a long time coming.

A month is a long time to be gone. I know.

The homemade mayo incident wreaked havoc with my keyboard, and then I moved to another country, bought a car and got a job.

Jameson's got more teeth than I can even count now, and they all seem to be coming it at night, which means less sleeping and more crying.

But we're good. We're doing okay.

I'm currently working at a law office as a receptionist. The people are great, the hours work well for mine and Hubs work schedules and I am happy to feel like I've got things to do. Oh, and I'm getting paid for it, so that's nice. Hubs is a waiter at a restaurant, and he's so handsomely charming that I know his tips are going to be crazy.

We bought an old Honda that only has 160k miles on it, and I'm starting to get used to her. There's always that thing with old cars--you have to get to know them before you feel like they're yours.

I've seen more sun in four weeks than I did in two years and it's amazing how happy that makes me. Even though it's snowed the last three days, I don't even care as long as the sky goes  back to being blue and the sun comes out for at least a little while.

Jameson loves "puuuppy" and "meow", and he especially enjoys chasing them around the house. They love him too, but they're a little less free with their affections. His Aunties are his favorite, and Grandpa has a special place in his heart. He loves Grandma too, but he knows that when she's around it means that Momma's gone to work, so he doesn't like to be happy with her as  much.

Life is simple, but it's good. It's good to work, and be with family, and have a small routine.
We are blessed, and this reminds us to be happy. Which we are.

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day 11 [round two]

Day 11
Meal 1: 1 1/2 sausages, 2 eggs, coffee w/creamer

Meal 2: Leftover lamb, romaine and spinach salad w/tomatoes and balsamic/olive oil dressing, 1/2 sweet potato

Snack: Bacon, apple w/almond butter

Meal 3: 2 1/2 bowls zucchini stew, 1 sweet potato

I don't even know what to say about today.
Jameson woke up in the middle of the night again last night, and Hubs worked an overnight, so it was my cranky butt that got up with him bright and early this morning. Then he threw his oatmeal on the floor and somehow managed to aim the bowl just right that it shattered on my carpeted floor.
I literally sat there with the pieces in my hands for a good five minutes and thought about how I would cry if I had the energy for it. 

Although, one way I know whole30 is working is the fact that I'm not a walking zombie even though my sleep has been crazy interrupted. Sure, I'm tired, but I'm functioning on one cup of coffee in the morning and managing to do okay. So, there's that.

No news on the laptop yet. Hubs is taking the keys off to try and clean underneath them and I managed to get the backup to run before I shut it off completely. Worse case scenario: it's kaput and we become a one computer family for awhile. We'll deal. It was pretty old anyway, and it was refurbished when I got it, so it's had a good life.
But maybe this isn't the end--maybe the laptop gods will see fit to let it live another day.

Either way, I'm trying to embrace the forced semi-hiatus from staring at a computer screen.  (Maybe this was God's plan all along. I'd been moaning about not being productive enough/spending enough time with my family...)

Managed to get Jameson and I out of the house and over to a friend's for lunch where I met up with two mom's from way back in my preggo days and their kids. It was good to be with other women who just let me whinge about my sleep-hating kid, and to let said kid trash someone else's living room for awhile. The best parts were when he'd run over to me saying, "Mama, MAMA!" and then give me a kiss and go about his merry business.
Man, I love that guy so much.

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motivation.

From the Catholic Memorial at Dachau Concentration Camp in Munich, Germany.

Sometimes I seem so up-and-down with this thing, I feel like a hormonal teenager that bursts into tears for no reason all over again.

One day, I'm ready to kick it all into high-gear, market myself like crazy, and enter the rat race of mommy-bloggers writing to make money.

The next, I'm struck with an overwhelming feeling of "Maybe this is all narcissism wrapped up in pretty packages" and questioning what my motivation should be for this platform that I've given myself.

Oddly enough, this is the first time this questioning isn't borne out of, "Maybe I'm just not good enough, maybe no one will care about what I have to say," which is a good thing, I think. That line of pondering is so self-centered, so focused on what other people think about me and that shouldn't be the point of anything.

Really, it comes more out of examining what I want my life to be about, and how is the most valuable way to spend my time? Sadly, I only have twenty-four hours in a day and even though I have enough things that I want to do that would fill up thirty-six of them, I simply cannot get it all done. I just can't. I've tried, and this has led to my mental defeat and breakdown in the form of tears, binge eating, and twenty 'to-do' lists scattered all around my house. 

What do I want my life to be about? 

--Loving the Lord with everything inside of me.

What does that look like?

--Being intentional with my time and my energy. Investing in things that are going to bring glory to Him, not to myself.

And that is the crux--I want my life to be about Him. 

I want the words that I write to reflect His power and glory, to bring people closer to Him, not to get people to marvel at the words that He's given me.

This desire has been lost for a long time. 

It's been buried under piles of sadness, depression, anger, longing, exhaustion, and hopelessness. 

The last two years have been the hardest of my life, hands-down. 

The last six months have been even harder. 

I have come thisclose to giving up on God completely, to throwing in the towel, and telling Him to leave me alone because I'll make my own way from now on, thank You very much.

