Category: babies (Page 4 of 6)

Weaned by God

January 6, 2015 / Michele Minehart

My last two babies nursed all. the. time. Of course they “slept through the night” – they slept supremely well for 3 hours, until they needed their next milk fix. Of course, they didn’t “need” to eat, but it was like Ponderosa in the late 80’s and if you have chicken wings readily available, why not enjoy a few more for the sake of deliciousness? For my life situation, including 2-3 other sleeping children in rooms nearby, it was easier to feed them than endure the cries that come with learning to wait until breakfast, so I continued to nurse 2-3 times a night. It was simply life and it didn’t frustrate me much after I came to terms with it. (Though, saying it 6 months on the other side of sleeping only in 3 hour increments, I sound more gracious than what I perhaps felt at the time.)

One to two days after we fully weaned, my children didn’t wake for feedings. It didn’t take long to remind them that the shop was closed and dark time was for sleeping, not the buffet. Within the week, there was a new freedom to our relationship. They didn’t just want me to feel better, which they had historically achieved by filling their belly. Now our snuggles and our time together, just living each day, filled that need.

One of my favorite authors, Anne Lamott, chooses to refer to God in the feminine and I appreciate her bringing to light the fact that God carries both natures – he created both man and woman in his image. I think only a God who created nursing mothers would inspire the words of King David in Psalm 131.

Psalm 131

My heart is not proud, Lord;
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
or things too wonderful for me.
But I have calmed myself
and quieted my ambitions.
I am like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child I am content.
Israel, put your hope in the Lord
both now and forevermore.

The great King David, the one who put mighty Israel on the map. The man who ruled, bringing prosperity to all, with an eye and a heart for the downtrodden. A king, who, when you overlook that adultery, murder and misuse of power mishap, gave a great face to the God of Israel. In fact, I was reading about the idea of “the Kingdom of God” and much of our understanding of that phrase goes back to David’s rule, where it was understood to be a manifestation of God’s reign among his people. To say that David did great and mighty things – “great matters or things too wonderful” – would be an understatement. David was not a sit-back-and-see-what-happens kinda guy.

But this bit of poetry casts David’s heart in a new light. While he was all about the Lord’s work, he also knew his place. His relationship with God became such that he didn’t constantly crave what God could give him, but rather God’s presence. Like a weaned child – not a child driven by a belly’s growl. Not a baby, who, though she loves her mother, defines her mother’s love by what is given or how often it is offered.

Like a weaned child I am content. God has provided. He has proven his ability to give what I need. Now I don’t need God to serve me to be content with him.

Reading this, I’m prone to believe that there was a time in David’s life that he was concerned with great matters. Being a King, one would hope so. But this particular phase in life, David calmed himself and quieted his ambitions. Now David and God connected through presence, not productivity. David didn’t stop ruling the nation; he simply stopped believing that provision was the only way to understand or experience God.

It turns out, the hand of God, or – more accurately, from this Psalm – the breast of God, isn’t the only way draw close to ~~Him~~ Her.

The last

September 30, 2014 / Michele Minehart

Have you ever read a book and completely fell in love with the characters and story line, so much that you couldn’t put it down? You read far too late into the evening and find yourself gushing to book club friends, saying “have you got to the part when they…” and enjoying one another’s delight. Then you notice that you’re well over 75% of the way through the book and you come to this horrible realization that the story will end soon. Part of you wants to tear through it as fast as you can because it’s beautiful and delightful and the end product is simply too enticing. The other inner-self wants to drag it out, to savor every paragraph and sentence because you know that once it’s done, you can never experience it in the same way again. You can read other books, you can even re-read books, but that maiden story line, filled only with hope rather than expectation, can happen only at this reading and you want it to last as long as possible, secretly wishing it would never end.

And so it goes with parenting the last child.

The first child, the baptism of parenting, is its own beautiful animal. You never really know what’s coming next. Nothing can compare with or replace the experience of your first time with a little human depending upon you for everything – each subsequent experience adds to that and stands alone in its special way, but the first time is unique in its firstness.

