a meditation on Easter

My son came down with strep throat this week. He's on day three of a fever, has a biting sore throat, and hates the antibiotics with a fervor. I have been tending him, catering to his needs, trying to be the shocks to his grumpiness while trying to help his body get well. I'm worn down to a place where I feel I have nothing good left to give my children. And today is Good Friday.

In my adulthood Easter has grown to occupy a sacred place in my soul. I've come to cherish the Lenten season as divine opportunity to prepare my heart and mind for Easter worship and celebration. I make efforts to center my family on the Easter season, reminding them that this holy day is not about candy and eggs and bunnies, but rather about the pinnacle of Christianity. Of course we still do Easter egg baskets and egg hunts; we also watch the Bible videos that account Easter week and talk about what our Redeemer offers and why He offers it.

This year I haven't been as intentional as I had hoped. I didn't get to go through A Christ-Centered Easter with my children or prepare a Passover dinner. Instead I've been juggling doctor appointments, bad anxiety days, a broken car and needed car replacement, and a strep-throat diagnosis for my five-year-old.

I feel crippled as I approach Easter this year for a million small reasons and a couple bigger ones. I feel overwhelmed and inadequate and uncertain about so many things. And maybe that crippling is exactly how we need to come into Easter sometimes. Some years are for family activities and weekly lessons and thoughtful, intentional Easter weeks. And some years it's enough that you come to Easter with your broken heart, knowing that your Savior will make you whole.

year six

New babies can be hard on a marriage. Yes, you see your spouse in a whole new way--as parent--and that's breathtaking. But sometimes the balance between parent and spouse swings off kilter, and more often than you'd like, you find yourself navigating that foggy realm of disconnectedness.

This disconnection happened to us when we had Asher, and so I knew to expect some variation of this growing pain when Evie came around. Some time in the spring Josh and I started having more off days than on; we bickered more, pulled out irritation more, and went to bed frustrated more. Our marriage wasn't in dire need of rescue, but it did need some TLC. One night when the incongruities in our relationship came to a head I sat down on the steps, hunched over my lap, and cried, "Josh, I miss you." And he said, "I miss you too."

Then things started to change. That small sliver of vulnerability helped me see what was really the matter with me and with us. It helped us identify our weak spots and gave us courage to tackle them. Instead of focusing on the motes in each other's eyes, we finally saw the beams in our own. And rather than feeling discouraged by what I saw, I felt peace. And over the course of the second half of this year, we've repaired our broken parts and bridged our differences.

Year six has been fraught with growing pains. Not only has our relationship faced obstacles inherent to expanding our family, but our extended families have shifted and changed as well. In so many ways we're traversing new ground, and if we don't do it together, we won't get very far. Year six has taught me that vulnerability is essential and that, at the root of it all, our spouse deserves the greatest expressions of our love, not necessarily because he or she deserves it, but because we promised to give it.

Year 5
Year 4
Year 3
Year 2
Year 1

metamorphosis

Evelyn has a birthday in ten days. Ten days. These past twelve months have been grueling, sleepless, and backbreaking. They've also been gracious and forgiving and stunning. Welcoming this new person into our family was a leap of faith, and it's paid off a million times over. The thing, though, about first birthdays, is that they're a celebration as much for the parents as they are for the babe. 

I'm a completely different person from who I was twelve months ago. I've spent these last weeks remembering how I felt this time last year, pregnant, uncertain, excited, and scared out of my wits. And now here I am, almost 365 days later, remade. I'd like to think that this version of Charlotte is a better, slightly improved version. I've learned how to let go and how to hold on, how to ask for help, how to ask for forgiveness, when to adjust my expectations and when to raise them.

I had moments over the past year when I felt that I'd lost myself, and I didn't know how to find me again. But I did find myself, through a thousand small ways I held fast to the irreplaceable parts and found new ones. Bit by bit, side by side with my Savior, I remade myself. This Charlotte is a wife to her best friend and mother of two beautiful children. She's a sewer and a reader. She loves chocolate and slacks on laundry. She loves to learn and create. This Charlotte is maybe a little softer, maybe a little sensitive, maybe a little self-doubting, maybe stronger than she thinks. And I like her.