Somehow (I am not sure how), I have found myself in a place of surrender to Him. 

Finally.

I am beginning to rest in the fact that He is in control, and the only place I am going to find fulfillment and joy is in Him.

Finally.

I am claiming the words of my favorite hymn, and asking the Lord to "bind my wandering heart to Thee".

Finally. 

I will write, because I need to write, because I was created to write, and because not writing would be ignoring a gift and passion that God has put inside me.

I will write the truth, and I will tell you about my life and sometimes I will show you what I wore, but the point of it all is different now.

It has to be. 

 ^"Wretched man that I am! Who will set me free from the body of this death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!"

{Romans 7:24-25}

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the background [pt.5]

Find part 1 here.

____________________

I'm sure there are some of you that are wondering where exactly I think God was during my whole tragic ordeal.

He was there.

And He's still here, regardless of whether I want to acknowledge that or not. 

So much of these past nine years have been spent wrestling with God, demanding an answer and promising to "do better" as long as He'd tell me why or get me through it. I'd rant and rave, and then I'd beg and plead, and then I'd sit and simmer.

Ironically, I honestly feel like I've found myself the most distant from God in just the last two years. 

You'd expect it to be on the nights where the blood was flowing and my heart was pounding and all I wanted to do was escape, but even then, I knew He was there. I knew, and I knew that it would be a relief to stop being here and start being there. Sure, I thought that I wasn't good enough and I thought that He must be angry at me, but I knew He was still around.

But the last two years--maybe the last six months in particular--I've found myself in an ambivalent state. 

(and I think this is the most raw and terrifying confession of them all)

It's the closest I've ever come to "losing my faith".

You see, it seems like the hits just keep coming.

Some of the blows are softer and don't knock us all the way down.

Others strike sharp and hard, leaving us reeling and crawling on the ground trying to find a safe place to hide.

And all I want to do is stand up and shout at the sky, "This is what You promised us? How does this serve You? How does this bring You glory in any sort of way? Where are You?"

But I keep my head down instead, for fear of being struck even harder, and I go on about my life with a semi-blatant disregard for anything having to do with God.

~*~

I told Hubs today, "I just need to fall in love with Jesus again."

And this is true.

I need to sit, and savor, and be still. 

I need to stop rushing around and stop trying.

--more Bible, more prayer, more church, more study, more holy.

It's exhausting.

And before you start shouting "behind me Satan",

I'm not saying that it doesn't all have value.

Of course it does.

Of course it's all important.

 But it's not always about the action.

Sometimes it's about the motivation behind the action

and right now, the motivation is wrong.

So for now, I am choosing to believe that God can and will meet me where I'm at.

I am choosing to believe that He loves me despite ______ (fill in the blank).

~*~

Ben Howard's 'The Wolves' is playing right now, and it feels strangely accurate.

So, even though this post feels like it's lacking all of the right words, and even though it feels like nothing came out right, I'm going to dump it all out and leave it.

It is time to be finished.

Thank you all for the kind words of encouragement and understanding.

It felt like ripping my heart out to write these five pieces of smoldering honesty, but it's a relief.

And there is more, because there is always more. 

And if you need someone to listen, someone to dump it onto, I'm here.

I love you all.

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what our weekend looked like.

Riding miniature trains (real steam-powered engines that ran on coal!), 

watching the ducks, 

and being a family.

Not bad, England. Not bad.

part of the track.

Hubs and Jameson, taking a spin on their own private train.

Only 30p each!

 

 

 

Riding with Ah-ma and Yeh-Yeh

Oh, hey England. Nice to know you actually do have a blue sky.

 

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Dear Jameson [first birthday edition]

June 30, 2011.

July 1, 2012.

Dear Jameson,
I'm nearly two weeks late with this. Per usual. See there's this thing about your mother--she tries really, really hard to be organized and she absolutely HATES being late, but she usually is anyway. Deadlines are just not kind to her. But back to you...

I cannot believe an entire year has gone by since I spent that night in the hospital, squeezing your dad's hand and yelling through my contractions, just trying to concentrate on the fact that you were finally going to be in my arms in a few short hours. I remember the moment after I gave birth to you, seeing you lying there on the hospital bed and thinking, "That's him. That's my baby." You were so beautiful, and so foreign--I couldn't wait to get to know you and find out everything about you.

Oh, my son. You have turned my world absolutely upside down in the best way possible.

There are so many things I am afraid of forgetting about this first year, even though I know that there is no way for me to hold on to all of the little details. But there are a few things that I hope I remember...

--I hope I remember just how happy you are. You enjoy life so much, and it is so evident to everyone that watches you. You wake up in the morning with a big grin on your face that gets even bigger when you look over to find your dad and I just lying there, watching you. When you get excited, it radiates throughout your whole entire body--literally to the tips of your toes (which you point and stand on, while you clap and scream). If I could capture just a fraction of your joy, I would be one of the happiest people I know.

--I hope I remember how independent and adventurous you are (and I hope you stay that way forever). Some would call it "strong-willed", others would call it rebellion, but I know that you are simply determined to do things your own way and I am okay with that. You are soaking up the world around you, and I can just see you learning and figuring out new things and it makes me so proud of you. You love new experiences and new people, and I am just in awe of how smart you are already.

