Pregnancy & Birth

When Mother’s Day Breaks Your Heart
May 12, 2017 In Pregnancy & Birth Tender Topics 1 Comment

For the month of May, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Feeling Inadequate, Sleep-Rest-and-Rejuvenation, and Mental Health Awareness Month. We hope you’ll return to read the wonderful essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them. Join us on the Kindred Mom Facebook Group to connect with our community. 

 

“My hands are empty. There are children running circles round me, but my hands are empty.

I have come to terms with the unthinkable. We have lost again, but is it too much to ask for a souvenir, to want something to grasp and hold tight? I don’t even have a photograph, and this feels too much to bear.

Me with a pile of cameras, lenses, and an iPhone—I didn’t stop time. I was too busy soaking it all in, too busy just being. More than that though, I thought it would last.

I thought I had more time.”

I wrote those words before loss piled up so high I could not see beyond it. I had endured a full-term stillbirth, and then just two months before Mother’s Day I lost a baby at sixteen weeks. I did not know then that I would lose again, at only ten weeks—a loss so early that a camera would not have been able to capture my belly swelling full. Now I know how loss can stand around every corner, how it can make you feel hemmed in from every direction. I know how to weep in the car after leaving the doctor’s office and then drive home to make dinner and quietly tell my children they will not be able to meet the brother or sister that had been growing inside my womb. But I don’t know how to endure another month without a second pink line on the pregnancy test when there are no small footsteps running through the house. I don’t know the pain of sitting by a sick child’s bed or watching them breathe their last.

Loss winds its way into our lives inevitable, but unique. And we women walk wounded and strong. We carry the scars of from laying down our hearts to embrace those we cannot keep. We carry those scars and they are treasures. Our hearts wounded and still beating courageous, speak that we have loved and lost. We have been brave enough give ourselves fully even when the only answer is empty arms.

We women are warriors, and we stand in the flow of time that gives and takes. We stand with strong arms and open hands.

I thought I had more time. I thought if I rooted my feet and opened my heart, a baby would have to take hold. Now I know there is no stopping or rerouting the furious stream of time, moments crash over me, some painful, many joyful. One day there will be more than enough. One day I will embrace my three children flown away, just as I cradle the four within the circle of our home. Until then Christ cares for my little ones, and in this Mother’s Day he holds my heart. A weeping Christ who also bears the scars of loving fierce. A joyful Christ who knows all will be made well one day.

 Sharon McKeeman is a homeschooling mama to three sons and a daughter. She is a Midwestern girl at heart who now lives with her family on the sunny beaches of Southern California, where they enjoy reading together and playing in the surf. She is an author, educator, speaker, and photographer who shares more of her story as @sharonmckeeman on Instagram and at www.sharonmckeeman.com where you will find her blog, Writing in the Dust, as well as her newsletter, Mourning into Joy, which is filled with encouragement and resources for mamas.

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The Learning Curve of Motherhood
April 24, 2017 In Babies & Toddlers Pregnancy & Birth 2 Comments

For the month of April, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Postpartum Recovery, Encouragement for the New Mom, Autism Awareness Month, and Screen Time Conversations. We hope you’ll return to read the incredible essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them. Join us on the Kindred Mom Facebook Group to connect with our community.

 

Hey, Mama.

I see you looking a little lost.

Your baby is new. She weighs less than a normal-size sack of flour, but when you aren’t occupied by the weight of her physical needs, the weight of her future and your responsibility to her sometimes threaten to overwhelm.

You’ve read books and Googled everything in a manic effort to feel like you know what you’re doing, which worked great until you figured out that each thing you read contradicts the last thing. Even when you’re not seeking information, well-intentioned friends, family, and strangers are bringing it straight to you. Sleep? Attachment parenting? Schedules? Vaccines? Breastfeeding? Solid foods? Work? Stay home? What’s with this crazy wrap and how do I tie my infant to myself with it? WHY IS THIS SO HARD???

Oh, friend. I hear you.

I’ve been there, a few years and a few kids ago. Some days, I’m still there, trying to Google myself into a sense of control.

I can’t tell you what to do about these issues or any of the others. I could tell you what I do, but one more unsolicited opinion just adds to the noise.

What I can tell you is how I stopped making myself crazy over it.