Motherhood, more than anything in my life, has compelled me to come to terms with self-acceptance, what it is and what it isn't. Something that's so terrifying to me during pregnancy is the knowledge that I'll never be the same, that this person I've spent years--a lifetime even--crafting will be altered permanently. And that can be overwhelming. But then when I come out on the other end, rebuilt into someone slightly different but still me, I'm humbled by the grandeur and simplicity of God's plan for me. 

the gerunds of 2016

reading :: my Book of the Month Club shipments and selections from Anne Bogel's summer reading guide

listening to :: The Popcast and Sorta Awesome podcasts, the Inspector Gamache audiobooks

watching :: Lost, Community, The Bachelorette

sewing :: not as much as I want to, but still trying

planning :: Asher's fourth birthday party

cleaning :: bathrooms sometimes, kitchen floor rarely

playing :: at the park, with the babe, instead of checking off the to-do list

pondering :: my personal mission, my family's future, my children's needs

eating :: chocolate chip cookies and homemade bread

drinking :: Diet Pepsi and green smoothies

traveling :: to Denver, to Texas, to California, and back to Denver

baking :: cakes and donuts

faith and angels: a birth story

Few moments are as sacred as a birth, those moments when that which separates the worlds is so thin as to allow one soul to pass from one to the other. Really the story that should be told is Evelyn's; mine is that of a witness, a helper. I wonder if our own birth stories are too sacred for us to remember past infancy, too precious to be given mortal words. My account as mother will have to suffice, but let us not forget that this story belongs to Evelyn.

******

My water broke that Saturday afternoon. Earlier in the day, the three of us took a walk around the neighborhood because dammit I was going to walk that baby into labor. And though my efforts were actually successful, I was still in mild shock when we packed up and drove to the hospital.

When my water broke, I stood still, my mind stopping mid-thought and redirecting to assess my body. Was I having contractions? Was that actually my water? Or did I just really pee my pants? What was actually happening? In a daze I gathered up my things and waited for my friend to come and stay with Asher until Josh's parents could get there. Through nostalgic tears I kissed my sleeping Asher goodbye, my heart feeling acutely bittersweet in this very last moment with just the three of us.

Baby girl, leaving your brother behind as you, your dad, and I drove to the hospital was like leaving behind my security blanket, my comfort zone. You and I were about to start something new, and secretly, I was terrified.

Had my water not broken and had I not tested positive for group-B strep and needed intravenous antibiotics before delivery, I certainly would have waited to head to the hospital. Once we settled into our room, it was only 3:00 p.m., and any contractions I was feeling were mild and intermittent. So we waited. And waited.

This pregnancy had been different from my first--more draining, more emotional. I was eager for its conclusion. I sat there in the hospital bed (in the homemade gown my mom had sewn when I had Asher) thinking and feeling. My stomach was uneasy, my emotions close to the surface. I was in a labor limbo, waiting between my old life as mother of one and my new, upcoming life as mother of two.

In some ways you felt a complete stranger to me. Because even though I've had a baby before, that baby was his own person. And you're your own person. In so many ways I felt I was starting over.

Contractions began in earnest around 10:00 that night. The sensational memories of labor flooded back as I bent over and breathed through each intensified pain. Once again the anesthesiologist came to my rescue with needles and drugs.

Once the epidural was in force, I expected labor to slow a bit and thought I could catch some drugged sleep while we waited. My eyelids were heavy with fatigue, and the prospect of falling into hard sleep was incredibly appealing. Just as I started to really sleep, though, the nurse started coming in to check the baby. She was cheerful and reassuring, yet behind her kindness was a small sliver of worry. The baby's heartbeat was lower than they wanted; labor was hard on my babe. The nurse came back again, this time bringing another nurse. They moved my legs and body into weird positions to see if my babe's heartbeat responded. Then they called the doctor.

I was scared. It was time to push, and unlike my first labor--which was full of encouraging, "Okay, let us know when you're ready!"--this labor turned clinical fast. My doctor looked me in the eyes and said, "We need you to push, and we need you to push hard." No smiles, no gentle encouragement. This was clinical, detached professionalism, an emergent delivery looming close by. I looked at Josh, seeking his eyes for reassurance. He squeezed my hand and whispered love.

I felt you close, baby girl. You were coming, and I didn't know with certitude that you would make it into this world unscathed. Yes, the doctor and nurses were there, but in those moments, it was you and me alone. Your safe entry depended on me, your mother. My fears didn't matter anymore. What mattered was you and you alone, my daughter. So I pushed. And I pushed with all the love I had.