--I hope I remember that I did the best I could with what I had. Sometimes I am harder on myself than I should be, but then I have to sit back and remember that I love you with everything in me (and even more, I think) and that is what matters. I hope you know how much I love you, and even though I know you won't understand it until you hold a child of your own in your arms, maybe you'll be able to tell through my broken words and actions.

There are a million other things I could write about, like the way you dance when you hear latin music, or the way you giggle at your Papa every morning, and the way you press your whole body in to mine--like you just want us to be one person again for awhile.

Jameson, you are my sunshine. I know I can be impatient with you, and I am sorry for the times I've failed you already--even Mommas are broken, imperfect people. You are the bright part of all of my dark days, and you keep me going even when I don't think I can anymore. You are growing up right before my very eyes and I am the most blessed woman in the world to be your mother.

I love you, bubba. Happy birthday.
Mom.

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four.

It's even better now than it was then.

I could write a million words about this man and our life together, but they still wouldn't do it justice.

Happy anniversary, my love.

Let's have at least fifty more.

I love you.

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today.

Today will be a day to breathe.
To sit in His goodness, knowing that even though I don't understand, and even though I can't feel Him, He is there.
He is always there.

And every time I think I have it (Him) figured out, there is always something new, something unknown, something different that I have to get used to.
And I am sent spinning off again, trying to reconcile what-I-thought-I-knew with what-I-know-now.
And it's okay.
Somehow, it always ends up being okay.

"Trust in Him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts to Him, for God is our refuge."

{Psalm 62:8}

There is sun, and flowers on my table, and less pain in my shoulder than yesterday, and God is still good.

That's the biggest thing, really.

He is good, so good to me.

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when the American dream meets the British reality.

By the end of next month, I will have lived in England for a year and a half.

If we're honest, I really didn't think I'd make it.

I've spent countless nights crying with homesickness, begging my husband to "please, please, let's move home" and dreaming about the day that I'd be far away from this terrible little country.

But (you knew it was coming, didn't you?)
--in the last few months, it seems I've actually "adjusted" to life in the British culture, at least enough for the desperation to give way to a quiet routine of daily living. I'm sure becoming a mother has been an instrumental part in this: I have to get out of bed and out of the house for the sake of my son. We go to rhyme time at the library, and monster music at the children's centre, and meet up with other Mommas and their babies for the sake of socialization.

In the fray of adjusting, I've also come to realize an interesting distinction between the two countries, and I think it's something that made it so difficult for me to come to terms with this place for so long:

In America, we are told, "You can do anything you want to do, if you put your mind to it. Dream big, and the sky's the limit." We are taught that we can be famous athletes, movie stars, astronauts, scientists, writers, doctors--literally anything is open to us, if we want it bad enough.

In Britain, they are not told these things. People are brutally and bluntly honest about shortcomings and where yours are. If you aren't good at something, they'll make sure you know. Kids here are not taught that the sky's the limit, rather, they are told that there definitely are limits and maybe they'll surpass them, but probably not (so best not try).

As an American, this rubs you (and me) the wrong way. It is offensive, it is pessimistic, it is wrong. "Of course, I can do that," we gasp in horror as a Brit gives us an eyebrow raise. "I can do anything I want to!" Unfortunately, this isn't actually the case (even though we don't want to admit it). I will never be an Olympic athlete (even though I like to think that I might have had a shot if I hadn't quit figure skating). I will never be an amazing singer, and I might (probably) won't ever be a world famous author. In fact, I might not do anything with my life other than being a mother and a wife. I know.


So when I would lie in bed and dream about the life my family and I would have back in America once we got out of here, it would be full of nice things--the dream house, great jobs, happy kids doing lots of fun extracurricular activities, weekly date nights, a church that allows us to use our gifts and minister well. When I compared that dream to our current life in England (and the prospect of a future here), it looked about as gray as the sky I was living under.

It is only in the last few weeks that I have really come to terms with the fact that it is okay to just live. In fact, sometimes it is better to just live where you are at, than to dream about a future you might never have. For so long I got so caught up in the dream of our life "back in America" that I forgot to put anything into the life I was currently living in England. I'm sure that I wasted opportunities, missed friendships, and generally put a damper on any positive thing that I had going for me over here--and even though that is a natural and normal part of adjusting to life in a new culture, it's still not something I'm proud of.

I spent so long bemoaning the practicalities of the English, and pitying them for their inability to dream of anything more than a quiet house in the country, that I failed to see the positive side of things. They are generally content in the lives that they lead (I mean, most are. I am making pretty sweeping generalities here). They may not tell you that, with their semi-constant complaining, but they are. Their lives are familiar and what they know, and they are all right with that. They don't feel bad for not being something greater. They do what they do, and they do it well. This is something that I have probably never done, and it is kind of, (but not really) ironic to me that God has made me live in a place that is the very definition of "blooming where you're planted".

