Oh Em Gee!

Yep, I MADE these, the PJ pants! I was gifted a series of sewing classes, and it totally paid off. Lots of fun. Translation: if I can do this you can DEFINITELY do it. I have the patience of a famished lion. Oh, yes, and if you're on my holiday gift list, you just MIGHT be getting some too!

(I'm pretty sure that sewing these pants and making a fantastic butter-cream icing are my ONLY Martha Stewart "ish" feats in the last year of being a stay-at-home-mom. Hey, I'm a work in progress.)

My Confession on His Birthday

My title is "Homemaker Exposed." Here is my maximum exposure, a shame-filled truth wherein I hope I am not alone:

I tried not to love him.

When my son was born, I realized that the expression "such a miracle" is not trite as I had believed, but rather true in biblical proportions. Part me, part Ryan, part God and His creation, my son is most deeply a miracle. But he is separate from me. I cannot completely protect him. I cannot completely heal him. He is left in God's hands, and I am left to recognize my own mortality, my own vulnerability. And it scared me. It still does.

I had resolved to protect myself from these fears. How? Well, I had pondered this for years prior to my son, and I had determined to "hedge" my losses should I endure one. Translation: I used to believe that the more children I had, the more bearable a loss, illness, or incapacity of a single child would be. I thought I could intellectualize and ration my love. I was wrong.

Although my son is healthy, and although I do not know how many more children my body can bare, my son's first year has taught me this:

Having a child is giving myself to God, losing my sense of power. In return, God gives me an appreciation for the daily mundanes that I have never before felt. God shares Himself in a way I have never before understood. And I lose my sense of "I."

Happy birthday my son, and thank you.

A Housewife?

I wasn't raised to be a housewife. I was raised to be a lawyer. In fact, I have a lovely diploma from law school sitting up against the wall in our master bedroom. I'm sure that the moment I was handed that parchment was one of my father's proudest memories. Only several months later when I declared my intention to stay at home with my newborn baby did reality strike: I wanted to be a housewife, a homemaker, a stay-at-home-mom, unemployed. Little did I know how unprepared I was.

I thought the job was very straightforward: cook, clean, and care for the baby. Well, I'll tell you what, in suburban Houston there are MANY more responsibilities to being a homemaker. Just to name a few: decorate the house, decorate for every holiday and season, sew, craft, and make something out of nothing on a shoestring budget. Many more will come my way soon: host playdates, be involved with the PTA, volunteer at school, become a chauffeur, plan and prepare for vacations, etc. What is so interesting to me is that these responsibilities fall upon the working mom as well; however, I believe that the expectations aren't quite the same. For example, if the working mom doesn't have a seasonal wreath on her door she is forgiven, but if the homemaker fails to place or change the wreath she is idle.

I am not only surprised by the list and height of high expectations for homemakers, but I am surprised by what is required to do the basic tasks properly. I know I am responsible for doing the grocery shopping and getting dinner on the table, but I didn't know that my baby would select a vegan lifestyle forcing me to make multiple dishes for every meal. I knew that the floors should be vacuumed, but I had no clue that the WALLS should be vacuumed.

I grew up in a house with a housekeeper. She covered the basics. Then, there were the cleaning ladies who, I must assume, did the heavy housework. I wasn't even taught how to fold a sheet, let alone clean a toilet! Nonetheless, I am grateful for what I had, and I am now grateful for what I have. I just feel as though I have so much catching up to do! Every time I think I've mastered the art of homemaking, I pick up a book or read a blog that reminds me how short I have fallen. Maybe it's time to read a NOVEL instead!

Something about Gratitude

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about gratitude. Between my time of need (the surgery) and a friend in need (issues with her baby's health,) I am forced to feel a gratitude for my life far deeper than can be expressed with words. I try to pray my thanks and write my thanks, but it is not enough. Is it greedy to long for the words, the ability to express myself adequately? I am left shaken in blender of grief for those who are grieving and gratitude for the life that is mine.

God Speaks

Yes, we were on the quest to wait. Yes, I was struggling with this decision. Yes, I accidentally got pregnant. It was a tubal pregnancy, so I guess it's not much of a surprise. We don't use birth control because we know that an embryo cannot implant in my uterus without assistance. Since it wasn't a viable pregnancy, it wasn't planned, and I didn't even know about it until I knew something was wrong, it wasn't terribly painful to lose. I did have to have the entire tube removed, and that's a bit frightening considering that I want more children. I did have to undergo surgery, hormonal changes, and painful (physically) symptoms of a miscarriage. In the end, I'll conclude that this was God's confirmation that the right choice for us is to wait a few months. There's some sense of relief when the decision is taken out of my hands, but I know the struggle will re-surface as soon as my body returns to normal. God, help me!

I want a baby girl

Yes, I have baby fever again. I want something little that I can snuggle and carry around in an infant seat. Oh yes, and I want it to be a GIRL this time. I want to get excited about little girl clothes. I want pink and lace and ruffles. I want dainty princess dresses and bows and dolls. My baby boy will always be the love of my life, but I want a baby girl. (Heck, I actually want a couple of both!)

We were working on having baby #2, but then a rare travel opportunity sprung up. It's a situation that can actually include my mom, and I don't want to deny her that experience by not being able to put off conceiving for another six months. So we wait...again...good things come to those who wait, right? God, please hear this prayer!

To Dallas, With Love...

I am a Dallas girl. In fact, I am such a Dallas girl that a friend used to call me "Dallas." Yes, I WAS Dallas. I knew the "right" people, drove the "right" vehicle, and had the "right" look. By the time I was in college (which, interestingly enough, didn't happen to be in Dallas) I definitely grew into the part. I love it when my dad pays for me to have a great haircut and a blond "touch-up." I love it when my step-mother, the undeniably best in Dallas, gives me a long, luxurious, and gossip-filled facial. I love cruising around Highland Park in a luxury vehicle. I love Whole Foods and great eateries. I love being treated like a high-roller. Lord help me, but I sure do love Neiman's and Northpark. I love the specialty stores and the beautiful people. I adore the beautiful homes and the old sections of town. I'm nestalgic for the quiet, tree-lined drive down Hillcrest. I love having grounded and informed opinions about the private schools and the cultures therein. I love knowing people wherever I go. I love that the city is full of MY history and the people I love.

I don't live in Dallas anymore. I don't live the image that I had for myself when I grew up in Dallas. My life is wonderful, however. I have a happy, healthy marriage and a equally wonderful baby boy. I live near my beloved in-laws, and I've escaped the "bad" in Dallas. I was happy to flee from the pressures to live "THE" Dallas life. I was happy to quit caring about how I looked when I went to the grocery store and whom I ran into at the restaurants. I was happy to find a town in which my vehicle's make didn't preceed my character. I was happy to have a fresh place in which to share my more mature and gentle character. I'm happy not to take myself too seriously, to joke around with the "help." I'm happy that having "help" isn't expected in my town. I'm happy that I don't have to wear lables. I'm happy that I don't feel the pressures to enjoy the costly luxuries I grew up enjoying. Yes, I am happy.

But I miss Dallas. I am a Dallas girl, but I don't think Dallas will ever again be my home. For the first time since leaving ten years ago, I wish I lived there, the place that will always be home to my heart. Dallas, I forgive you your transgressions, and I hope you will forgive me mine.