I pushed three times. Evelyn came out screaming, and it was beautiful. During delivery, she'd had her hand on one side of her face and the umbilical cord pressed against the other side. The stress of the contractions in conjunction with the pressure on the cord made for a yo-yoing heartbeat, and we wouldn't have been able to labor that way for much longer than we did. Pushing her out was a miracle.

The doctor was impressed with how hard I pushed. But I know it wasn't just me who pushed you safely into mortality. Angels were with us, sweetest Evelyn, angels and grandmothers and strong women were there beside me helping me help you. Though I squeezed your dad's hand white during those moments of delivery, I myself entered a liminal space. I was neither here nor there, but in that spot between the worlds with you and our guardian angels. 

The next hours were a blur of tubes and checkups, all while I sought to comfort my newborn babe. Later that day Asher came to meet Evelyn, and my heart felt full, complete, and content. It's been almost two months since that day, and our world has turned upside down. And yet in the chaos of our family refitting and reorganizing, a raw beauty lives. This family of ours is sublime.

Evelyn dear, you were always meant to be ours.

four weeks

I held Evelyn Jane for the first time four weeks ago, and I've held her every day (almost all day) since.

Four weeks ago our world turned upside down with this babe's entrance, and every day for four weeks I've been filled with immense gratitude.

Every day for four weeks I've cried at least once from mental and physical exhaustion.

Evelyn has more leg rolls than she did four weeks ago, and with each passing day this daughter of ours comes more alive to her world.

Four weeks ago and a day, being a big brother was an abstract concept to Asher. He's spent the past four weeks coming to realize what siblinghood really is, and despite the learning curve, he's taking to it well.

Four weeks ago we went from three to four, and now our Evie is irreplaceable. Her newborn perfection has altered how we see everything.

The past four weeks have been filled with love from so many friends. I've been overwhelmed with congratulations, encouragement, and so many loaves of homemade bread. The empathetic outpouring of love from my fellow women has been a tender reminder that I'm not alone in this remaking of my family.

With each passing day I'm coming more and more back to myself and into my new self. These last four weeks have been beautiful and messy and hard and gentle. While I probably wouldn't choose to relive these weeks, I wouldn't trade them either. Motherhood is not for the faint of heart, and it also gives me more than I'll ever deserve.

Miss Evie, we are so happy you're in our lives.

year five

These past twelve months have been some of the most difficult for me personally. Since last October, we've miscarried twice, been to doctors, conceived a baby, all followed by a pregnancy marked almost continuously with some brand of illness or discomfort. (Though it has been a healthy pregnancy, and I don't take that for granted.) I've endured many personal, emotional, mental, and physical trials since Josh and I celebrated our last anniversary.

Yet despite my individual mountains, this past year has perhaps been my favorite of my marriage so far. One particular moment stands out.

I'd miscarried for the second time the night before. In the dark hours between night and day, Josh and I cried and held each other in bed, mourning another babe who wouldn't be. Josh still had to go to work that day, and as he was dressing he said that I shouldn't worry about making dinner that night. 

"You take care of yourself today, and tonight we'll go out to eat. Let's go somewhere special," and he thought for a moment, "like Red Robin." 

Let's go somewhere special--like Red Robin. 

I stared at him, knowing that he really meant somewhere not teriyaki take-out, and started laughing. Just hours after we'd lost the promise of a babe, we laughed together--and we laughed hard. 

Josh Wilson makes me laugh when I didn't think I could (and even when he doesn't mean to) and loves me always. Year five proved to me that amid storms, together we can always find laughter, light, and love. Mr. Wilson, how I love you and your fancy restaurant choices. 

final days

I reach 40 weeks on Monday. Part of me says, "It's about damn time!" And the other part feels like I just barely announced this new babe. My doctor and I decided that if the baby lady hasn't come by my due date, then we'll induce next Wednesday (October 28). I am so relieved to have a finite end date, but even so, when I left the doctor this morning I cried.

When we made those definite plans for induction--a this-is-the-latest-you'll-have-this-baby plan--my heart went into mourning. I'm not sad for the end of this pregnancy. In many ways, this pregnancy has been difficult--physically, mentally, and emotionally. But the imminent loss of my daily status quo does make me sad. 

