Sipping Lemonade

I had this thought last night while fireworks were exploding and party-goers were exclaiming in our neck of the woods.

It was festive outside, but inside our cozy family home, we only noticed it was the New Year by glancing at the clock in the top right corner of our Apple laptop screens around 12:01. We were finishing up some work in our PJs. The kids had been soundly sleeping for hours and we still hadn’t unpacked the bags around us from our out-of-town Christmas trip.

So I leaned over, sleepy in bed, still holding my laptop, for a quick kiss and a slightly belated “Happy New Year.” We’re wild ones.

My thought had to do with the whole idea of New Year’s resolutions — a synonym of which is “resolve.” Re-solve. To solve again. And I was thinking that really, resolutions aren’t about creating something completely new and unheard of — but about making the decision to take another stab at what wasn’t quite perfect before.

That’s why, I think, every year is a better year — even with hard stuff or sad stuff or confusing stuff — every year we have more knowledge and life experience to find a better solution in our resolution.

And speaking of making new, our 4-month-old was baptized on Saturday.

Happy New Year, everyone.

“A person who never made a mistake never tried anything new. ” — Albert Einstein

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This week has been a beautiful week of Christmas celebration.

We’ve visited with family and friends who we haven’t seen in awhile, consumed abundant amounts of candy-coated confections and well-buttered bread — and certainly, at the end of it all, our wine won’t be the only thing that’s “full-bodied.”

We watched a storm roll in while wearing wrinkled, warm pajamas on Christmas morning — and then spent most of the day without power, opening presents in the soft shadows of natural light that flooded in through my in laws’ livingroom window.

Due to the power outage, the Christmas turkey didn’t have time to cook — but Granddad found one restaurant that was still open on Christmas day. Thanks to Luby’s Cafeteria, we enjoyed delicious, crispy fried chicken along with our sides and salads.

We met with good friends last night and laughed about how our dinner conversations have changed over the years. Topics ranged from having babies to fertility charting to parenthood to aging — and I found myself, for the first time in a long time, relaying Kate’s birth story to a friend who hadn’t heard it before.

“So how did you find out she had Down syndrome?” he asked. I recounted the details.

I blog about Kate having Down syndrome frequently on this blog — and if a blog was the true measure of the entirety of what one focuses on, it would seem that the subject is fairly dominant in our lives. But to be honest (or “tbh” as the teenagers on Facebook say), we don’t think much about it on a daily basis — so it’s always a privilege to share the story. And also, it’s a good perspective-check that to most people it is a big deal.

A super scary deal.

And because of that, I’m reminded that I should talk about it more often. I am reminded that to 9 out of 10 moms who receive the scary prenatal diagnosis in their OBGYN’s office, it is a death sentence.

After I told my friend the story of our  journey, he said to me, “I think you had Kate so that you could tell other people about it.” I think I had Kate for a lot of reasons — but his conclusion was simple and beautiful.

Because that’s what we humans do — we tell our stories. And we write these little blogs or give talks or just sit with friends over wine at dinner and we share words that encourage each other.

A friend sent me a link to this beautiful article today with the simple intro, “Thought you’d like this.”

I did like it. And I’m glad the writer shared his story.

Here’s an excerpt where the writer speaks of his two children, both adopted:

Our daughter is beautiful. She was born with a shock of black hair and wonderfully expressive eyes. Her beauty is a lasting tribute to the couple who conceived her, and who chose life for her. Our daughter, like our son, was born with trisomy 21—Down syndrome. Since my daughter’s birth, I’ve thought a lot about the thousands of children aborted each year because they share the genetic defect my children have. Statistics tell a sobering story. Children like mine are being culled from our species. They’re quietly going extinct.

Most families of people with Down syndrome will tell you similar stories. Our children develop differently. They see the world differently. But they have access to same range of human emotions and experiences that the rest of us enjoy. They’re capable of experiencing the joy of a life lived fully. People with Down syndrome, or similar intellectual or developmental disabilities, have the same potential we all have—most importantly, they have the capacity for union with God.