Now, I know that there are two sides to every coin, so before I get hate mail from all the British dreamers out there, let me remind you that I am simply remarking on a side of England that I have not wanted to appreciate, but now do. I have found myself with a certain fondness for this strange, backwards country. This is slightly terrifying, because I can't hate it with a passion anymore and wish myself back in America. Yes, there are moments nearly every day when I think about how much I miss my country, but recently, this has been countered by a tinge of sadness when I think about leaving what we have invested here.

This is the birthplace of my husband and son, and it is a country that will always be a part of me. It has helped refine me in many areas, and opened my eyes to the fact that there is more than one way to live life and look at things--not wrong, just different.

Any other citizens of the world care to share your opinions?

I mean, he's the best part about England.

Peace at last.

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rest.

Through a series of strange circumstances, I have found myself with a pen pal.

Really, this is a long-reaching goal for me, since all my friends had pen pals when we were little, but I could never find anyone that wanted to write me letters on a regular basis.
Until now. Which I love.

Anyway. My first letter from said pen pal came the other day, and it was like a breath of fresh air into this dusty brain of mine. She was so honest, and open, and everything she wrote just made me smile.
She spoke truth into my life, when so many other people haven't been able to, or when I just couldn't listen.
(I think there is something to be said about having an objective observer give advice. They're not bogged down by the drama or emotion of a situation.)

She wrote to me about how she firmly believes that the Lord has placed her and her family in a season of rest. And it struck me, because maybe that's exactly what God has done with us, too.

Why is it that I always struggle to see the good in others, and especially the good in God?
Why can't I remember that so many people are good-willed in their intentions, and that the Lord doesn't do things to harm his children, but prosper them?

The Lord has given me a son.
A fire-cracker, pistol of a son who does exactly what he wants when he wants and will not be dissuaded otherwise. And I love him all the more for it.
However, taking care of my son is a full-time job. But that's okay.
In fact, it's more than okay--it's exactly what I've wanted.
It's just that, somehow, I got caught up in the idea that I have to be doing something in order to feel validated, in order to feel that I didn't waste my time.

Which brings me back to rest. So often in scripture, God called his people to wait, and to be quiet, and to rest. And these periods were not without a reason--these people were placed in this position.
Placed there.

For too long I have ranted and raved at God, questioning His love and His care.
Too long have I begged and pleaded with Him to just get us out of this place, and put us somewhere new. To please, please, break the silence and reassure us that He heard and that we mattered.

So for now, I am choosing to rest.
I am choosing to believe that God has placed my family into this situation that we are in.
It is not without it's struggles (as I sit here and battle against the three-letter-monster that is raging war in my brain), but there can be reward if I allow it.

I am going to relish in afternoon naps with my son, walks to the park, movies on tv with my husband, and watching my child grow.
I will not allow myself to be dictated by the part of me that screams "What are you doing with your life? Accomplish something!"
And it will still be a battle, and I will still fail--but at least there is an acknowledgment and a resolve.
And maybe I can finally let go of the anger, and let my heart begin to heal.

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and over again.

It's kind of amazing to me how quickly my attitude can change when I am faced with a blinking, blank Word document, knowing that I have to hammer out 800 words on some mundane topic, as opposed to the "post" page that is just waiting for me to say whatever it is that I want.

I mean, we all know that I have a problem with authority and people telling me what to do, but this is a little ridiculous.

Anyway.

I kind of had a breakdown on the living room floor the other night.

I finished putting Jameson to bed, and as soon as I walked into the living room, he started to fuss. I had the weight of a week's worth of work needing to be finished in one night on my back, and I just couldn't take it anymore.
I didn't even cry (at first), I just laid flat on my back in the middle of the carpet and stared at the ceiling while babbling on about everything crammed into my too-small-to-carry-it-all-around brain.

"I just want to do what I'm created to do, and I don't even know what that is. I just want to do that thing that brings fulfillment, that lets me know that I am doing that thing that God put inside of me to do, but I can't find it. And how do I know when to fight for a dream that I think I could have, or settle for a life of responsibility?"

And then my wise and patient and ever-loving husband said, "What if you're not supposed to do all of the things you were created to do all at once?"

And I just thought, "I guess I'd never thought of that before."

Which is kind of dumb that I hadn't, if we're being honest. I mean, I've always tried to approach my life as having seasons, and I don't know how I didn't relate certain seasons of life to the things I'm supposed to be doing at certain times.
I was clearly not meant to be a wife and mother when I was seventeen and in college.
I probably won't be raising children when I'm seventy and living in my dream house (right? Ha).

But seriously. I'm here.
I'm a wife and a mother right now. That's what I do, it's who I am.
I also happen to write a little bit on the side to bring in some money, and if I'm not completely mentally inept after finishing that, I spit out messy words on a computer in the hopes that someone else will see and understand.
Maybe someday, or maybe even tomorrow, someone will see these words (or I'll get up the guts/energy/willpower to send them to someone) and they'll say to me, "Hey. I really think you've got important things to say, and the way you say them is intriguing and relate-able, and we want to give you some money to write more of these things and tell them to more people."
And I will be a happy, happy lady.