In much the same way, your last also carries its own special place. Of course, many people never fully realize their last was their last – that’s a blessing/curse for some, but not all. Short of a miracle baby, we confidently believe this little guy is our grand finale, so I’m fine with declaring him the last. It is its own little declaration of independence.

I was rocking Mr. M during a double-whamy spell of teething and a slight ear infection and realized how un-irritated I was to be doing so. Two babies ago, I would’ve just wanted to be done with the day after hours of juggling, refereeing, feeding and otherwise herding my litter. But this particular day, I was fine with rocking. I took him downstairs for some cuddles, not concerned he would come to “expect it” and become a manipulative little brat. (I’ve learned the hard way they do that on their own, with due time.)

If I could do anything over, something I try not to give significant consideration, I would have had my “last” baby immediately after my first. I would’ve had 3 last babies. Written with the benefit of hindsight, I would hold that one-year-old and think, “next year, this one will be in a bigger bed, running and even talking some!” for each and every one. I would stew upon the incredible speed at which they grow in these early years, mastering feats at a rapid pace. I may be in an incredibly difficult stage (which, ahem, we are, with at least 50% of these small humans), but these stages move so quickly. If I’m not careful, I’ll complain my way through the put-in-take-it-out-of-the-box stage completely. No one wants to miss that, it’s one of the highlights.

We’ve known all along we wanted 4 children and while we acknowledged it really wasn’t all up to us to decide and perhaps we would end up with a different number, that target changed the way I experienced the early years for my middles. In the back of my mind, I knew I would have the middle of the night feedings again, the diapering time (people tell me all the time they miss that), and the early steps full of weeble and wabble. With the next one, I would think.

Now, I’m all out of next ones, and I’m finding how beautiful these moments can be. Not because they’re only joyful and full of rainbows, unicorns, and pinterest projects, but because they are fleeting. I can’t get it back, I can’t start over, no new chances – so all I can do is love from the depths for the moment I have.

These moments of gratitude for my last baby come with perfect timing as I’ve entered into a stage of restlessness, jumpy in my own daily rhythms. After previously moving into bigger kid freedom, Mr. M’s recent induction into toddlerhood sent us back to the chains of nap- and bed-time rigidity and stroller requirements. Part of me wants to plow through these days straight into grade school when I can paint my face blue and sprint through the neighborhood in a kilt yelling “freeeeedoooommmm!”

But these baby cheeks tug me back down to reality. He beckons me to savor rather than scarf my moments. He is only this small this one time – as I tell my kids, every day we’re each getting older. The crib will come down, we’ll sell the cadillac of a stroller and the diaper bag will retire. Those things will happen.

What will not happen is returning to today. Even when it’s full of shouting or chasing, ending with a collapse on the couch, these baby-days close out one by one.

The day Jesus walked into the delivery room

August 28, 2014 / Michele Minehart

For all 4 babies, I had nothing but terrific birth experiences. Please, put that in perspective that I was giving birth, so it wasn’t filled with rainbows and lollipops, but at the end of the ~~day~~ night, I had no regrets about labor or delivery. I had built a strong relationship with my first midwife, Bonnie, who delivered my first 3 kiddos. She knew my wishes, talked me through the hard parts and had nothing but encouragement for my desires for a natural delivery. (She was supremely supportive of my friends who opted for as many painless options as possible, which is what makes her a great practitioner.) Going into that L&D room, I knew that if Bonnie said I needed to take a different course of action, I needed to listen. I had nothing but trust for her.

My relationship with the midwife practice who delivered my 4th was also positive, however there were 4 midwives in the rotation, so I just didn’t have the opportunity to grow the rapport. It was still a positive experience and I had a good understanding of the ethos of the practice so I could trust them.

With this perspective in mind, I’m absolutely appalled this isn’t the case for all women. When I started following ImprovingBirth.org on Facebook, I was horrified at the stories.

I respect doctors and midwives and the years they’ve spent practicing and training. They have delivered more babies than I have. The wisdom of the medical and birthing community is needed. Based on my experience alone, it’s clear the above stories aren’t the norm for women.

