The price of obedience

This morning, Mr. Blandings and I were counting the cost of moving our family to the mission field full-time. No, we weren't talking about the lack of Netflix in SE Asia or the fact that Seven will probably be a preschooler by the time she "meets" most of her extended family in a way she can actually remember. We were talking about the actual cost.


The money.


We need to raise $5,000 per month to support our ministries (plural) and our family. So far, we have 10% of that committed. Some days the number seems so huge that I fear I'll be 40 before I put my feet on Nepali soil. Others, I know that my God is big enough to bring in twice that completely unsolicited.


We prayed this morning, as we do every day, for God to bring in the money. Then I kind of forgot about it. (It's Mani's birthday, after all!) But this afternoon, as I got a second to sit down and check in on the cyber world, I read this post and was inspired to calculate our needs.


We need 90 families to commit $50/month to reach our goal.


Or 225 families to commit $20/month.

Or God to sway an ultra-wealthy Christian with a heart for the 10/40 window to just write us a check for a million. 


Any of those will do.

I wonder which route He'll take? 


(And by the way, if you are one of the people who God has given a heart for the people of Nepal, please read this. Keep praying! Satan is working hard to shut the door on the Truth and keep folks in the dark. I guess He hasn't read the end of the Book, huh?)

Dear Sister,

I could tell as I trailed you through the halls of the YMCA that you are expecting--and soon. Your ankles have that slightly puffy, overburdened look, your back that deep, uncomfortable sway that suggests a woman unused to carrying such weight. Seeing the full bloom of your belly only confirmed what I already knew. 


You looked, to me, radiant.


But then your cell phone rang. Flustered, you shuffled through your very cute, very pink workout bag until you found the offending device. Your exasperated answer echoed through the locker room. I'll never know who was on the other end of the line, but clearly, it was someone with whom you share an intimacy. In the confines of the locker room, it was impossible not to eavesdrop, not to feel as if I was an invested member of the give and take that took place.


"Yes, I am still pregnant," you told the other party, and my gut began to squirm. See, I knew what was coming. And yet, I could not walk away.


I know that your aches and pains are real. I know that you are uncomfortable, that you're not sleeping well, that you pee all the time, that you can barely fit behind the steering wheel of your car. You have every reason to be done with the season you find yourself in.


But I hate that you hate it.


For twenty minutes, I listened to you lay out your litany of ills. Maternity clothes that barely fit. Indigestion that keeps you away from your favorite Mexican restaurant. Toenails that you can't reach to paint the lovely shade of pink that you like to see peeking up at you from your flip flops in the summer months.


I heard it all, and I sympathized. 


But you know what I didn't hear?


The miracle of feeling your baby writhe, confined so tight in your womb that he or she could barely wriggle. The beauty of sitting on the cusp of an expanded family. The glorious knowledge that God has used you to bring about one of His most awesome gifts. The anxious, gleeful anticipation of waiting to meet someone whose lungs have yet to even draw breath.


I didn't hear any of that, and it pains me.


As a woman who longed for so many years to walk in those stretched out, swollen shoes of pregnancy, I am keenly aware of the blessing wrapped in a burden that is late pregnancy. The physical signs of impending birth are, to me, so poignant that I admit, I find very little to complain about. Knowing as I do the emptiness of arms unfilled, I sometimes have to step away from women who curse their own blessed state so that I don't shake them. It's true. 

There is much to be burdened by, yes. But sister, there is even more to be blessed by.


As I sat on the opposite end of the locker room bench, listening to you describe your body as "massive" and "disgusting," listening to you announce how you couldn't "wait for this to be over," my mind went back years and years, to an experience I've all but forgotten. An experience with another expectant mother who had no idea that she was just hours away from meeting her baby. We had lunch, both of us pregnant, both of us nearing the end of the race. While we ate, my friend listed off the things she couldn't wait to do without a baby growing inside of her. Drink a beer. Be intimate with her husband. Ride her bike. Ditch the maternity panties. Wear her favorite jeans.