(photo credit: Sarah Lewis Photography)

Let’s back up about seven years. I was newly pregnant with my first, determined I would do this right. I decided I’d start by reading about birth options. I’d already blown through pregnancy books before I was expecting. (I know. This annoys me, too.) Once I learned what I needed in order to make a good decision there, I moved on to life with a baby. Everyone knows that newborns start out eating, sleeping, and pooping, but I had enough experience as a big sister and babysitter to be comfortable in the last department, so up next were newborn sleep habits and breastfeeding.

I got hung up on sleep.

Here I was, just getting out of the “tired and queasy” trimester, reading a bunch of books all across the spectrum from “let baby sleep with you and attend to every need before it arises” to “the baby needs to get used to the family schedule and this happens by putting them down when you want them to sleep and letting them cry until it’s time to get back up.”

The problem? Both ends (and every view along the middle) had some reasonable-sounding support, both biblically and scientifically. They all seemed to have fairly legitimate reasons why doing it the other way would cause irreparable damage to this grape-sized baby I carried.

I stressed about it for several months, then baby showed up and I had to make some choices. I chose one thing for a while, then it stopped working for us and we had to readjust. This was terrifying, because, remember, any other way was going to screw her up! I’d already researched and convinced myself plan A was the best- the only- option! We tried a few other plans. NONE of the options we picked ruined her. We eventually settled on something in the middle that worked for us and for her, then, with various modifications, three more. She’s currently playing sweetly with one of her sisters in the living room while the younger two sleep. It’s all fine.

Here’s what I learned both about the sleep debate and about parenting advice in general. I’d love for you to hold on to this as you try and navigate this new thing called motherhood:

Ideas are good. Some of them will work for you, for this kid, and some won’t. Maybe the first thing you try will work; maybe it’s going to take several more tries. It is okay. Go ahead and ditch the parts that tell you any other way will end in catastrophe. It’s gonna be fine.

Your people love you and (in general) want to help you by telling you about the things that worked for them, which probably morphed into “the right way.” Take the love and the useful advice and let the rest slide. Ask for help with dishes, diapers, sanity breaks. If they love you enough to chance telling you how to parent, they probably love you enough to fold your towels. (…but they won’t know your towels need folding unless they ask.)

Here’s the deal:

God picked you to be this little one’s mama.

He loves this baby more than you do, as hard as that is to fathom.

He is totally capable of guiding you to the method that’s going to work best for your family as you listen to Him.

That’s all. Seriously. It really is that simple. Mind, it isn’t easy—nothing worth doing comes without effort. (I’m not really good at it…Now I’m doing basically the same thing with schooling options and learning styles and discipline strategies as I did all those years ago with sleep. Whatever. I don’t have this figured. I’m preaching to myself here.)

So read. Learn. But even more than you inform yourself about the options on a given topic, invest in your relationship with the God who loves you and your baby plenty more than any of the experts do. Learn who your baby is. Figure out what you and your husband can live with.

It’s going to be okay.

Robin Chapman is a full-time imperfect Jesus lover, wife, and mama to four babies six and down. When she isn’t buried in children or hiding from them, she enjoys reading, photography, and sharing stories on her blog, where she’d love to connect with you! You can also find her on Facebook or Instagram… or perhaps hiding in her bathroom with some coffee. 

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My Body, Broken
April 17, 2017 In Pregnancy & Birth Soul Care for Moms 6 Comments

For the month of April, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Postpartum Recovery, Encouragement for the New Mom, Autism Awareness Month, and Screen Time Conversations. We hope you’ll return to read the incredible essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them. If you would be interested to contribute something to Kindred Mom in the future, please visit the “Write for Us” page for details. 

 

“My body, broken.”

“My body is broken, ruined.”

This became the overwhelming thought of despair in my mind more than a few times in the weeks following the birth of my second daughter. After being miserable during the recovery of my first delivery, an unwanted c-section, I’d insisted on a VBAC for my second, hoping (expecting) the recovery would be much better. Then I tore… to the 4th-degree.