Cultural ignorance of this fact hit home for me just the other day. My daughter has some medical complications, and she’s still living in the hospital. I’ve been staying with her. A few days ago, I stopped in the hospital’s chapel and, before I knew it, I was weeping. I was weeping for the children who’ve been on my mind, the ones who fail genetic tests, and are aborted out of a misguided sense of compassion by a culture that has lost its conscience.

A well-meaning hospital chaplain, with whom I’ve struck up a friendship, sat down beside me and tried to offer me some comfort. He assumed I was weeping for my own children, so he reminded me that today people with Down syndrome go to college, work, and live independently. “Kids like yours,” my new friend said, “can still lead useful and happy lives.”

I didn’t explain to him why I was upset. But I’ve thought a lot about his words of comfort. If I had been struggling in the way that he thought, they wouldn’t have done me much good. We’re in a sad state of affairs if the best argument we can make about human potential is that nearly anyone can spend four years paying for classes.

Christians should have more to offer than the material. Our hope should be in something greater.

Because of Christmas, my children—all children—have a lot more to look forward to than university. Because of Christmas, our hope is that we can share in God’s own life.

On Christmas Eve, we read the Christmas Story as told by Luke. It is the story of the baby who gives infinite hope for all our babies — it is the ultimate story that makes all of our stories worth telling.

Merry Christmas everyone.

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My first-time pregnant girlfriend wrote me a lovely email the other evening asking for a bit of encouragement to ease her first-labor apprehension. I realized that I’ve never really spoke much about my “natural-labor” delivery experience here on the blog and thought that perhaps this encouragement would be helpful for other first time mommies out there, too.

I won’t print her whole email, but she asked for what all first-time moms need (especially those wanting to go au naturel) — saying, “Whenever you get a moment, I’d appreciate you sending along some words of encouragement or advice or things to remember for before, during, after labor and delivery, or helpful things to know that might help put my mind somewhat at ease regarding an unmedicated birth.”

And though I’m certainly no expert on it, here was a paraphrased excerpt of my response:

A few things:

When I was pregnant with my first-born, I had the same emotions you are having even though I had an epidural planned at the time. I think much of the apprehension you are experiencing is probably more about your first labor in general — not just the unmedicated part. I remember feeling like a ticking time bomb as he got bigger and bigger: This baby is the size of a watermelon and is, somehow, coming out of my body. I will also say this: after having a ridiculously easy labor with him, with an epidural, I thought to myself, “Seriously? That’s what all the fuss is about?”

With Kate, I had another epidural — and again, easy labor. I remember actually saying to myself, “I could do this every day if I had to.” Strange thing to say and humanly impossible, but I still thought it, nonetheless.

Then, with the new baby, I thought: Well, if my other labors were so easy, then maybe I’ll go au natural this time. No big deal. Ha! It wasn’t too far into it that I realized I was just as capable of pain as any other woman and suddenly, I was united with centuries of women before me in the most amazing, beautiful, and simultaneously uncomfortable, experience of my life.

But here’s the thing: in the end, I was holding my beautiful, healthy baby girl.

It was like running through the finish line after a marathon. Like reaching the breathtaking summit after the climb. And though it was so, so much more challenging than my first two labors — in a sense, it felt appropriate.

In my arms was a new human — one that will never exist before, and who will never exist again. A completely unique gift from God who we made. We made her. There is nothing bigger on the face of the earth — and in a small way, feeling every part of that labor and delivery, gave me a better understanding of the miracle of birth. There was no numbness. Everything about that labor was a magnified — and in the end, it was magnificent.

You will do great, you will do better than great — and you can do it. [And remember that it's perfectly OK if you don't. I went into the labor with the idea that if I felt at any point like I wanted to get an epidural, I would. It's no less heroic to have a baby with medication.]

But because I know how badly you want to do it, I will simply say: never stop dreaming of the summit.

Soon you will be holding your first-born miracle in your arms, you will forever remember that beautiful view. The details of the climb it took to get there will fade away into blur. You will just remember the magic.