Three hours later, at a routine check-up, she learned that her baby had died. She delivered a still little girl that night, and went home to a place where all of those things--the beer, the bike, the jeans-- seemed empty and useless.


She would have given anything to have that baby back, safe, inside of her. She told me later--and I admit, I still didn't get it for years--that she would do anything, anything to be that uncomfortable and full again.


Of course, I learned that lesson on my own, the hard way. The pain, the inconvenience, the struggle, the discomfort, the agony, even ... It is not something to be wished away. It is something to be cherished. Truthfully.


I know you probably won't understand this. You probably think I am overly sentimental, a worshiper of birth, a woman who has lost her inner compass thanks to her years waiting without hope. And you know, I guess I hope that you can stay that way. I hope that you never look back on these moments have regret. I hope that you can move forward without missing a beat, can think on your pregnancy as a mere blip on the road to your new little one.


But just in case you can't, please--do yourself one small favor. Take a picture. Write something down. Anything. Make some small memory of the beautiful season you are currently living in. Hold onto it. Be blessed by it. Because truly, it is a gift that not everyone is handed. Of that, I am certain.


Blessings,
Mary Grace

Review: GoGreen Diapers

I had fully intended to review these diapers next month, when time was a little less monopolized by the daily comings and goings of life. However, a small seed of revelation has been growing in my brain all week long, and this diaper is actually at the heart of it.


Say what?


Let me backtrack a little. Right now--this week-- a group of mommy bloggers is taking on a very unusual challenge. Responding to news reports revealing how low income families are spending their last dollars on diapers, choosing to "recycle" disposables, and/or leaving said disposables on baby's tender bottoms far longer than ever intended, this group has committed to cding their babies in the cheapest way possible for an entire week. They're blogging about their experiences, showing the world how easy/hard it is to diaper using cheap flats with covers, washing by hand or with a homemade camp washer, and hang drying. Every night. For a week.


It's called the Flats and Handwashing Challenge, and while I'm not taking part, it has certainly challenged me.


Why? Because as I've shared many times, diapering Jo nearly 14 years ago was a massive strain on our budget. We relied on diapers purchased by family members quite often, because our own budget just didn't cover that "essential." We were barely buying food--diapers were a luxury!


At the time, I actually considered cloth. I stumbled upon a package of flats at my local Wal-Mart for less than $7 for a whole dozen. A 3-pack of the thin plastic pants I remembered my mom using on my brother was less than $4. I stood in the aisle and contemplated. I had no washing machine. No dryer. No idea what I was getting myself into.


And no support. My husband gave me a dubious grimace when he saw me holding the alternative diapering items. 


"You can't get those clean enough to be safe," he said with a shudder. 


At the time, everyone I knew believed that cloth diapering was something that only the poor, uneducated folks who couldn't see how much better living was possible through diaper chemistry even attempted. It was something like breastfeeding--which I was already doing. To jump off the cloth diaper bridge would surely cement my reputation as a granola nut of an entirely different kind. 


An unsterile kind, most likely.


So I put the cheap flats and pants back, and kept visiting my mom and grandparents, and asking my in-laws to bring diapers whenever they came for a visit. 


I wish at that time that I had read some of the real-life ups and downs being posted by participants in the Flats Challenge. It would have made a difference. It really would have.


But all of this seems to have nothing at all to do with the title of this post. And yet, it does, I promise. 


Years later, money wasn't nearly so much of an issue. We weren't scrounging to keep the power on, but believe it or not, the cost of diapers came up when we discussed the idea of adding to our family. We had a washer, had a dryer, and were now aware that the idea of "sterilizing" a diaper for re-use within one's own family is more than a little overboard. 


