Mother's Day Meanderings

Ah, Mother's Day. A complicated day. A day that used to be so simple; filled with handmade cards and innocent gifts for the mother I adored. A day that adulthood has made more nuanced and difficult to process. 

I never wanted to be that person that ruined Mother's Day for everyone.  I recognize, and even applaud the fact that churches and individuals have tried to become more sensitive to the pain that Mother's Day can bring to many women, for many reasons. But why shouldn't mothers be celebrated on this one day for all they are and do? My not being a mother does not negate all the selfless ways that mothers care for their children. After all, I have a mother who is 100% amazing at being a mother. So each Mother's Day I would resolve to celebrate fully. I would heartily wish other mothers a happy day. And I meant it! I wanted to be bigger than my own desires.

But if I'm completely honest with you and myself, for the last 15 years or so, Mother's Day hurt. 

Badly. 

Mother's Day highlighted the fact that my arms were empty. 

Empty.

Empty. 

I would head out to church with great resolve to be cheerful and thankful.  Usually I succeeded...as long as nobody kindly recognized my secret longing. For instance, two years ago I sat through a lovely church service on Mother's Day, proud of my sincerely joyful attitude. But then during sharing time, a woman that I greatly admire, sensitively asked for prayer for women who yearn to be mothers and are unable. It opened the floodgates.

I sat in my chair and silently wept, hoping I could pull it together before church let out.

As hope of becoming a mother turned to fear, and fear to reluctant acceptance that motherhood was not in my cards, I tried to comfort myself in lots of ways. Perhaps God had called me to mother in ways other than the traditional definition? I loved my role as an aunt to my eight nieces and nephews! Maybe I was called to fill a special role in the lives of those children by being a dedicated aunt. And oh! Oh how I loved my role as a piano teacher.  I never took for granted the fact that each of those children had one-on-one time with me each week for learning and connection. Maybe that was that was the way that God called me to "mother" the children I came into contact with? It could be enough.

But it didn't take away the ache I had to mother in the truest sense of the word, to be a momma to a little bundle of flesh and potential.

So here I was, in 2016, looking at my very first Mother's Day as a (be still my heart) momma! 

With this newfound role, has come a healthy side of guilt.  You see, for so long it seemed that motherhood was a club that I was excluded from.  I longed so much to be part of this club. I didn't want to be excluded from this group of women just because I didn't have a baby of my own. Couldn't they see that I loved children, wanted to know about their children and their struggles? But it seemed impossible to get my foot in that door.

Now I find myself a part of this exclusive club. And I love it. So much! I love gathering with other mothers and their babies. I love discussing the ways in which we mother. I love this baby of mine. So much! I love mothering even when I don't like all of its aspects. I am sometimes overwhelmed by the strength of my emotion.

So I feel guilty. Because I know there are so many women out there longing for this, still waiting for their membership card to this motherhood club. How dare I feel so happy when for so long I was excluded and others are still being excluded? How do I honor these women? Sometimes I'm not sure how to deal with this question because this pain became such a reflex to me, that I often have to remind myself that I don't have to feel it anymore. 

Our son's name is Julian Zane. Zane is the Hebrew form of John, meaning something along the lines of "gracious gift of God." And he is absolutely my gracious gift from God, with his perfect fingers and toes and smile and laugh and weight in my arms as he goes to sleep. When I give someone a gift, nothing makes me happier than seeing that person enjoying that gift. I want to see that person unwrap that gift, use it, and for that gift to bring happiness. Julian is my perfect gift from God. So I will enjoy him every day. I will unwrap him each morning and enjoy all the moments of bliss. I think that I waited for this long enough that I can claim this, even as I wish this same fulfillment for all the other would-be-mommas. 

This Mother's Day, my first mother's day as a momma, bloomed full of sunshine and happiness. I embraced every second. (Brian assured me that I should enjoy it to its fullest.) Brian brought me coffee in bed as well as a beautiful gift. There was a potluck at church and I allowed that village to take care of my child while I ate with both hands! I napped with my sweet son on my chest, breathing steadily and clutching my shirt. I didn't change a single diaper. In the evening we gathered with family for another meal where I watched others nurture my boy. It was Mother's Day, finally realized.