But for now, I need to focus on being here.
(Isn't that what it always comes back to, for me? Seriously, I don't know how anyone can keep reading this--it's got to get so redundant after awhile!)
I am enough, even without all of those roles.
I am enough when I don't write, when I don't mother, and when I don't wife.
I am enough in this depraved body, because Christ said I was enough.
And if He said so, why am I trying to say otherwise?

Ladies and Gentlemen, here sits Camille Nicole, back in the place she always finds herself--the beginning.

And it's okay.

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five years, six days.

That title is probably misleading.

Maybe it should be "five years. six days".

Because what I am talking about is the fact that five years ago, my husband asked me out on our first date, and as a result, I am spending my sixth Valentine's day with him.

Not only that, but I get two Valentines now, because I have a son. (Score another one in the "having a boy" category. Sometimes being the only girl has it's perks.)

I woke up to these:

According to Hubs, Jameson picked these out for me.

A dozen red roses from my love.

And these:

Because he knows how much I love Valentine's Day, even though it's "commercial".

Apparently, this took a million years to make, and included an incredible mess.
All while I was spinning my butt off at the gym.
I love my guys.

Then Hubs took me to this restaurant, followed by this:

Then I got to hang out with these guys:

He's like, "Come on, Mom. That's enough now."

I love this. I know Jameson and I are out of focus, but it's my family.
We are happy.

And now I'm here.

Such a blessed woman, am I.
And a happy one, at that.

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flashback friday

A snippet of a post that I started writing, but never finished:

I'm homesick today (but I'm not sure I can even explain what that means).

It's the middle of July, and there are rainclouds in the sky and a cool breeze blowing through the trees, and I just sit and think, "Where is summer?"

My son is sleeping in his swing right across from me, and the thoughts that tackle me when I look at him are overwhelming. The future seems so uncertain, especially with this new little guy, and I just feel like I am treading on unstable ground. Every day is different, down to how much sleep I get and how I feel physically. This is the biggest life change I've ever experienced, and I think I'm still in shock from it all.

I worry so much more now. I worry about his breathing, and his crying, and the little spots on his face, and the faces he makes, and all of the 'what-ifs' that hit me when we walk out the front door.

If I let it, this anxiety could consume me.
I'm sure I could attribute this to all of the hormones making their way out of my body right now, but I also know that this is probably just going to be the battle I fight for the rest of my life.
I'm a momma now, and suddenly, my heart is encapsulated in this little person, which means that I will always worry.

Six months later, and I am happy to report that the anxiety has gotten easier to manage, but is still around.


Looking back at this, I feel like I've gotten some sort of a handle on motherhood, even if it's just that I know my son now, and so am more familiar with what is normal (and what is not). I think the pendulum has swung the other way, and now I'm working on finding a balance between being a mom, and a wife, and still being myself and doing the things that feed my soul.


Any tips are greatly appreciated.

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this thing called marriage.

There have been a lot of posts lately talking about whether or not marriage is hard.

I think this was all spurned by the Driscoll's new book that came out recently, and even though I haven't read said book, I've read the posts around it.

To be honest, I was a little surprised. Most of the posts I've read have all been talking about how this thing called marriage is not hard, and the surprising ease that they found during their first year together. And while I don't discount this at all, I feel like it's not necessarily fair to those of us that did have a hard time.

Because let's be honest here (since that's what I do).

My first year of marriage was probably one of the hardest things I've ever faced.

BUT

 it was also one of the best.

And here's the thing. I got married at the ripe old age of nineteen, halfway through my second year of Bible college. When I got back to campus in the fall after we got married, I was surrounded by couples who had tied the knot that summer as well.
And that whole semester, I spent a good chunk of time worrying that we had made a mistake, because look at everyone else, they're so happy and all they talk about is how happy they are and how great marriage is, and gosh, we sure do have a lot of problems compared to everyone else...

And I just wish I had known that it was okay to wonder if we had made a mistake.
It was okay to feel like I hated this life, and to wish that I could just go back home and not do this anymore.

The problem is that no one warned me that it was going to be this hard, and that my husband and I would get in big fights late at night, and that I would cry and he would get angry, because we are imperfect, sinful people. No one wanted to talk about how marriage is like God holding up a big mirror that shows all of the bad parts of you and says, "Well kid, take a look. This is the truth, and there are parts of it that are pretty ugly." No one wanted to tell me just how selfish I was, and how I was going to have to learn how to say, "I'm sorry" and mean it even when I didn't want to.

So, I'm talking about it.
My first year of marriage was incredibly difficult, but it was also incredibly wonderful. There were moments that could have been pulled out of your favorite romantic movie, and moments that I will cherish for the rest of my life. But it was hard. And that's okay.
Because it's even better now, and I get to realize that and see how far we've come. And this is all okay with me. God has used my marriage like a refining fire, and even though I am far from done, I am proud to say that I have made progress.

And even though I sometimes get jealous of those people that have had a really easy time in their marriage, God is making me see that every relationship is different, and this just happens to be ours. Comparison is the kiss of death, it's the cause of all discontent, and it can be fatal to your marriage.

To my husband, thank you for loving me despite all of the roadblocks and difficulties we've faced. Thank you for forgiving me thousands of times, and showing me what sacrificial love looks like. Thank you for being my best friend, and making me laugh like no one else can.
I respect you so much, and I am so proud to call you my husband, and the father of my son.