On a fling, I sat down at the computer and googled "cloth diapers." The top results were all major names that any cloth diapering momma today would be instantly familiar with. I read with amazement all of the positive feedback people were listing--how they claimed these diapers resulted in fewer rashes, leaked less, and were better for the environment than disposables. I was ready to jump off the bridge without a bungee cord, right up until the moment when I saw the price tag.


Cloth diapering can be expensive. And that expense can push it out of the reach of well-meaning Mommas with modest incomes. Trust me. I know. The $20+ that many of the most popular brands charge per diaper is more than many families can swing, especially when you take into account that a newborn baby will easily need a stash of more than a dozen diapers even if you plan on laundering every night.


But guys, it doesn't have to be that way. And you don't have to commit to learning a myriad different folds or swaddling your baby's bum in multiple layers of gauzy cotton to make it work, either.


Enter GoGreen Diapers. 

GoGreen's diapers are one size pockets, the type favored by many cding parents. The suedecloth pocket sits on top of a microfiber insert, and the exterior is lined with a waterproof layer of PUL. It's a one-shot deal--basically as easy as a disposable. No folding. No separate cover. No changing out inserts. Just take off the dirty diaper, snap on a new one, and go. And by the way, the exteriors are way cuter than anything you'll find packaged in bundles of 36 waiting in the aisles of your local grocery store. 

The above print is about the girliest thing you could ask for. Bunz 'N Roses. Tell me you didn't get a grin looking at all that pinkness!

GoGreen offers two types of diapers (both pockets). The original is a sturdy, basic pocket with an opening on one end and overlapping snap tabs for a perfect fit even on skinny babies. My sample was a Champ 2.0, a slightly snazzier version with dual pocket openings so that the soiled insert comes out on its own in the wash. It also sports double leg gussets to hold in messes even better, as well as a PUL-lined pocket cover in the back that handily keeps sticky stuff down below the waistline, if you know what I mean. There's even a snap to hold the insert in on top of the suedecloth, if you wish, basically turning it into an AI2 with just the purchase of additional inserts.

The Champ fit Seven like, well, like a champ. No red marks around those chunky thighs, no leaking, nothing but visions of pink cuteness. And yes, she put this one through the paces. I decided to take a day out and about and got caught up in the activities while testing the GoGreen. Four hours into our excursion, I checked Seven. While the insert was sopping wet, her skin wasn't even clammy. That's a pretty good indicator that this is a great diaper, in my book!

Finally, the Champ is trim enough to fit under even little girl tights without much more than the normal, adorable (in my book) cloth diaper baby butt. 

If you've done any research at all into cloth diapers, you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Diapers similar to the Champ retail for about $24 each, right? Especially with those cute fuzzy exteriors and those amazing double gussets, you're thinking. Yeah, $24. Out of my league.

What if I told you that it was $14.95? 

And that the original GoGreen is just $9.99?

And they're OS, remember? So I just told you that you can diaper your baby from birth to potty training with cute pockets for under $120, and still have some wiggle room on laundry.

Bottom line on GoGreen--aside from the fact that I wish they had been around in 1997? You don't have to spend a fortune to cloth diaper your baby. While they're still out of reach of the folks that the Flat Challenge are trying to inspire, they're well within the grasp of many potential cders who can't afford to invest $20 or more per diaper, yet don't want to deal with flats, pre-folds, etc. These are great diapers, at a great price. You simply can't ask for more than that. 

Disclaimer: I was given a free copy of this product for review purposes. Refer to my general disclaimer for more information on my policies regarding reviews.

Fear factor

I'm in the middle of school planning for the year ahead. So many choices, so many options, so many bases to cover in the dwindling years I have left teaching Jo at home. High school--and all that it entails--is  steaming towards us. I think back on the meager beginnings of our little homeschool and wonder where all the years of making saltdough letters and counting forks and spoons out of the dishwasher have gone. In the beginning, there was a long tunnel of time stretching before us. Surely, my little girl was as grown up as she was every going to get.

Not quite.