It was:

perfect. 

The River Runs Dry

(This overly dramatic, sentimental, and sappy post brought to you courtesy of the James Taylor that keeps playing on my Simon & Garfunkel Pandora station. You're welcome.)

This week marks a milestone in the Showalter household.  Julian has been in our lives for six whole months. (Yay!) But this also means I met my six-month-goal of pumping breast milk for him, thus giving myself permission to stop if Julian still wasn't nursing. That if always looming large in my head and heart. As long as I was still pumping, there was a chance that we might still succeed in breastfeeding. This week I had to accept the inevitable reality that this would not be part of the story of Julian and I.

When I became pregnant breastfeeding wasn't even a question.  OF COURSE I would breastfeed! Why wouldn't I give my baby the best, and save boatloads of money all while bonding with, and nurturing my baby in the process? I had heard it can be hard; harder than we're all led to believe.  But I would overcome any pain or frustration presented to me, and I would succeed! It turns out, you simply cannot force a baby to latch who has no interest at all in the breast. It had almost nothing to do with me and my own determination and everything to do with my little guy's preferences.

I had an image in my mind of what breastfeeding would be like and I longed to know that relationship with a squishy little baby. After struggling with infertility for so many years, I relished the opportunity to share this special bond. I was prepared to nurse anywhere and everywhere and anytime he needed me, and for as long as he needed me.  We were going to share snuggles and smiles and gentle caresses. Instead this is what my journey with breastfeeding looked like:  

A pump and syringes and supplemental nursing systems and nipple shields.  All of it, ultimately, unsuccessful.  

Oh, but the success stories! I read so many stories of women who finally gained success in their sixth or seventh month of trying.  I read stories of adoptive mothers who were able to begin lactating and nursed their babies! If they could do it, without the benefit of pregnancy hormones, surely I could figure out a way to make my baby see that nursing was so much better than that darn bottle. Why could this not be my story?

I know what I would say to another momma.  I would say, "look at your beautiful, healthy, happy baby. He is thriving. You are doing the absolute best for him. Don't be so hard on yourself! You did everything you could do. He loves you regardless. Don't you dare think of yourself as a failure! Your little one is so lucky to have such an awesome mother who cares so much." I would try to love and encourage her into knowing what an amazing momma she is.

So why don't I feel this? Why is this not settling into my soul? 

I can't shake the what-ifs. What if I hadn't allowed the hospital to give Julian formula? (But he was so tiny and he needed to eat, and my milk wasn't in yet.) What if I had put him to my breast every single feeding instead of allowing Brian to feed him during the night sometimes? (But Brian taking turns with me was such a blessed relief in those first sleepy days.) Did I do the mouth exercises with him often enough? Did I try nursing often enough or hard enough? What if I hadn't taken that two week reprieve in trying a few months in? (But we both ended up crying violently every time we tried nursing and the stress was not good for either of us.) What if I had held him differently or controlled my emotions better? What if? What if?

What if once I decided just to pump for Julian, I had pumped more often or taken more supplements so my supply wouldn't have dwindled to practically nothing? (But it became so difficult to pump once he became more active and alert, so often crying the entire time I pumped.) 

What could I have done to prevent this failure? Because that's what this feels like - a failure. I have cried buckets of tear over what might have been.  I cried as I packed away the pumping supplies this week, surrendering to reality.  In the end, it is better for me to use my time being present with my little guy rather than fighting his frustration only to produce a few ounces of breastmilk a day for him. Even now I sit here fighting tears as my breasts leak, like some cruel final gasp at a dream that can't come true. It feels like a betrayal of my body.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the incredible support I received from Brian, who held me while I cried and said all the right things, even as I remained inconsolable.  I have had wonderful support and non-judgmental care from my lactation consultant and the wonderful group of other mothers that meet there. I know this is self-inflicted, all of it exacerbated by the worry that this might be my one and only shot at caring for a baby and wanting it to be perfect.  