To everyone else, I hope you won't judge too harshly.
And if someone else resonates with this, I hope you will realize that it's okay for something to be hard. That doesn't make it wrong, and it doesn't mean that you've made a mistake. It just means that it's going to take some work, but it's going to be worth it.

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catch-up

It's sunny but cold today, and I'm already on my third cup of (decaf) tea.
Jameson's still napping and I've finished working for the day.
We're almost out of milk and I'm trying to decide whether or not to rinse that load of laundry again.

I miss writing beautiful things.

I was completely content today, right here in this tiny town with it's lack of social activities and my inability to drive a car.

Jameson and I went out to a baby-friendly cafe, and I ate cake and drank coffee, while he sat in a highchair and gummed a baby rice cake. I made him laugh and he hugged me with his sticky fingers, and then a friend of ours coincidentally popped in and we ended up talking for an hour while she ate lunch with her two-year old, and the little bean-baby that is growing in her belly.

On the walk home, I looked at the sky and breathed in clean air, and reveled in the fact that I was okay, we were happy, and that I didn't have a burning desire to be anywhere else at that moment.

I don't know what this means.
Maybe it doesn't mean anything, or maybe it means everything.

Either way, it was nice.

Here's what life looks like lately. (And here's a promise to start working on photography again. Cause I need to.)

Hanging out at Uncle Jordan and Aunt Brandi's apartment in Dallas.

Oatmeal wasn't his favorite...

Gong Xi Fai Cai! (Or, Happy Chinese New Year!)

Double crowns. This may pose problems in the future.

Sesame Street. He loves it.

The gluten-intolerant's version of a ham sandwich.

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the return.

Ah, England. We meet again.

We've been "home" for almost a week now, and I am happy to report that we are pretty much settled back in and the jetlag is nearly out of our system. There are a million and one things that I need to work/think/pray through after our trip to America, and I am sure that they'll come out on here in time.

We had an amazing visit with so many amazing people, and I am just now processing how blessed I am, and how much support I have, even when I feel like I am in a very lonely place. It's interesting to see how God has given me the most incredible friends and family, and how I have not been able to find anyone similar in any of the places I've been. Seriously, I have been given the cream of the crop, and I am so happy about it.

Jameson was such a trooper during the whole trip--even the 10 hour plane rides where he had an ear infection and a cold. He was a rockstar baby, and people were constantly telling us, "Your baby is so well-behaved, and he is SO beautiful!" We would just smile and say thank you, but inside I was going, "I know, right? I got the best one."

He loved, loved, loved meeting his family in America, including 7 new grandparents (that's right folks, 7. We churn 'em out young in my family. Haha) including his great-great-grandma and 2 new aunts.

He also got to meet his godparents (outside of the womb), and the church family that has been loving on him and praying for him since he was the size of a poppyseed inside of my belly.

We had a dedication ceremony at church that was perfect, and exactly what Hubs and I wanted.

We got to celebrate my 23rd birthday at Spaghetti Factory, where I gorged myself on gluten-free pasta and wine, and laughed hysterically with my family.

Christmas was wonderful, and Jameson was spoiled beyond belief. We literally had to bring an extra suitcase back with us, that's how much stuff we picked up.

I put on at least five pounds from gorging myself with Mexican food, In-N-Out, Chick-fil-a, Starbucks, Panda Express, and so many others that when I think about them I just get hungry.

It was wonderful, and the perfect five weeks, and we didn't take nearly enough pictures (but I'll try to start taking more since I got a CAMERA PURSE for Christmas from my amazing husband!!!).

I am sad to be back here, but I am also glad to be in my own space, working towards a new goal of going home to the States for good. For now, I am trying to soak up the time I have here, because I know that there will be things I'll miss when I leave.

Hopefully, more regular posting will start to occur, thanks the the new schedule that I have us on. We'll see how it goes.

Love, love.

C

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so this is the new year.

2012.

I can't believe that it's here.

2011 has been a year of so many ups and downs, so many incredible things happened (including the birth of my son), for the good and the bad.

To be honest, I haven't spent much time reflecting on it all, simply because I am trying to soak up as much time with my family as I possibly can. We've been in Utah for nearly 3 & 1/2 weeks now, and are leaving on Wednesday, and...I really just want to be here.

Now. 

Laughing with my sisters, 

and drinking (decaf) coffee with my parents, 

and watching my son get to know the American side of his family.

There will be posts with pictures to come (although, I've done a bad job of taking them. Again, I've just tried to be here with everyone, and not spend all my time behind a camera), and I'm sure the reflection will begin.

For now, I've decided that this year is going to be about taking better care of myself, so that I can take better care of my family. This includes all aspects: physical, emotional, and spiritual. 

I want to be a better woman for the Lord, a better wife, and a better mom.

So, 2012, here's to you. Let's see if we can't live it up, right?

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five months.

Jameson baby is five months old today.

Unbelievable.

Next month, he will be half of a year. *cue weepy mom moment*

He is growing up way too fast.

This past week, he learned how to blow raspberries (along with the giant string of drool that comes out with them). Now, when he's really happy and he likes you, you'll get a raspberry (and a spray of baby spit) in the face.