Asher and I have been this every-day duo for over three years. We have our groove. I know him, and he knows me. We're pals, partners, and friends. And a new babe will change everything. 

I am so excited for this baby lady, and I've wanted her for so long. I'm beyond happy that we get to welcome this girl into our family, and I know she'll be exactly what we all need. And still, part of me mourns these almost-gone days of mom, dad, and son only. Our family will change, I will change, Josh will change, Asher will change. 

We're sacrificing our comfortable and predictable life for the unknown, and even though I'm excited and happy, I'm also apprehensive and a tiny bit melancholy. The other day when I was mulling on the paradoxical state of my heart, I remembered something that Gordon B. Hinckley once said: 

You will come to know that what appears today to be a sacrifice will prove instead to be the greatest investment that you will ever make.

I don't know if he was thinking about growing families when he said this, but yes, bringing this baby lady into our family will be a sacrifice for everyone. But I also know, even in my post-appointment tears, that she will be perfect for our family, designed for us and us for her. Any day the Wilsons will go from three members to four. We can't go back. And I know that we won't ever want to.

parenthood right now

Right now parenthood involves lots of conversations about Daniel Tiger and many rounds of hiding under a blanket and saying, "Where am I?"

Parenthood is reading books and transitioning out of board books and into legitimate picture books.

Parenthood is baking cookies together and sharing the beaters. It's negotiating how many more bites to eat and enduring meltdowns when dessert is a mere two bites out of reach.

Parenthood is trying to teach toilet autonomy and the concept of privacy. It's cheering over correctly pulled on underwear and conceding when it comes to picking out what shirt to wear.

Parenthood right now is also in a specific phase of motherhood, when while being the dinner negotiator I'm also growing a new babe, a phase of continuous multitasking.

This part of motherhood is in its final weeks, and means an increasingly achy body. It means having to be so many things I don't feel I have the energy for. It means simultaneous and overwhelming physical and mental exhaustion.

Right now parenthood is full of apprehension about how our family will change when we go from three to four, uncertainty about how I'll adjust, and concern over how my relationship with my sweet boy will evolve.

Parenthood is full of hefty doses of tears and belly laughs, usually all on the same day. It's cuddles and hugs, discipline and instruction. It's full of prayers, spoken and silent and sometimes desperately cried.

Right now parenthood makes me feel inadequate and empowered. It's full of contradictions that fall into place, even though I won't ever understand how. It's full of mistakes and triumphs, grace and growth. It's beautiful and messy and I wouldn't go back and choose any other life.

clearing the table

The past couple of weeks have been weird for me. I've felt noticeably off. And there's no surefire reason for any of it, just a million little contributions: high creative energy clashing with low physical energy, my body turning the "uncomfortable" level up to the red zone, wacky hormones, a messy home, plus my grandpa's funeral on top of all of that.

Everything was building and I could feel these factors all coming to a head. The disjointedness of my mind manifested itself in my surroundings, and the tidiness and cleanliness of my home atrophied swiftly.

Last weekend I still hadn't replaced the dirty, crumb-laden tablecloth I'd had on for Asher's birthday two weeks earlier, and All the Things were accumulating on it. I hadn't really been making meals, and whenever we did sit down to eat, I'd just shove the junk piles off to the side. Sure this was seemingly a low-maintenance approach to living, but it definitely wasn't easy on my mind or soul. Everything felt so cluttered and out of place.

So on Labor Day (after an emotional and frustrating maternity shopping excursion), I took a deep breath and tackled our kitchen table. I put away items, threw away mail, and took armfuls of stuff upstairs to place in their rightful spots. I took off that dirty tablecloth and threw it in the wash. The birthday banner came down, and I wiped the chalkboard blank. And I started over.

After some thoughtful searching on Pinterest and Goodreads, I settled on an autumn-themed chalkboard design and went to work, slowly and thoughtfully drawing and lettering. Then I pulled out a new tablecloth and bought out some fall decorations. In about 90 seconds I gathered the vase, flowers, ceramic pumpkin, and metal bird, and let it all be.

All week this small space has been a mental haven for me. It's given me space to breathe and has served as a reminder that yes, I may be out of control of many things--including much of my physical comfort--but I can take care of my home. And I've learned that when I take care of my home to make it pretty and pleasing, I'm really taking care of my soul.