Through all of this I have learned to be careful about expectations and judgements - the ones we place on others and the ones we place on ourselves. I have now been around enough mothers that I have just thrown all judgements out the window. Your child wants to breastfeed until they're six? Great! Do it. It's more strange to feed your child milk from a cow than from their own mother. You don't want to breastfeed? You have your reasons and mothering is hard. Choose your battles. You want to co-sleep? How cozy! You want to put your baby in a crib across the house? Hooray for getting sleep and having time where your body is your own for a moment. Cloth diaper or disposable diaper? Baby led weaning or baby food purees from Gerber? We all decide what works best for our family and makes each member healthy and happy.

(Also, don't believe the hype about breastfeeding and pumping helping you lose weight.  I put on 10 pounds in the months after giving birth because providing food for another human being makes you hungry!  Turns out this is common, but nobody talks about it lest breastfeeding seem unappealing. Expectations, people.) 
   
So, today I mourn. I might keep mourning tomorrow.  Maybe I'll mourn this until Julian is 18. Who knows? But it is time to physically lay this down, wipe away my tears, and put this energy and emotion into the next thing.

What, you ask, is the next thing? Tomorrow I turn to something I know darn well that I can do: cooking! My body may not want to produce milk for my baby, but I can sure as split pea soup make this child nutritious and delicious food.  He shall have all the food delights that any baby could ever dream of hating and rejecting.  (Because, you know, kids are kind of jerks.) Here's to the next chapter.  Bon apetit!

Shoe Droppings

A few days ago I mentioned that, while I am in a good place in my life currently, there is a foreboding sense that perhaps it is too good to be true,  too good to be lasting.  Perhaps this is setting me up for tragedy.  I do not enjoy feeling this way.  But I have my reasons.


This year has seen tragedy strike my piano studio.  Heart-breaking, devastating tragedy.  The worst kind of tragedy.  Two of my students have lost a parent to death this year.  


At the beginning of the school year the mother of an eight-year-old boy (with two other sons, even younger) was diagnosed with terminal cancer.  She exited this earth just last night, on her birthday.


In February the father of an eight-year-old girl (with another son and daughter, even younger) very suddenly passed away.


The mother that was lost was 38.  The father that was lost was 36.  


There is no sense in this.  This is unjust and cruel.  This is sad beyond any words that can be spoken or written.


These events have shaken me.  To be sure, what I'm experiencing is in no way a comparison to the world-shattering realities both of these families face, and I am not trying to minimize that or elevate where it has taken me.  But these deaths have made me examine my life, question my security, and quite frankly, brought me fear.  


Brian and I are 35.  These things could happen to us.  Why shouldn't they visit our household?  What is keeping tragedy from striking my home?  


I had a moment with my hairdresser (who,like many, has a special knack for  getting me to talk about things I wouldn't normally spill) where I was expressing sorrow for these families.  The night before my appointment I had been in the kitchen with Brian, making a meal, laughing and enjoying his company.  And then I stopped and thought, "here I am having such a sweet moment with my partner, and a few miles away there is a wife who is mourning the loss of her husband, and husband who is caring for a dying wife."  And I felt bad; guilty about the lovely, care-free evening I was able to experience.  I told these things to my hairdresser.  And she, in no uncertain terms, told me that that was exactly what I was supposed to do.  I was supposed to love Brian, hold Brian, and enjoy our time together.  I was not to take that for granted and by having those sweet moments I was helping bring more love to this hurting world.


Many of you know that lately I have been raging over the phrase, "everything happens for a reason."  Not everything happens for a reason.  There is no reason that these six young children should be robbed of their mother and father.  There is no reason this wife and husband should lose their beloved.  


This is not to say that I think nothing happens for a reason.  I do believe that the divine intervenes at times with mystery and infinite wisdom, opening up pathways, providing angels in our lives, or perhaps setting up a road-block.  Sometimes the reason things happen is because of our choices.  But sometimes there simply is no reason.  "Everything happens for a reason" seems to take away our responsibilities as human beings.  Because we are always left with a choice.  We have a choice as to how we use the events in our life.  


These mothers I've referred to, one who survives and one who has passed, have used these events in intentional and life-affirming ways.  The mother who passed shared her experiences, through CaringBridge entries, of living in limbo - trying to live even as she approached what she came to call "her second birth."  She wrote about the joys and the struggles in candid, beautiful and haunting ways; full of grace and always embracing the light.  The mother who lost her husband has shared about that experience as well, through both a blog and honest, heart-breaking, and often hopeful and positive posts on Facebook.  