And remember: Don’t just think about the fact that millions of women have been doing this for centuries — think about the fact that they’ve had MORE THAN ONE child for centuries! Meaning, they did it — and then they did it again! That, in itself, is a testimony.

Prayers and baby blessings.

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I’ve loved being pregnant.

I’ve loved the anticipation of the arrival of a new little person: Who will they be? What will they look like? What will their purpose be in this world?

I find this time of anticipation very hopeful; the world will be forever changed.

Since being pregnant and becoming a mother, I find that I have a stronger connection with the Christmas story — most specifically, with Mary. She was a real, historic person who was pregnant herself. Just like me. (well, sorta like me.) And just like me, she waited in anticipation (in a much more profound sense, of course) of the birth of a baby who truly would change the world. I imagine her own questions: Who will He be? What will He look like? What will He do in this world?

[Sure, the angel Gabriel did give her some hints with the whole, "You will be with child and you are to name him Jesus and He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High." But surely she must've wondered about how the specifics would work.]

I’ve reflected on that this weekend, with a heavy, heavy heart, aching for the families of Connecticut — for all of us. We’ve lost such precious lives this week. And next week we celebrate the arrival of another life — a life-changing life — one that always brings light to the darkness.

I’ve wept in the car while listening to Christmas music. I’ve reflected in the evenings next to the glow of Christmas lights. And in that dichotomy, I’ve been reminded that no matter what is taken away from us — He has been given to us.

And because of Him, we have hope.

Praying for Newtown.

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” — Romans 15:13

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The woman in front of me kindly paid for my coffee at Starbucks yesterday.

“The car in front of you paid for your drink,” the Drive Thru barista said matter-of-factly, while handing me my caramel latte. “The car in front of her paid for hers.”

Later that evening, I met a girlfriend for dinner at Chick-Fil-A. As I loaded the kids into the minivan, I heard the Drive Thru attendant – not far from my car – say to the customer at the window, “The car in front of you paid for you.”

I smiled. Tis’ the season to do random acts of kindness.

Last Christmas season, Matt and I were more organized with these sorts of random acts. We made a list, spent evenings like elves in the night spreading Christmas cheer — and yes, paid for the meals of cars behind us a couple of times. But this year, we haven’t been as planned — so I’ve challenged myself to a different kind of charity project. One that isn’t always as immediately rewarding.

I’ve realized that, for me, drive-thru charity is pretty easy. Convenient and comfortable, I pay, I drive away, I feel good, everyone’s happy. (And that’s a special thing — I certainly don’t want to take away from that.)

But when it comes to the virtue of charity, I’ve found that I have plenty of opportunities to give in powerful ways, every day: being more patient with my children — giving my husband the benefit of the doubt — not assuming I always know the best way — being flexible to others even if I feel inconvenienced — taking advice humbly.

Random acts of kindness are wonderful — but this year, I’m also devoting myself to purposeful acts of kindness. The ones that are less about driving through – and that are more about changing within.

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I’ve baked a lot of goodies (and digested a lot of sugar) over the past year on this blog. And because I’m all about being nice over naughty, I’ve pulled together my 10 favorites for a quick holiday baking guide. All are kid-friendly and husband approved.

Just click on the image below to get to the recipes!

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I have a friend named Jamie. I went to her baby shower today.

Jamie has long blonde hair like Repunzel and big blue eyes. She received lots of gifts today at her shower: pacifiers, handmade bibs, diapers.

But she also has a very special gift — an uncommon gift — one that took a long time to create.

It’s the gift of perspective.

You see, Jamie and her husband, Tom, have been trying to get pregnant for four and a half years — since they were but newlyweds. They visited many doctors, said many prayers, shed many tears — week after week, month after month.

And then one night, to her surprise, she saw for the first time in a half-decade, a pregnancy test atop her bathroom counter that said: pregnant.

Pregnant.

For many of us who conceive babies fairly quickly, it’s easy to take this miracle for granted. Sure, we think babies are a gift — but Jamie. She knows.

