship songs while he vacuums.
It's the hostess at Chick-Fil-A who literally will not let me carry my own tray or retrieve my own highchair.
It's the exhausted woman at the grocery store with a cart full of kids who patiently stands her ground with the one child who is pitching a fit, despite the fact that it would be easier to just put the box of Dora fruit snacks in the cart and continue on down the aisle.
It's the butcher who makes it a point to smile and chat with every single customer who walks in his store, and won't let you leave without a brown paper bag full of bubble gum for the kids and a personal escort to carry your bag of meat to your car.
The Bible says whatever you do, do everything in Jesus' name because we are working for God, not for men. Our goal should be for our actions to bring glory to Him. Sometimes it may not seem like we have a glamorous position in life, because our culture says that to be successful we have to put so many hours in, make so much money, have such-and-such a degree. Sometimes it may seem like our credentials, our finances, our accolades merit more respect than others. Sometimes we just need to extinguish the chatter of our culture, so we can hear the words of the one that matters. On any given day, I may fall short of my best, but I can rest easy knowing that God's mercies are new in the morning. I can pick myself up, dust myself off, and try again. I think it bears noting that my best and your best are two entirely different things. Let's do our own personal best. Period.
God calls us to work and to work hard at whatever we do.
I don't know about you, but I think that's an excellent place to start this day.
Let that be our starting point, and I will try to explain some of the thoughts I've had since reading it.
When I first read it, I found myself nodding along. The irony of this was not lost on me. Five years ago, reading a blog post like this would have had me shaking my head (and probably my fist) as I thought things like, "How dare this guy demean working moms in this way?!" Having entered the realm of "staying at home" nearly three years ago, however begrudgingly, (!!!! Say whaaaattttt!? Where has the time gone?!), I obviously have a different perspective on not only the task of being at home, but the title of working mom.
As I read it now, the words paint for me a picture of a man who values the work his wife is doing at home with their children. It shows a respect for the vocations of wife and mother. And it suggests (albeit not subtly at all) that these positions are worthy. To stay-at-home moms who don't get performance appraisals, pay increases, promotions, or awards, words like these are invaluable. Yes. Even from a complete stranger. (Note to husbands - they'd be even better coming from you. wink, wink)
Thinking back on how I would have read it five years ago, I'd have heard a man who had no appreciation for my need to exercise my brain, use my education, set an example for my children by working hard and being successful in my career, and my adept ability to manage both a home and a career. The guilt I was already told I should feel for leaving my kids in someone else's care all day long would have been compounded. I would have felt devalued as a successful career woman.
But...why? Why would I have felt this way?
Because in my feeble mind, the only way to pour value into one thing is to rob it from somewhere else.
Thank GOD, it doesn't work that way.
My God - the Creator of the universe, the One who knew me before I was conceived, the One who redeemed my sin with the blood of His Son - is the giver of all value.
This is good news, folks. Because at the end of the day, it doesn't matter what Matt Walsh and his blog followers think of you or me. Or what our Facebook friends think is true. Or what the eye-roller at the grocery store thinks as you check out with your whole brood along for the ride. Or what the mom at the coffee store drive-thru says under hear breath as you grab an afternoon pick-me-up for yourself and your coworkers back at the office.
There's only One opinion that counts. And that opinion comes backed up with grace upon grace, who knows we'll screw up and loves us unconditionally anyway.
The problem is that our identities are tied up in what we do instead of who we are. Our value doesn't come from accolades and performance, whether at our workplace or in our homes. It doesn't come from a tidy home or a merit-based promotion. Our value comes from the God who created us and loves us.
What does this have to do with "work," you ask?
Because we all work. Men and women, white-collar and blue-collar, at the workplace and at home, earning six-figures or barely making ends meet. I'm not going to suggest that one works harder than the other or has a more valuable job. Our culture is good enough at that without one more person chiming in on the matter.
Instead, I want you to think of the last person you encountered (or anyone you've ever met) who embodied these verses:
And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him. Colossians 3:17For me, it's the little old man at the dump on the eastern shore of Maryland who couldn't have been a day under 80, hopping around tossing reeking trash in the scorching midday sun with a smile on his face like I've never seen before.
Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men. Colossians 3:23
So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God. 1 Corinthians 10:31
It's the breakfast attendant at the Residence Inn in Amelia Island, Florida who not only walks around with her wet rag ready to sop up the syrupy mess my kids will undoubtedly leave behind but with a sheet of stickers and coloring pages to pass out to every child in the room simply because she loves bringing joy to their faces.
It's the janitor at our church who sings worship songs while he vacuums.
It's the hostess at Chick-Fil-A who literally will not let me carry my own tray or retrieve my own highchair.
It's the exhausted woman at the grocery store with a cart full of kids who patiently stands her ground with the one child who is pitching a fit, despite the fact that it would be easier to just put the box of Dora fruit snacks in the cart and continue on down the aisle.
It's the butcher who makes it a point to smile and chat with every single customer who walks in his store, and won't let you leave without a brown paper bag full of bubble gum for the kids and a personal escort to carry your bag of meat to your car.
The Bible says whatever you do, do everything in Jesus' name because we are working for God, not for men. Our goal should be for our actions to bring glory to Him. Sometimes it may not seem like we have a glamorous position in life, because our culture says that to be successful we have to put so many hours in, make so much money, have such-and-such a degree. Sometimes it may seem like our credentials, our finances, our accolades merit more respect than others. Sometimes we just need to extinguish the chatter of our culture, so we can hear the words of the one that matters. On any given day, I may fall short of my best, but I can rest easy knowing that God's mercies are new in the morning. I can pick myself up, dust myself off, and try again. I think it bears noting that my best and your best are two entirely different things. Let's do our own personal best. Period.
God calls us to work and to work hard at whatever we do.
I don't know about you, but I think that's an excellent place to start this day.
No work is insignificant. All labor that uplifts humanity has dignity and importance and should be undertaken with painstaking excellence. ~Martin Luther King, Jr.
Imagined up by
Jennie
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