And both have clung stubbornly to their faith in God.  I use the word "stubborn" because I can't believe their faith just stayed put through these experiences.  I believe they both had to make the audacious decision to remain rooted in this faith.  Regardless of your beliefs, I think you would find both of these women to be inspiring and deeply thought-provoking as they have faced life's most difficult scenarios.  I can't comprehend where they find the strength to carry on.  Still, they have chosen to find beauty and goodness in this life even as they recognize and live with pain.


I don't know where this leaves me.  I don't know that I have a conclusion to all of these thoughts.  I only know that right now I grieve for these families.  But I will also try to celebrate all the beauty they have experienced in their lives, and I will try to celebrate the beauty in mine.  (If you need help finding some beauty, go ahead and watch the video below. May blessing find you where you are.)

Identity Crisis

I am having an identity crisis of blog-sized proportions.  Who am I?  Who is this little blog?  It seems that nowadays everyone has a theme to their blog.  

• There are the cooking blogs with all kinds of healthy, quick, cheap, gourmet, delicious, satisfying, etc. tips a person could possibly desire for any occasion.  I love them.  But these people have the best cameras and photography skills in the world!  Have you seen their food photos?  Go now if you haven't! Mostly I'm jealous of people that make their living this way.
• There are the fashion blogs where a person shows you how she (mostly she) pulls out a dirty hanky, an old tank top from Goodwill, and a clunky bracelet from her dead Aunt Edna's jewelry box, and transforms into a fashion goddess.  (I do not have this skill.  Perhaps I should read more of these blogs.)  Then the blog author models all of these posh outfits.  Who is taking all of these pictures of them!?!?  
• There are the style blogs.  Rinse and repeat the above ideas but instead go dumpster diving for dressers and broken down lamps.  And then voila: your home instantly looks like a stylish New York loft.  Or on the other end, the rooms shown are stylish but completely unaffordable, serving only to make me discontent with what I have.
• There are the, so called, mommy blogs.  Well gang.  I'm not a mommy.  Although I'm sure I could give some awesome advice about how you should raise your children.
• There are the "How to Raise a Family of 15 on $.50 a Month" blogs.  Don't get me wrong.  These blogs have some AMAZING tips - tips I use!  But sometimes I feel about them like I do about extreme couponing.  Which is to say, while I am in awe, I wonder if the time and energy put into cutting costs is truly worth it in the end.  
• There are travel blogs.  These are generally full of helpful tips on saving money, where you should go, what's new and hot, what airlines are best. I only know about the places I've been.  Which may seem like a lot to some of you.  But, it's not nearly enough to start handing out advice.  Also, I only know which airlines I don't like.
• There are knitting blogs: blogs where people knit enough to actually have enough finished projects to show people weekly!!  I may wield my needles like I'm trying to knit my way out of a burning building, but I can't keep up with that pace.
• There are blogs for simple living, organic living, creation care/environmental living.  I'm a total sucker for this stuff.  But I'm not a role model for it.
• Political blogs.  I may go off on a political tangent every now and again but, BLECK!
• Feminist blogs.  I love feminists but we tend to put out some negative energy because when we focus on gender injustices we get, well, pretty ticked.

So I guess in the end, I'm just a standard old "personal" blog; telling my little stories and sharing my life with you.  This space may have elements of all of the above (minus the fashion advice - yikes!) but in the end, I guess I'm just full of words.  Maybe I'll try my hand at some entries that follow the above style of blogging in the next few weeks.  Maybe we'll all wish I hadn't.  :)

About a Birthday Boy

This is the story about a birthday boy who is, at once, both demanding and disturbingly unobservant.


The first part of this story is about Brian's birthday present.  Brian loves to grill, considers it an art form, and makes me much delicious meat.  But the years of hard use have taken their toll on his faithful grill.  Ready to retire the old one, Brian has been eyeing the Big Green Egg variety of grills for a couple of years.  They are cost prohibitive.  Luckily, some new versions of these kamado grills are on the market locally as of this year.  