She knows how many little miraculous things have to come together just perfect at just the right time under just the right conditions to make the miracle of life. She knows what it’s like to wait. And wait. And wait some more. And she knows that really, it’s not up to us anyway.

And so she delights. Unlike any pregnant woman I’ve ever met, she delights in every movement, every pound, every morning sickness, every milestone. And her baby girl who is soon to be here is named after the very thing that kept Jamie and Tom going strong these past five years: Faith.

As her faith grew, her Faith now grows — and what a reminder to us all.

Every child is a miracle.

“The child must know that he is a miracle, that since the beginning of the world there hasn’t been, and until the end of the world there will not be, another child like him.” – Pablo Casals

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Every once in awhile, somebody who (obviously) doesn’t know me very well, who reads my blog, for some delusional reason, thinks I have it all together.

They may even go on to say that I’m some sort of Super Mom because I can even find time to blog with 3 little ones — or because I have a child with special needs or because I have such fantastic hair.

Well, I was born that way I can’t help it.

Just kidding.

Except for the hair.

But seriously. You know the old saying — “pastors write the sermons they need to hear.” Well, bloggers often do the same. I look to my own words for just as much encouragement as anyone. They are documentations of well-learned lessons and a reminder of how strong I am when I forget — because face it, as parents, sometimes we surprise ourselves with how weak we can feel. Or at least I do. I mean, these bite-size people are capable of a good butt kicking.

And it’s a funny thing. Back in the day, when I was a gym-rat 20-something, I thought I knew it all, had it all together, and — because I had just done a bunch of reps with some 8-pound free-weights — I felt oh-so-very strong. Well, yeah, so does pasta until the heat turns on.

But what I’ve come to learn in a most profound way is that real strength is in weakness. Sounds funny, I know.

This is where my Faith has grown so much as a mother. The 24-7 responsibility of caring for three completely dependent creatures that you love more than life itself can be, at times, overwhelming. Too many of us mamas live in self-doubt, worry, or wonder if we’re doing things right — if we’re good enough — if we can be all that we’re meant to be to everyone who needs us.

But ah, there’s the rub as Shakespeare said.

What I’ve learned is that when others need me most, I need God most.

For my readers of different faiths or no faith — this is not necessarily a topic of religion. The simple truth is, we weren’t made to go it alone. And luckily, as a mom, I don’t have to. That weight-lifting Lauren was a stiff stick of pasta — unexposed to a boiling point. But baby-lifting Lauren is limp as a noodle — surrendering in the water of God’s grace and knowing that, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

My prayer since I have become a wife, and now a mother, is to be the best wife and mother I could be. When life grew more challenging — more demands, a Down syndrome diagnosis, times of discouragement — I thought: is this supposed to make me the strong wife and mom that I’m called to be?

What I’ve realized is the things that make me feel weak are precisely what strengthen me.

One of my favorite quotes from Mother Teresa is:

“If you are discouraged it is a sign of pride because it shows you trust in your own power. Your self-sufficiency, your selfishness and your intellectual pride will inhibit His coming to live in your heart because God cannot fill what is already full. It is as simple as that.”

And isn’t it true. When I find myself discouraged, I realize it’s because I’m looking to the wrong source of strength — myself.

One of my favorite articles is from the lovely Catholic writer, Danielle Bean, who reflected on her own adventures in mothering in her inspired article, I’m No Super Mom. I agree with her sentiments exactly.

She ends her story:

I am a mother of eight, but it’s not because I am Super Mom. It’s not because I was born with some rare gift that makes me capable of mothering a large family.

It’s because this family God has seen fit to give me has shaped and changed me into the person I am today. It’s because God sends challenges and then follows up those challenges with the graces you need to get through them. Always.

I can live this imperfect life with eight imperfect children, not because I am awesome, but because God is.

And that’s what I like to tell young mothers who sometimes send me anxious e-mails or gasp when they bump into me on the sidelines of little league baseball practice.

“Eight kids!” they always marvel, “I could never do that.”

I know just what they mean. I couldn’t do it either. Until, with God’s help, I did.

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