Amidst the physical pain in the simplest of things (sitting, walking, going to the bathroom), the anxiety and (irrational) fear of not knowing if or when I’d ever be able to be intimate with my husband again, the trauma of the way the delivery played out, and the stress of amplified discipline issues as my 3-year-old adjusted to another person to share attention with, I found myself with so many conflicting and intense feelings. I felt love for my two beautiful daughters, along with joy and thankfulness so big I thought my heart might explode. At the same time, I felt soul-crushing sadness, disappointment and confusion. In my darkest moments of despair I wondered if God was trying to tell me something in making childbirth so terrible for me: was my body just not cut out to bear children? Was I not cut out to be a mother?

After almost 3 months postpartum, the intensity of these feelings, along with the physical pain, had waned some. One day, I took some of the physical, mental, and emotional brokenness before the Lord and it hit me like a ton of bricks: “my body, broken” are familiar words. I’d heard them not only in my own moments of despair, but also from Jesus.

“You are not the only one to give your body to be broken on behalf of another,” were Jesus’ tender words to me that day. “I gave mine. For you. To a far greater extent than you will ever be broken.”

Jesus’ incarnation shows us what it means to be fully human. We can look into His life and find what it is to live as we were all meant to, as the beloved child of a trustworthy Father. Jesus’ fully human life led to an immeasurable joy, but the path to the joy set before Him led Him through unimaginable sacrifice, sorrow and pain. Looking at His path, we can know that pain and sorrow are not surprising phenomena on this earth, while it’s still broken: they, like joy, are a part of what it means to be fully human, as Jesus was.

In preparation for my VBAC, I read many positive things about childbirth, which focused on our bodies being designed for birthing.These pieces suggested that the whole process is the most natural thing in the world — so very human. However, when my birthing experience left me so broken, I felt deep down as though the humanity in it had somehow been diminished. My body didn’t seem to do what it was designed to do very well. I felt lesser than the women whose bodies birth babies without serious complications.

But. But!

Jesus giving Himself to be broken for me means that I can experience my brokenness with hope. The extent of the brokenness doesn’t diminish the humanity of the experience. On the contrary, I am experiencing a small taste of the life Jesus lived and I get to commune with Him as One who empathizes with the pain of a broken body, a body given to bring life to another. To borrow a phrase from Kathy Keller in The Meaning of Marriage, I get to “play a Jesus role” in motherhood as I give my body for the sake of my beloved.

The truth is, we get many opportunities to “play a Jesus role” in motherhood. In the aches and pains of growing a human for 9 months and in childbirth, or in the agonizing wait and painstaking preparations for an adoption. In the sweaty, sticky moments nursing babies under a blanket, or in the time we spend as human jungle gyms for rambunctious toddlers. In the meals prepared and the clothes laundered. In the science projects created and the papers edited. We get to use these bodies to love our people. Sometimes it’s painful. Sometimes it’s ecstasy. Always, there’s hope: both in the ultimate joy set before us and in the joy to be found when we look to Jesus as the One who empathizes with both, the soul-expanding joys, and the heart-crushing sorrows of what it is to be fully human and a mother.

Laura Way is wife to Aubrey and momma to Jubilee and Irene. She and her family live, work, and play in a ‘lil million person city in Asia. Laura is passionate about discovering what it is to be fully human and helping others to do the same.  When both the stars align and her kids are occupied, she enjoys writing at sojourningmomma.wordpress.com and can also be found on Instagram and Facebook.

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New Life with a Newborn
April 14, 2017 In Babies & Toddlers Pregnancy & Birth No Comment

For the month of April, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Postpartum Recovery, Encouragement for the New Mom, Autism Awareness Month, and Screen Time Conversations. We hope you’ll return to read the incredible essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them. If you would be interested to contribute something to Kindred Mom in the future, please visit the “Write for Us” page for details. 

 

Our kids were sitting in the sandbox, shoes off and wriggling their toes in the sand. My friend, Justine, sat beside me on the closest park bench, and we attempted conversation while keeping our eyes on them. My huge belly held my second baby inside, and I was grateful for the nice breeze on that warm fall day.

We had been talking about life as moms, and she looked at me quite seriously and blurted out, “Having two little people is REALLY HARD.”

I looked at her with confusion, and replied as if she was joking. “Don’t tell me that!”

She persisted, “No, it really is. No one told me how hard it can be, and I assumed adding another little one to our family would be ‘easy’- but has been really hard and I want you to know that going in so that one day when you are juggling an infant seat, a toddler, a diaper bag, grocery bags, and your car keys, and think to yourself, ‘this is hard’, you won’t beat yourself up for not having it more together. I want you to know it is hard at times for every mom, and if you find yourself there, you’ll be able to give yourself grace in the moment.”