I had a vision.  Brian would be out of town the three days before his birthday for work.  I would purchase the new grill and have it set up, waiting for him when he arrived.  I couldn't wait for that moment when his eyes would fall upon the new grill, and the recognition of this marvelous thing I had done would light up his face, and he would fall all over me with zealous appreciation.  


So, I purchased the grill, assembled the sucker myself, and waited for our glorious reunion.  He arrived home and immediately I suggested we let the dog out.  We sat on our patio, mere feet from the new grill.  Me, wildly anticipating the moment he would notice.  


Nothing.  Nada.  The dog did his business and we went inside.  


Fast forward an hour.  I come up with another excuse to head out to the patio.  This time I say, "Oh did you notice my cilantro is coming up now."  He would have to face the grill to take in the cilantro.  He swings his head around, says, "how 'bout that," and goes back to staring at nothing.  


Now at this point I'm wondering if this man is playing games with me.  Nobody can be this obtuse.  I become a bit testy because I'm sure he's toying with me.

Fast forward an hour.  I come up with the idea that my plants need watering and won't he come out with me?  Here's where it gets stupid.  I water my plants, that frankly don't need watering, and I ask him if he would please turn off the water and help me wind the hose up.  Feast your eyes upon where the hose is in relation to the grill.  (You may also notice my cilantro to the left.)


He stood, reeling in hose, staring at the new grill and ABSOLUTELY SAW NOTHING!  I briefly considered going back in the house and suggesting he throw something on the grill.  But I could take this charade for not one minute longer.  He walked away from the grill, and I said something to the effect of, "you're so dense."  I agree, it wasn't nice.  Brian, perplexed, walked back to the hose, thinking I was upset because it was leaking water.  At that point I stood by the grill and all but danced my merry jig next to it.  Basically, I pointed at the grill.  He stole every bit of fun out of that gift.  Let's hope it yields some good meat.


Fast forward 24 hours.  We're sitting in a Mexican restaurant for his birthday dinner when I ask him what birthday dessert he'd like me to make him.  (I knew that family was coming over to surprise him that weekend.)  I listed all the usual suspects, things I'm good at making.  Things any mid-western/Mennonite gal is good at making: pie, cake, cupcakes, brownies, etc. He didn't know.  He claimed it all sounded good.  I told him to just pick something then.  He said he couldn't.  


Then he proclaimed: "I want a molten lava chocolate bundt cake with cherry sauce."


?!?!?!?!?!?!


Where in all tarnation did that come from?  


Or, he said, the other option would be homemade cannolis.  


Are you kidding me?  Do I look like I have a hidden Italian grandmother somewhere who has taught me her secrets.  How about we pick something from the repertoire I have established?


I decided to go with the cake option.  Brian, decidedly, made this concoction up in his head based on other desserts he has partaken of.  But for me the search was on to find something that matched his request.  I love trying new things, however, I'd prefer not to do it for company.  Aww geez.


Luckily, I found a recipe that seemed close to fitting the bill.  The Tunnel of Fudge Cake.  (Some of you may remember the original recipe - it was a 1966 Pillsbury Bake-Off winner.  Ahem, my mother remembered it.)  However, this updated version comes from a fellow Hoosier.  I guess we mid-western ladies really can do it all - fancy or plain.

 Here is the link to Annie's Eats blog where I found the recipe.  


I have to say, Brian requested a real winner.  Perhaps this could be a new birthday tradition I could sink my teeth into.

And Now for My Mountain Top Post...

The human spirit really is indomitable.  It does not want to be in the depths.  It fights to buoy itself up, to break through the surface and take a cleansing breath.  There may be moments when we are drinking in mouthfuls of salty water but inevitably (for most of us), we surface.  That is where I'm at today.  At the surface, floating around and enjoying the waves.


Life at the Showalter house is good.  Sometimes I worry that it is too good.  Sometimes I feel guilty about how happy I am, content.  A lot of times it makes me feel as though - even though nothing horrible has happened - I'm waiting for that old proverbial "other" shoe to drop.  Or I guess in this case, I'm waiting for the first shoe.  


