lent

On Lent and the Feeling of Futile Suffering

April 12, 2017

Another 40 days and 40 nights (nearly) of Lent seemingly gone the way of failure. I sink into my hot cocoa mug, relinquishing the guilt that yes, our family gives up treats for Lent, that Jesus-diet guaranteed to break the monopoly sugar gut bacteria hold on my taste buds. My hot cocoa desires are based in a coping mechanism. Coping with another long recovery. Coping with the broken sleep that even the best little side-nursing cosleeper still bestows upon me. Coping with mental juggling and a touch of postpartum anxiety. I’m no coffee lover, so cocoa caffeination is all I can cling to. But this failure of really giving up treats brought me to another failure: my slow recovery. My pelvic floor took a number when I birthed this big baby and her shoulder dystocia. I’m healing on two fronts: internal pelvic floor and external SI-joints. My pelvis remains twisted and one side of my pubic bone is higher than the other. They’re called symphysis pubis dysfunction  and diastasis symphysis pubis and I know others struggled with this throughout pregnancy and into their postpartum. While I bustled around the country for the Blessed is She retreats, stupidly not even asking for a ride from those carts at the airport, carrying my 18 pounder in the carrier, my ligaments continued to not heal. While I decided to tackle changing over their coats and clothes for spring, sitting unevenly for hours, lunging forward to drag a pile toward me, bending to scoop up stray…

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Five Going on Fifteen

February 6, 2016

Somehow this last six months has felt like a shift in our family. SuperBoy isn’t a little kid anymore. He’s in a whole different place, so I’m in a whole different place as a mom. Yes, he still has epic clashes with me and trouble listening at times, but his maturity is sometimes (sometimes) amazing. His wings are growing. Banging. Bashing around, looking for higher heights to leap from, and leading the way for the little kids to want and be and do more and more. Case in point. The other day, for the first time in months, SuperBoy was the gentle big brother I know is in there somewhere. He changed into his play clothes in the morning without a fight. He let his sister play with his legos without apoplectic screeches. He spoke in the cutest LOUD SLOW BABY TALK to the toddler who understood him perfectly and let us know with lots of “BABA” and “JEE-JEE” responses. {that’s my dad’s name and Jesus, FYI}. His idea for Lent? Offering up all treats and adding in doing all his morning chores before breakfast. WHO IS THIS KID? I thought about these posts I had written throughout the years: big boy battles,   taming your toddler’s tantrums, feeling powerless with your preschooler, power parenting: why force & fear don’t work,  helping emotional boy find his voice & ears. He’s growing up. That’s my dad’s dresser from his childhood we’ve repainted around those 50’s decals a few times for our babes. …

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