success and perspective

Some days, success is defined with a "yes" to this one simple question:

Is everyone still alive?

Today wasn't neccessarily one of those days, but it got close at times. My parents, who were here for a week, left yesterday. Mr. Kenobi, who had Obi-3's first week of life fully off from work, plus several days of vacation over the past two weeks, left early for a full and hectic week at his office.

The boys and I were truly on our own, and I was determined to try as normal as possible of a routine as I could. I'm still learning what it means to have three children, and I'm also re-learning the nuances and needs of living in Baby Standard Time. Normal days don't always include meetings or outings. However, today was the staff meeting for my part-time work, so off we went.

The morning hadn't really started well and I'd barely eaten a bite of breakfast in the midst of managing three hungry children in need of my attention. Fortunately, I get to bring my children with me to staff meetings, and at least they were well-fed. On a good day, they play and read in the adjoining room (or nuggle in my arms, in the case of Obi-3) during our meetings. Today started out as a good day, but soured sometime after Obi-1 decided to curtail the game of "Battleship" he had going with his younger brother, and Obi-2 decided to start crying and protesting loudly as Obi-3 drifted off to sleep.

I lost any profession image I might have had when we arrived. The scene drained most of the patience and remaining energy. I started the day with good intentions, but now wondered if I could keep perspective through lunchtime. Instead of cheerily leaving the meeting as a capable and well-adjusted mom, I left carrying a crying 4-year-old on one hip, a diaper bag trailing behind me, and gratefully accepting help from a friend who carried the crying baby. Uffda.

It would have been humiliating, had everyone not been so gracious. I was also so exhausted I really didn't have the energy to get embarrassed. In that loud and sad march to the minivan, I remembered why I originally left full-time employment, and why I'm grateful my family doesn't need a second full-time income during this season of life.

Once home, we regrouped. I fixed the noisy older Kenobis PB & honey sandwiches, and a "fuzzy milk" with our espresso machine as a special treat for lunch. Once everyone was eating, I made an announcement: immediately following lunch, we would have rest time - for all of us. Sometimes, the boys protest naps. Today, either they were feeling as tired as I was, or they realized that protest might send Mama beyond the end of her rope. Whatever the motivation, I received boyish cooperation at exactly the moment I needed it, which is nothing short of a divine intervention.

This is why the day wasn't the hardest I've ever faced (or probably anything to compare with what's ahead someday!) We all napped. You know that phrase, "sleep when the baby sleeps?" Let me expand that advice: Sleep whenever you can. As much as you can. Always.

I slept, Baby Obi slept, and big boys slept. It is amazing what a little rest can do to renew your patience & perspective. Our late afternoon had a fair share of challenge, but these were more private (loud protests in my home are a little kinder to my ego than the same protest in front of friends & coworkers). When Daddy got home, clearly exhausted, he had just missed our neighbor, who had brought us a delicious and satisfying meal for dinner. Wahoo!

As I write this, knowing I have little time to edit, Mr. Kenobi has begun reading the fifth book in the Little House series. He's holding a sleeping Obi-3 in his arms, I've just finished dishes, and we may have a few moments together before he tries to catch-up on a bit more work. We are all alive, and tomorrow is a new day.

he's here

Baby Fig is here!!!

Born June 20th, but I'm just getting things posted. I'm now Mama to 3 sons, and completely and hopelessly outnumbered by handsome. adoring guys around here. I love it.

For statisticians out there:

8 lb, 4oz

22 in long

14 1/2 in head (really the most important stat)

1:07 pm

Truly beautiful according to everyone.

I will try to post a couple photos when I don't have Obi-3 in my arms. For now, love to you from the Kenobis!

nope, not yet

I've never been this pregnant.

I know... one is either pregnant or not. There is no "more" or "less" pregnant. Still, I've never carried a child for this long, so I feel it's accurate to say I'm the most pregnant I've ever been. Today is one week past my due date. Rather than going through all of the reasons this should not be concerning or even abnormal, I'm just going to say this: I'm well within a healthy window of time for this pregnancy.

However, the fact that I haven't had the baby yet is concerning for many other people. Their concern is starting to give me a bit of an identity crisis. Daily, sometimes more like hourly, certain folks check in with me "just to see if anything is happening." One of these people is a relative who will definitely be called when labor begins, since we're planning on her staying with the boys. I have explained more than a few times that she needn't worry about missing the news, but still she gives us a ring just to see if there are any changes.

Here's the thing: if you're one of these people, I like hearing from you. I'm not asking for you to stop getting in touch, because I don't really mind the calls or emails. I actually like hearing from you! The identity crisis begins when there is nothing else to talk with me about, once I reply that I'm (still) not in labor. The conversation looks something like this:

(phone rings...)

Me: hello

You: hi, just checking to see if Baby Fig has arrived yet.

Me: nope. No baby today. I will let you know when it happens. I promise!