Friends of mine have experienced emergency c-sections and even post-birth emergencies that could have been quite grave. Praise Jesus for knowledgeable professionals that acted quickly to preserve as much wellness to the situation as possible. Not everyone gets an easy-peasey delivery. Cords are wrapped, heart rates drop, body parts get stuck. Birth is messy and different, every single time for every single woman. So a level of trust must be established for a doctor or midwife to take necessary action in critical situations. We cannot second guess every decision of the health care industry (though I’m the first to question several).

On the other hand, these stories are real for far too many. Women in our developed, first-world country with freedoms guaranteed, did not welcome their babies with such love and joy. It is a sad day, indeed, when fear trumps love on a day so special to families, not because of tragic situations but rather because of tragic carelessness of people’s souls.

Birth, while a joyous and necessary ordeal, can be extremely humiliating. There’s the nakedness. And people’s hands are all over you. I’m not sure it’s protocol for a nurse to shake your hand before she shoves hers in a personal space to “check your progress.” By the time the baby arrives, you have a crowd of people which you never met with access to knowledge about your shaving or waxing preferences. Of course this comes with the territory because it’s the territory of birth, but just because you find yourself in humble situations does not mean you need to be treated with disrespect. In fact, it is precisely because we’re in a humble situation that grace should be most extended, is it not?

Immediately I was taken to a story present in all three synoptic Gospels.

[box] A large crowd followed and pressed around him. And a woman was there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years. She had suffered a great deal under the care of many doctors and had spent all she had, yet instead of getting better she grew worse. When she heard about Jesus, she came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, because she thought, “If I just touch his clothes, I will be healed.” Immediately her bleeding stopped and she felt in her body that she was freed from her suffering. At once Jesus realized that power had gone out from him. He turned around in the crowd and asked, “Who touched my clothes?” “You see the people crowding against you,” his disciples answered, “and yet you can ask, ‘Who touched me?’ ” But Jesus kept looking around to see who had done it. Then the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came and fell at his feet and, trembling with fear, told him the whole truth. He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.” Mark 5:24-34[/box]

Years of bleeding and mistreatment by doctors (the text indicates a majority of male physicians, I believe) who also took her money (can we get political about the cost of birth in this country?!) and she’s out of options. She yearns for wholeness, to be included and treated like a woman again, not just a thing currently enduring a condition.

She’s in the midst of a crowd, a gaggle of onlookers wanting to know who is slowing down the show by requesting something so simple as a touch of the robe, which she fought tooth and nail to the front of the line to steal. Jesus asks the entire crowd who touched him and she meekly steps forward, falling at his feet. I wonder if she fell face down because she couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. She trembled with fear at what could happen. Fear. The hands of so many healing men before this one had brought destruction and though she believed this one could be different, her experiences cause a reaction quite the contrary and she trembles.

Ultimately, she gets healed. One of the other gospel writers says, “immediately the flow stopped.” Treating someone as human has immediate effects. Jesus states that her faith healed her. Faith in Jesus? Well, yes. And. Perhaps a faith that it doesn’t have to be this way. There is a better way of life.

There is a Kingdom in which the King believes that all people are… people. Loved. Cherished. Treasured. Made in the image of the one who Created each and every one of them.

The work of this organization brings doctors into the hot seat (and I believe it’s a deserved question, as it seems possible, if not likely, that such treatment of women has existed since, oh, Jesus’ time). Yet let us not all pick up a stone until we ask – how have we been tempted, nay, even acted, in ways that took advantage of those in humiliating places and times because we forgot they were human.

We hold just as much guilt for hurrying past a situation demanding mercy because we have an appointment with the cable guy.

I’m thankful when I found myself in humble situations, it became the opportunity for pain to bear joy, not heartache. Thoughtful and loving hands handled me and my little ones with care. It’s time we begin to demand this for all women. (And men and children, too, of course. Especially if any of them give birth.) And as we demand this in the delivery room, let us demand it of ourselves on the streets, in the stores and in the classrooms.

Category: babies (Page 4 of 6)

Weaned by God

The last

The day Jesus walked into the delivery room

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