Jo is knocking at the door of adulthood now, and while she's got several years before that call is answered, we can all feel it coming. She is nervous, excited, overwhelmed and overjoyed, all at the same time. This upcoming year will bring Sonlight's Core 200, pre-algebra, chemistry, and a host of other things that will stretch her mind, put her academic skills to the test, and probably even reduce her to tears on one or more occasions.


And yet, in the midst of my planning, it's not Jo and her high school plans that are leaving me with a dry mouth. I ought to be frightened of teaching high school. I ought to have a healthy acknowledgement of the increased responsibility. I ought to be scrambling to have a plan for records, a stable of mentors, that sort of thing. 


But what I'm really worried about is ...


Preschool.


Preschool, of all things. Preschool, which I could teach with my eyes closed at this point, assuming that I consciously taught preschool at all. Running a finger under letters as you read aloud from a favorite picture book. The right way to hold scissors. How to hop from one foot to another without losing your balance. Sharing. Singing an endless array of Bible songs. Puzzles. Counting games. 


This fall, I'm going to be fully responsible for a kind of preschool I've never really envisioned in our lives: special needs. 

After so many moments of conviction that even I couldn't deny them, it's become clear that our local public school program isn't the place for Oli. He's receiving speech and occupational therapy, yes. But the quality of those programs has diminished as the school district has struggled to reallocate funds in a drastically slashed budget. Preschoolers who with cognitive delays come after high school sports in the minds of many, and thus Oli now sits for group sessions with a therapist who must try to elicit speech sounds from six low-functioning four year-olds at a time. Her chances of succeeding are depressingly low. 


And, we realize, that continuing on the path we've started down with Oli promises basically the same returns. 


It's not just the dubious therapies. There have been other signs, as well. Oli has picked up a few quality habits that, until now, we have been blessed to never welcome inside our front door. To our horror, his ability to parrot behaviors is as keen as ever. While he may not be learning to recognize his name, he now knows what it means to shout "Kill you!" when a tussle over a toy isn't going your way.


Public school--not even public preschool--isn't a good fit for us. 


So we have made the prayerful decision to bring him home. But what does that mean?


This past year, I spent a huge chunk of time (and an equally big chunk of our homeschool budget) on Olischool.  While his classroom teacher was ostensibly in charge of leading him through the motions, here at home we did everything in our power to fill Oli's moments with opportunities for learning. Still, in the back of my mind, I knew that he was getting "real" preschool down at the school. His teacher--a certified, experienced professional--was doing the heavy lifting, I told myself. I was just filling in the gaps.


Go ahead and laugh at me for these thoughts. Go ahead and tell me that an experienced homeschooler ought to know better. I'm a big girl. I can take it. 


The illusion has been shattered. I know that I was meant to be in charge all along. Now it's time to take the bull by the horns and admit to myself that I'm certified by a higher power and called to this job. I can do it. With God's help, I can teach this boy.


This fall will find me swimming in a new pond. Not only will I have a high schooler to guide, but a special needs preschooler, as well. The stakes somehow seem high, but I've been in these situations often enough to know that a few years from now, I'll most likely look back and wonder what I was so anxious about. Hopefully, as I reminisce, Oli will be sitting beside me. Reading a book. And wondering why his Momma is laughing so hard.

Treasured

My children seem intent on squeezing my heart until it bursts this week. 


Yesterday, Logan entered his last single digit year. He is now officially nine, and while I haven't been able to call him my baby for quite some time, he is now very, very clearly not my baby. From his lanky, gawky arms to his stinky, man-sized feet, it's abundantly obvious that Logan is crossing over into that awkward stage just before puberty. 


Tomorrow, Atticus will join in and insist on becoming eleven. Still boyish (despite the growing physical signs to the contrary), Atticus is somewhat sheepish about his advancing age. He's a wise old soul--wise enough to know that his years of being a relatively unfettered boy are dwindling. This, of course, makes him all the more precious in this Momma's eyes.