I filed these words away, quite certain that I wouldn’t need to refer back to them. After all, my first baby was a piece of cake. She slept well, ate well, didn’t fuss, and rarely cried. Surely my second baby would be the same.

Then Hayden arrived. He was his own little self—a very demanding baby—and a huge Mama’s boy. We struggled with breastfeeding. He had tummy aches every night, and getting him to go to sleep and be able to lie down was a challenge in itself. I was exhausted. My husband Jarred, stepped up to the challenge like a boss, carrying all of us- newborn, a toddler, and post-partum wife, through the first weeks. He insisted I rest as much as possible, brought me meals and snacks in bed, and changed every diaper while he was home with me. He had the laundry going, the dishwasher running, and my daughter bathed and ready for bed one night, and he came and laid down on the bed almost in tears. I could see he was exhausted.

All the excitement—the emotions that come from welcoming a new baby into our hearts and home—was taking a toll on him. On us. Our daughter was also slow to adjust, testing the boundaries, and trying out some new attitudes. I was wrestling with all the same things, only feeling it all so much stronger thanks to the hormones. I felt incapable of helping my family adjust.

The tears came rolling down my cheeks.  They were not nice tears, but were more like heart-heavy sobs, as if they had been held in for far too long. I insisted Jarred stop all the busy for the night, lay down with me so we could cuddle our little loves and just be close and still…together.

I remembered the conversation I had with my friend in the park and decided to let grace wash over me. I didn’t beat myself up for acknowledging how hard this transition was for us. I refused to feel like a failure for struggling through this stretch of time. The laundry could stay just as it was in the washer. We could finish it tomorrow. All that mattered in that moment, was making space to let our feelings catch up with our reality. That was the moment I realized that parenting is hard. It is a million other things as well, but I became aware that in order to see how we could manage our way out of survival mode and move forward, grace would need to be a central part of the plan.

Sometimes, our perception of whatever we think is ‘normal’ is not totally accurate. We compare ourselves to an ideal that may not be realistic and beat ourselves up for not living up to it. That night, I learned that there is no ‘normal’ when welcoming a new baby. Every family is different, every baby has different needs, and we all process the post-partum time in different ways.

New mama, let go of your expectations of what your days after birth will be like. Let grace be present, and spend your energy resting, bonding, and loving those in your home. The dishes, laundry, trash, and every other household task can hobble along until you’re back on your feet, or better yet: let your friends and family take care of that stuff. Take all the time you need to adjust, even if it takes months to get there. The emotional, physical, and relational changes that have come about with the arrival of your little one are not going to be settled in the first days or weeks. What feels hard right now may not be quite so hard six months from now or one year from now. You’ll find your confidence, your strength, and your new way of life, all in good time.

Chelsea Smith lives in Phoenix, AZ with her husband Jarred and their two children. She is a full time mom, homeschools her children, and works her essential oils business on the side. Chelsea loves spending time with her family, and being able to be home with her little ones. You can follow her journey on Instagram. 

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Regarding Postpartum Waistlines
April 3, 2017 In Pregnancy & Birth Tender Topics 2 Comments

For the month of April, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Postpartum Recovery, Encouragement for the New Mom, Autism Awareness Month, and Screen Time Conversations. We hope you’ll return to read the incredible essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them. We are receiving submissions on the upcoming May topics through April 10th, and if you might be interested to contribute something, please visit the “Write for Us” page for details. Today, we are pleased to share Jennifer Van Winkle’s essay: Regarding Postpartum Waistlines.


On the box are silhouettes of two cartoon women both wearing knee length dresses and perky ponytails, but one has a baby bump and the other does not.  The phrase that catches my eye, “The belly wrap that helps tighten and shrink your tummy post-pregnancy.”  The deafening scratch caused by a large swath of velcro, pollutes the quiet din of my bedroom.  My doughy belly sloshes under the compression of the waist cincture, spilling over the top as I strain to pull it tight.  During pregnancy, I gave myself a pass on the extra weight gained.  I know it is normal to put weight on in order to nourish another life, but that doesn’t change the reality that I am terrified about the natural change in my body shape.

What if I stay fat?  

There is no excuse to be heavier now that she is born.  