He can roll over, from back to front, and he is lightning fast. Seriously, about a second after you lay him down on his back, he's already kicking himself over so that he can be on his tummy. However, he's still not a fan on this position, and cries for you to come get him if you leave him there too long.

He smiles a bit more now, mostly when he's tired, but also when he thinks you're funny. His little laugh is so cute, and there is no one that can make him giggle more than his Papa.

The teething monster showed up almost a month and a half ago now, and we have yet to see any progress. I swear I can feel a sharp ridge on his bottom gums, but I still can't see anything. Ugh. Poor monster baby. The teething necklace is still definitely helping, but we've also resorted to teething granules a bit more frequently since his pain seems to be getting worse. I wish his teeth would just show up!

He still loves the boob milk, and I'm happy to keep it that way for now. We're going to start baby-led weaning around six months (as long as he's ready), and I'm excited for him to try new things. So far he's sucked on bits of honeydew, apple, and orange, and has made faces at all three. We're going with the "Food for fun until one" adage, and I'm planning on nursing him until he's a year old, but hopefully for a while longer.

We love cloth-diapering (there's a post coming on that soon) and Hubs is officially an advocate for it. There is just something about washing diapers and hanging them up to dry that speaks to my momma-hood. I'm not even sure I can explain it. It just feels right.

But really, the most exciting thing is that we leave for the States in FIVE days, and I can't wait! Although I'm not looking forward to the eight-hour plane ride (which is only one of many, many plane rides we will be taking), I'm at the point now where I don't even care. It's been over a year since I've been home, and I can't wait for everyone to meet the new man in my life.

And finally, here are some pictures. Because what blog post about my baby would be complete without the pictures?

He was "The Last Airbender" for Halloween.
Perfect, I know.

The concentration (and drool) is overwhelming.

Oh mom. You're so embarrassing.

My beautiful, beautiful baby.

The artsy shot.

Hey guys? Guys? Can you come get me now?

Love.

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there's a drumming noise inside my head

Every time I think I finally have something to say, the words vacate my head faster then I can get them down on paper.

I'm afraid that this could be a permanent road block.
But then I remind myself that I'm only 22, and I still have years and years ahead of me to write and take pictures and live my dreams.
I've just got to get through the melancholy I sometimes feel in the here and now.
I've also got to get over the guilt I feel for feeling that way, because I have a son and a husband, and those two things are more than some people get in a lifetime.

I am happy.
Most of the time.

And besides, there is more to life than being happy.
I know that.

My two guys.

The best things to ever happen to me.

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one week (and a birth story)

(This was supposed to be published yesterday, but I got sidetracked, so it's going up a day late. Oh well.)

My baby is one week old today.
I cannot believe it.
I've already got "bittersweet momma" moments going on as I realize that he looks different than he did a week ago--his cheeks are filling out, and he actually put weight on after being born instead of losing it, like most babies.

Words cannot describe all of my feelings about being a momma.
There are so many emotions wrapped up in this small, 7lb, 14 oz baby boy that I'm not sure I could even begin to dissect them if I wanted too.

Suffice it to say that I did not know it was possible to love another person so completely, simply because they exist. Not only that, but all of those fears I had about meeting my son and wondering who he was going to be have faded into the background as I look at him and realize, "I know you." There are moments when I feel like my heart is going to explode because I am so overwhelmed by him and everything he means. He is the most tangible answer to prayer I have ever gotten, and I feel so blessed and so unworthy all at once.

*Disclaimer: birth story to follow. If you don't want the details, it's probably a good idea to stop reading. I won't be offended, I promise. :)

On June 28th, when I was six days overdue, my midwife came over to do another check and see if I had made any progress. I had been examined four days earlier and was pretty much closed tight, with the outcome looking kind of grim. She let me know that an induction would be scheduled, but only until I was fourteen days overdue (unless there was a medical reason that we needed to get that baby out).

So, when she came on that Tuesday, I was preparing myself for more bad news, and had pretty much resigned myself to the fact that it was looking like I had an induction (and two extra weeks of pregnancy) ahead of me. However, when she performed the check, she found that I was 2cm dilated, 50% effaced, and Jameson had moved his head all the way down (even though he was still back-to-back). She performed a membrane sweep, and said that she would hold off on scheduling the induction because she felt like, "This ought to get things going."

A few hours after she left, I began having some irregular contractions that lasted throughout the rest of the day, all that night, and into Wednesday. Although I was getting excited, I also knew that this was called the "latent phase" of labor and could last anywhere from 24 hours to a week. By Wednesday night, however, my contractions were becoming a bit more painful, and a bit more regular. Hubs and I went to bed around midnight, and at 12:30 am, I started to feel this little trickle of liquid coming out, but being the people-pleaser that I am, I didn't want to let anyone know that my water had broken until I was sure...I think I ran into the bathroom about four times before I was convinced that I wasn't just accidentally peeing myself. When I decided that, yes, my water had broken, I got in the shower while Hubs went and woke up my parents to let them know that we were going to head to the hospital.