And naturally, there is Mani's birthday next week. He'll be three. Three, I tell you. This morning, he told me all about his upcoming fete: "I haffa birfday cake. I getta digger. I'm a g'wonna thing and thing and danth. And then I'm a g'wonna be free!" 


As if all this weren't enough, this morning, Seven decided to tackle two milestones at once. She has been toying with crawling for the past few days. Yesterday, she made her first tenuous creeps forward. Today her knees managed to communicate with her hands enough to get two creeps at a time. That, to me, constitutes crawling. In a week, she'll be blitzing around the house, opening cabinets, laughing as the boys chase her, evading capture. This was plenty. My heart had its happy/sad moment where I praised God for my healthy, growing, neurotypical little girly and mourned her tiny baby days all at the same time. 


Then she topped it all with this:

Bittersweet, no? As a mother, I'm often reminded of Luke 2:19, in which God relates how Mary "treasured all these things up in her heart." The Greek for "treasured" is συνετήρει, which means to "observe and keep safe." I am treasuring up all of the joy of this week, keeping it safe in my heart. Some day, I'll have time to sit and reflect on it all. But for now, I'm content to live it, letting it wash over me and bless me, moment by moment, milestone by milestone.

Happy Birthday, Logan!

Tomorrow, my Logan will turn 9. Nine. Seriously ... I am not ready for this. See, even though he is now floating in the middle of a sea of seven, for a long, long while he was the youngest. My baby. The last of the Mohicans, as we affectionately called him.


And now he's turning 9. 


No longer the youngest.


No longer a baby.


No longer anything but a growing boy grabbing life by the horns and riding into the pre-teen years.

Happy birthday, Logan. You are loved!

On brokenness

I realized--with much horror--that I may have committed one of my own cardinal sins with my post yesterday: making light of very real and very desperate depression. If you've read this blog for a while now, you know that I've been in the miry pit more than a few times in my life. I've written about it many times, and if you do a search for the term "depression" on this blog, you'll get several results. 


For whatever reason, there seems to be something of a sadness gene in my DNA, and I'm especially vulnerable to it rearing its ugly head in the months after adding a new little person to my life. I'm not proud of this fact, but I'm not ashamed of it, either. While I didn't understand the reality of this issue in my life when it first appeared, I am much more aware of it now. Depression is not a lack of faith. It is not a failure to pull one's self up by the bootstraps. It is not a lack of appreciating the blessings God has poured into one's life.


It is a beast that springs from many ills. Some are chemical. Some are situational. Others are a complete mystery. But understand this: depression is real. It is painful. And it hurts more than just the person afflicted by the darkness. For this reason, I immediately began taking a prescription medication for post-partum depression when Seven was two weeks old. 


And you know what? The addition of this child was absolutely the smoothest, most joyful, and least blue of any our family has ever seen. I don't think that this is a coincidence.


I didn't post about this because honestly, it didn't occur to me. Why not? Because I skipped over the part where I navel gaze and begin to worry. I breezed past the part where I feel inadequate. In other words, out of sight, out of mind. Why talk about what's not an issue when there are so many other things that are?


I'm writing this post because the last thing I want to be is one more voice in the sea of others telling hurting women to just grin and bear it. Nothing--and I do mean nothing--is more useless when you're depressed than looking into the reflection cast by someone who seems to have it all together and seeing how woefully short your own image seems by comparison. It's worse than the folks who urge you to just take more B12, worse than the women who pat your back and tell you that you'll be fine, just fine, worse even than the friend who loses her patience and tells you how good you've got it and to quit bellyaching. 


If you are hurting, please, please don't fake it. Please talk to someone who loves you and ask for help. Please go to a trusted pastor, doctor, therapist, etc., and let them assist you in reclaiming your joy. Depression robs you--and your family--of far too much for you to simply fake your way through it. God has so much more for you. Receive it--without shame.