At one point in high school I remember lamenting over the fact that I was in a perpetual state of stress.  I was always stressed.  A close friend said to me, "Lisa, you don't know how to function without stress.  If there wasn't anything to stress you out, you would create it."  Ouch.  I wondered if it could be true.  I didn't want to be that person who is just "so busy" and has so much to do and never has time to slow down and enjoy life.  I've held on to the memory of my friend's words and have tried to consciously live in a way that fights this culture's celebration of busy and overworked.  I've not always succeeded.  (I simply don't manage stress well.  I'd love to figure out how to handle things better.  And it's only in the last few years that "no" became a part of my vocabulary.)  But for the last year and a half, I've been slowly learning how to pull it off.


And today I can exclaim contentment.


For the first time in my adult life I am focusing entirely on my chosen vocation: being a piano teacher.  When I began teaching, I was working a full time job as well.  Then I went back to college full time.  After college I juggled teaching with working for my father's business.  From there I transitioned into working at a church.  So here I am, finally, doing one thing - and a thing that I really love.  For a time I felt like I wasn't reaching my potential somehow by only teaching piano.  But it has felt so great, this last year especially, being able to really focus in on teaching, that it's sinking in that this is indeed what I should be doing.  This is enough.  


It is true that I am never going to become wealthy teaching piano (I think this  may be the source of the aforementioned guilt) but I am able to supplement Brian's income as well as take care of this household that I love so dearly without running myself ragged.  Maybe we don't have oodles of excess cash laying around.  But we can pay our bills, take a nice vacation each year, and still have time to enjoy each other's company in reasonably pleasant surroundings.  We will not be sending in our entry forms to the rat race any time soon.  


I will continue to battle stress all of my life, but I am not going to seek it.  Instead I will seek simplicity and peace, even if they are, at times, out of my reach.  For now, I will share with you pictures of my favorite place on earth.  My backyard, the place where I sit and I "consider the lilies of the field."

Where I Park My Tookus

My Sweet Goldfinches

"Pink Lisa" Flowers From a Student

Not Only the Birds Get Thirsty

Many Happy Fires Have Been Held on the Lower Level

This Would Not Be My Blog without a Reggie Picture!  Hoping that you are finding your own places to relax, find peace, and find guilt-free enjoyment.

Weak Week

*WARNING* What follows could be classified as a pity party and has been known in the state of California to cause birth defects and extreme irritation on the part of the reader.

I have never been so happy to bid sayonara to a week than I am to this one.  And here I was just getting ready to write an entry in which I exclaimed from the mountain tops that I am the happiest and healthiest I have ever been.  Thanks universe, for reminding me that life is full of poop.


The week began with a debilitating cold that made me waste an entire weekend sleeping and feeling miserable.  When I wasn't sleeping I was wallowing - and producing more snot than one can possibly fathom.  


Already in a weakened state, I received news on Monday that triggered an 18 hour crying jag.  Granted, I am prone to bouts of crying when I am sick (please tell me this happens to others) but this episode was really quite epic.  I still have a headache from it.


Now, weakened and depressed, my neck decided to become kinked, rendering me sleepless.  I even tried sleeping with one of those ridiculous doughnut looking travel pillows under my neck.  (Okay look, those pillows really do make sleeping on an airplane at least bearable.)  But sleep has been elusive.

Weakened, depressed, and tired, I began yesterday in a very precarious state of mind.  But hope springs eternal and there are always little things to look forward to in a day - like the mail delivery.  I love getting the mail.  I look forward to bringing in the mail.  Sometimes I know it's there and I make myself wait to go get it because the anticipation is just such fun.  But yesterday, the mail carrier approached the house - and just walked on by. 

Hours later I received an email informing me that my favorite store in town, The Shuttle Shop, is closing.  This is my local yarn store - where I learned how to knit and how to knit confidently.  This is where my shy, insecure self branched out and met new friends.  This is the cozy little shop with the fun and quirky owner and where I spent hours sitting on the sweetly battered furniture knitting away happily.  This is where I developed a hobby that I love and a past-time that relieves stress.  This is a refuge in this town for me.  So somehow this felt like the final resounding blow on this already battered spirit.  It felt like every part of my sunny disposition exploded in a gory pool around me.


So when Brian walks in this door in a few minutes and our weekend officially begins, I am shedding this week like an over-ripe snake skin.  I am letting it go and I am going to be happy again.  Because that's how I normally am.  And that's how I choose to be.


Happy weekend to you all.