By the time we got into the labor ward, my contractions were getting stronger and much more regular than they had been. However, the midwife on-call decided not to do a check because she didn't want to introduce an infection, so she told us to go home and come back when my contractions were 2 minutes apart for at least an hour. But by the time we made it home, my contractions were a minute and a half apart, and coming on strong. Hubs put the TENS machine on my back, which helped for a bit, but about fifteen minutes after we got home, we decided that it was time to head back.

This time around, we went straight to the delivery suite, where the midwife on-call checked and found that I was 3-4 cm, which equaled active labor. I asked to labor in the birthing pool, and somehow managed to crawl in about 45 minutes later. Half an hour after getting into the water, the contractions were so strong that it literally felt like I was being ripped apart from the inside. I threw up from the pain, and began to panic--I had only been in active labor for an hour and a half, and there was no way that I was going to be able to make it through another few hours with contractions like these (or worse). The gas and air that I had planned on using to help me cope was doing nothing except to make me more nauseous than I already was. I started saying, "I can't do this. I cannot keep going like this. I need drugs. I want BIG drugs." The midwife tried to calm me down, saying that I couldn't have an epidural until my dilation was checked again, but they had a policy of not checking before four hours had passed from the previous check. She offered me some codeine, which I took, but knew that it wouldn't kick in for at least a half hour.

By now the panic was overwhelming and I was getting desperate. I could feel a lot of pressure, and (what I figured) was the sensation that I needed to start pushing. Hubs suggested that I have the midwife check how far along I was, even though it had only been an hour and a half since my last check, just so I could get my own bearings. So, although she didn't think that I had made much progress, she agreed to take a look. I managed to get out of the pool and back into my room, even though it seemed almost impossible to move. The midwife checked my progress and, come to find out, I was 9 centimeters. Yeah. 9. (No wonder I was panicking...I was going through transition and didn't know it.) Clearly surprised, she tried to reassure me with the fact that I was going to have a baby soon, and (unfortunately for me) drugs were not an option any more. With every contraction, the need to push got stronger, but I was told to breathe through it and fight that urge as much as possible. I needed to dilate to a 10 before pushing Jameson out, otherwise swelling could occur and that would make pushing him out that much longer (and more difficult). I asked when I would know that I could start pushing and she said, "When your body won't let you hold back anymore. Your body will take over and you won't be able to stop."

The back of the bed had been raised, and I crawled on top of it with my arms thrown over the back, in a kneeling position. Eventually, I started to push and couldn't stop. This was the stage that felt like forever, as I could feel his head moving down sloooowly with each push, but after I physically couldn't keep pushing, he would move back up. It felt like I was making absolutely no progress, and even though I knew that it was important for him to move down slowly in order to stretch everything out, it was frustrating. I finally felt him move down and stay there even after the contraction had finished. I knew his head was going to come out soon, and I geared myself up to push harder than I ever had. The next contraction hit, and the amount of energy it took to push his head out was unreal. It's almost hard to explain--it was a superhuman moment where I am sure that the Lord helped, because there was no way that I did that on my own.

After I felt his head come out, I tried to wait for the next contraction, but the delusional thought in my head was "I can't just leave him hanging there!" and so I decided to just push the rest of him out. It was almost like he slipped out on his own, and the midwife kind of jumped up to catch him. I had only been pushing for a half hour, but it felt like eternity.

After he was out, I started saying, "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh." I picked him up off the bed, slippery and crying, and thought to myself, "Who is this little person that just came out of my body? I don't know who you are!" I stared at his face and couldn't believe that this was my son. My son, that had just been inside my body five minutes earlier. He looked just like his dad, and the first thing I said to Hubs was, "He has your nose!" Jameson only cried for a few minutes, and (after pooping all over me) we just stared at each other. The midwife left, and it was just the three of us in that little room. My two guys. My family.

--------------------------------

Although I spent most of my pregnancy trying to prepare myself for a natural birth, I don't think that there is anyway that I could have known how I was going to react until labor began. I truly did not want an epidural going into this whole thing, but by the time I hit transition (the puking and panicking stage) I was ready to try anything. 

To be honest, I felt like a bit of a failure asking for one, since I had just spent the last nine months gearing up to do this without pain relief, but I knew that (had I not actually been 9 centimeters) there was no way that I could have made it through another few hours with contractions as strong as they were--I was physically and mentally exhausted, and it was more important to me to get Jameson out safely than to save face. 

All of this to say, I think I'm grateful that everything went as quickly as it did, even though it meant that the pain became so intense so fast. It was only seven hours from my water breaking to actually pushing Jameson out, which is pretty unheard of for a first-time mother. Giving birth naturally is an experience I would not have wanted to miss, and I think my recovery has been quicker because of it. However, I understand completely (and have no judgment against in any way) why women opt for pain relief. Childbirth is something that words literally cannot describe and no one can prepare you for until you're actually going through it.

So there you go. 

If you made it all the way, thanks for hanging in there. 

This past week has been the biggest journey of my life, and we are simply getting through it day by day. 

I am a happy woman, a blessed woman, and every time I look at my son, I am overwhelmed with the fact that God chose to let Hubs and I take care of this beautiful boy.

The end.

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