You: Really? Are you having any signs of labor at least?

... sidenote: This is sometimes phrased even more personally. I've heard things like, "Are you dilating? Are you effaced? Has the baby dropped?" I'm not sure that people (including some that I don't know very well) realize they are asking about a gynecological exam result... Seriously?

Me: Nothing to get excited about. How are you?

You: Oh, fine. Just wanted to call to see if there was any news.

Me: Oh.

You: Oh. Well, bye, then.

Here's the problem. A few weeks ago, I was an interesting person (or so I told myself). I had people call me occasionally, and they weren't asking about medical results. They, and I, found something else to talk about. When I asked them about life, they had things going on. It was... well... normal.

Suddenly, once I got close to my due date, every reason to visit with me started to fade. I now receive phone calls with a single question. People email or call other people to get an update, so a few folks seem to be designated carrier pigeons. There is no, "How're ya' doin?" with most of these friendly check-ins. There is no, "How are the boys?" There is rarely any news about their lives. It's all about my cervix, and I'm starting to get annoyed at the thought of lots of other people thinking about that too much.

In fact, the extra time has given us Kenobis a chance to get out and have some adventures while we await our littlest Obi. Lately, fewer people have stopped in our home just to chat or have a latte, so we've been sitting outside and catching the neighbors for afternoon playtimes. Since our routine of school and activities ended last week, we've enjoyed a pace of life that includes strawberry picking and museum days. These have been sweet, and given me much to visit about - if only somebody were more interested in those topics.

So, in case you were wondering: No. Baby Fig has not arrived yet. However, I am certain we will meet this little one soon. Very soon. I will not offer more details on why I'm so certain, except to remind you that no woman stays pregnant forever, even one who is this pregnant, and I'm not that exceptional.

grinchy

With only a week to go before my due date, I'm ready to meet Baby Fig. People keep asking Mr. Kenobi if I'm "nesting." While the inner pits (a.k.a. inside our house) could definitely use some cleaning, I have been ferociously working (and delegating) outside work. This has led to some crazy moments that should be chalked up to "nesting" - or something other than sanity.

Take, for example, my beautiful gardens. The newly planted flowers and greenery are actually surviving. This is a miracle unto itself, but the fact remains that I may actually get some blooms and vegetables on this shady property. Of course, much could still go wrong on this plan, but at least we've made it home with plants, put them into the freshly amended soil, and covered with what seemed like acres worth of bark dust. It looks nice, and things are growing.

The problem lies with neighborhood animals. Or perhaps, just perhaps, the problem lies with my present condition. I'm not admitting any intolerance, but have to confess to insisting that Mr. Kenobi string up makeshift fencing with stakes and bright pink twine to keep passing doggies from tromping through the itty-bitty plantings. My hope was, of course, that these fences would also restrain the mysterious kitties who frequent my yard as a litter box.

The fence has kept dogs off the gardens. That, and perhaps I'm biased, but it seems that most dog owners are more aware of their pets' activities, since dogs are usually on a leash while moseying about the neighborhood. Cats, meanwhile, seem to roam unsupervised, especially at night.

I have a problem with this. First, if you're a cat owner, please know that I love you (if I know you) and even like your animal. I'm allergic to him or her, so I probably won't ever be a "cat person," but I am an animal lover in general. However, I also recognize that your beloved animal is put at risk when you open the door, shoo him outside, and wait until morning to welcome him back for a can of tuna. There are predators, cars, and other dangers that, in my opinion, are reasons enough to keep a litter box & pet indoors or supervised on leash. That, of course, and municipal codes requiring your responsibility.

Ah, but yes. Cats like to roam, don't they? Well, then somebody is going to be unhappy: you, me, or your kitty. See, maybe it's pregnancy brain, but I have come to the conclusion that your cat's right to roam ends where my mulch begins. Especially when cat poo is a known risk for health. In particular, my health and little Baby Fig. Herein lies where I'm toeing the line of becoming the neighborhood crazy lady.

Let me be clear: I like animals, and don't want to harm anyone or their pets. So, I've looked at humane, kind, even loving ways to keep the kitty poop out of my gardens. I've used spray bottles and shower settings from the water hose. I've tried cayenne pepper. (Incidentally, this does work, but cayenne must be purchased in bulk if you ever water things and/or have more than a few square feet of garden space.) I've had Mr. Kenobi put up fences, both with string and stakes, as well as fully fencing the back yard. I've even tried - gasp! - directly telling neighbors that I don't like the cats roaming about.

Still, kitties and their souvenirs pepper my flower gardens, scratch up baby blooms, and generally annoy me. I used to have some measure of perspective, but the recent season of allergies (intolerable, especially since I can't take any real medications right now!) and daily growth of my tummy have somehow diminished my sense of humor. Recently, a friend recommended an eco-friendly, creative solution: plant plastic forks, handle down, in the soil. Evidently, the forks won't hurt the cats, but discourage them from littering about in the gardens. I'm game to try anything.