If I let myself go, who will I actually be?

What will people think?  Will they look at me in disgust and assume I am a slothful degenerate?

Harsh.  Like many women, I struggle with body image issues that propel me to only value myself if I like how I look.  Messages from everywhere suggest true feminine beauty is achieved with a remarkably slim midsection.  This strikes the very center of my inner conflict.  Even days after giving birth I felt the need to strive for a slender waistline instead of cheering about what my body had accomplished in bringing forth a brand new life.  No event on earth is more miraculous for a mere mortal than ushering a new soul into the world, and a large part of me forgets and I become hyper-focused on “looking good.”  I feel a surge of anger that this message looms over me during a time that should be reserved for support, healing, and above all jubilation.

I want my body back, and I want my self-assurance too.

***

The baby arrived at the beginning of summer and I was exhausted.  Twin three-year-olds and a newborn now under my care, I ached to appear in shape, but without all of the hard work required.  A simple postpartum belly wrap seemed to be the easy fix I was searching for.

Without much research, the wrap I tried first was advertised to be comfortable, nearly magical in helping to shrink a waistline, and virtually invisible under clothing, but after wearing it I was disappointed.  It rippled and bumped over the contours of my postpartum “waist.”  I didn’t have enough strength to fasten it tight enough to lay flat against my abdomen.  My expanded hips pushed it out of place and sent it crashing into the bottom of my rib cage whenever I sat down.  All the time I kept thinking, “I will be sitting down to nurse this baby several times a day and I don’t have patience for this level of discomfort, nor the time to readjust this glorified velcro bandage all day long.  Ain’t nobody got time for that.”  I was desperate for something effective and comfortable to make me feel pulled together; not just my abdomen, but my self-worth, me.  Frustrated and defeated, I stopped wearing it and to add insult to injury, I could hear fifty bucks flushing down the toilet.

Having given up on the magical wrap, I was left with an awful hollow feeling causing me to be oddly aware of my own internal organs just hanging there.  Ungirded, my belly was like a deflated balloon; a nebulous mix of guts stashed here and there to accommodate a growing fetus.   My abdominals offered no structural support, being stretched out like a pair of old socks and it was a struggle to stand up straight, bend and lift.  I couldn’t bear the sensation, I needed to find another option to help.

In contrast to the celebrity endorsed belly wrap, I next tried a crusty old girdle.  Not sexy, and clearly, I would not be winning style awards with this tool but I didn’t care.  After a few days I realized that this old girl was working!  I relished in the simple concept of support, how tightly the compression girdle hugged my middle and held everything fast.

It hit me: a postpartum midsection (just like a postpartum mama) needs support.

I realized that the idea that a mama should have a svelte midsection just after birth is positively absurd.  It takes guts to have babies, and through pregnancy and delivery, I had become very aware that my guts—squishy as they became—were not the ultimate definition of me as a person. The girdle was something I originally viewed as a quick means to look good but actually, was an indispensable tool able to support a part of me that deserved physical restoration.  In the end, it also illuminated that my body image was erroneously elevated to a place it should never have been.

Slowly, I have begun to process the relationship between my self-worth and my physical appearance.  I’d love to say that now everything is perfect, I’m well adjusted and no longer struggle with body image, but that would be a steaming load of crap…ahem…not accurate.  I struggle with this everyday.  There is no unpacking a lifetime of self-esteem issues with one girdle-induced epiphany, but, awareness is a large part of the battle. I’m still slogging along, sifting through lies as I discover them, about how women are supposed to look, about how I’m supposed to look.  Those lies, by the way, are insidious little jerks who steal the beauty away from a mama who has given her all.  We have to fight to shut them out.  In the delicate time after birth, the last thing we should be caring about is being skinny and looking good.  We must emphasize healing, bonding with baby, and enjoying our triumph.  A new mama’s precious, limited energy should not be wasted trying to conform to a standard of beauty that is neither fair nor realistic.

You and I, we are more than our waistlines.

 Jennifer Van Winkle lives in Seattle with her husband and three children (twin boys and a baby girl).  She is a teacher, musician, and currently a stay-at-home mom.  She loves fueling the imaginations of her children with creativity, songs, all things science, good food and lots of play indoors and out.  She blogs at Pepper Sprout Home and you can also find her on Instagram.

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