So, (and yes, this is where "crazy" and "nesting" start to flow into the same sentence), I have planted dozens of forks around hostas, impatients, roses, and petunias. What once looked like a nicely manicured garden now looks like a curiously planted picnic remnant. And I, the once patient and well-humored lady next door, have plastic forks planted amid flowers, in hopes that I can deter my neighbors' cats from doing business in my gardens.

Lovely. When Baby Fig arrives, perhaps my patience and perspective will return. In the meantime, I'm hoping the kitties will make some new habits or at least we can all laugh a bit at my version of "nesting."

book of rocks

Today I began to pile rocks.

A wise friend recently suggested that I write my prayers in a book. This isn't another journal to feel guilty about, a baby book to neglect, or a structured religious exercise. Rather, I hope it gives space for an occasional or often-stepped-on smooth, safe rock of rememberance. Whether lists, fully written letters, or simply notes in the middle of a mixed day or night, this book will contain - but not confine - personal moments of faith.

My friend suggested I not think too much about order or organization. She said to make no distinction between general hopes for other people, worldly situations, or personal dreams. Neither should I neglect those prayers that urgently cry for myself or others. Write it all - or write some - but write it down and record when and how it is answered. See, in my own handwriting, if there is an audience for my prayers.

I have confidence that God is faithful and real, and that he makes himself available to cradle even the most cautiously uttered prayer. Sadly, I often do not pause to consider his past faithfulness as I move forward. Sometimes I do, and it is always encouraging. However, there is so much reaching for my attention and memory that I can hardly remember the pressing issues of yesterday while looking at the present. I long for more consciousness, and I am certain it would be encouraging to recognize God's hand more often.

So, the book of rocks begins... I hope to look back periodically to see where I've come from and note where I'm going in the whispers of my heart. I will also record when and what answers - whether miraculous or seemingly mundane - are given. These will be my rocks - "ebeneezers," if you will - to remind me that thus far, the Lord has helped me.

mama, too

Love your Mama.

Mine is amazing. She's the reason I've often been afraid I won't measure up in motherhood, because she set the bar conspicuously high. She's also the reason I have confidence that somewhere in the depths of my being, being a mama just fits. Perhaps - just perhaps - I've learned a thing or two from her.

There is probably no weekend each year that I'd rather be back in Dakota with her. It's not because my dad would make some grand breakfast, or there would be a fancy brunch after church, or that roses and jewelry are handed out en masse. Rather, I'd be sleeping in after a weekend of spring ballet performances and planting flowers with my mom. Simple time spent with a woman I love and admire, and miss terribly. I get more homesick than ever on Mother's Day, because my mom, who teaches, choreographs, and operates the town's top school of dance, has always spent her Mothers' Day weekends devoted to others. For nearly 60 years, she, and her mother before her (my mom follows in legendary footsteps, too) have dedicated this weekend to The Recital. Unfortunately, I can't go back most years, and it's bittersweet to plant my own flowers and hum ballet tunes from 1000 miles away.

While it's hard to journey through motherhood without her here beside me, I've been blessed with other women to love and model life. There's Grandma, (the "original" Mrs. Kenobi), whose generosity toward her boys, their wives, and their boys, teaches me the Kenobi family secrets of love and humor. And, when I'm feeling like I need somebody who understands me like a mom, there are beautiful women like Grandma Vicki, Auntie Barbara, or Miss Beverly, among other gems, walking beside me.

Other mamas are placed in my life as friends, but they often mother me. They help me through the transitions of life with grace I couldn't learn in a ballet studio. They love my children as grandmas, aunts, and angels. They, like a good mother, call me out when I need correction. They, like my mother, know how to enjoy the fine "S's" in life: shopping, sitting, and snacking. They, like mothers I often admire, balance full lives that reflect more than "just" being a mom, and yet they don't, as our culture sometimes does, resist thinking motherhood is a worthy highlight.

As I've said in my little profile, I never set out to be "just a mom." I never wanted to be called "Mommy" or "a mom," but I've have grown to treasure being called "Mama." In a few weeks, I will again introduce myself to a little Obi, and remember what that name means. My family will rely on me in new (and hardly remembered) ways, but we will also rely on the other mothers in our life. They will cook a meal, speak a kind word, hold somebody when there aren't enough hands, and celebrate this transition with us. They will demonstrate that our heavenly Father understands how precious, practical, and necessary mamas are for His children in this world.

I am often accused of "doing" much, juggling the ever-evolving needs of my family and myself. I spend time getting and keeping connected, and try my best to be who I'm purposed to be. I don't always feel worthy of a celebration, but I'm going to enjoy this day anyway. Mamas are special - and if you let them, there are many who will offer their gifts and enrich your life. Whether it's the mother we are given at birth, those who walk ahead of us, those who walk beside us, or the one who may join motherhood in years to come...

... love a Mama today.