trustworthy

The walk to our church is just under a third-mile walk that we take three times a week, there and back. The weather has cooled and dampened, but when it's raining, the kids think it is an adventure, bundling up and jumping in the stroller with a thick blanket wrapped around them, I with my umbrella and often steamy cup of coffee, huffing and puffing as I push 60 pounds of kids up the wimpy little hill. (Uh, it's been a while since I've run regularly.) On days when we don't have to worry about the rain, I let the kids run up ahead. I can follow Austen at a brisk pace as she runs with all her might, but River can easily push a 9-minute mile the entire way. I let him run up ahead, since it is all sidewalk, a pretty quiet road, and he is great at stopping when he gets to the church's parking lot.

Just the other morning, he was running up so far ahead that I was beginning to get a little worried. I was just about to call out to him to remember to stop when he got to the parking lot, but before I could say anything, he stopped running and stood there waiting for Austen and me. I was surprised and complimented him, "You stopped even though I was very far behind you. I didn't even have to tell you! You are trustworthy!" 

As we walked into the church, I was thinking about how he probably has no clue what the word trustworthy means, and how I would go about explaining it to a four-year-old. Awesome, because I am horrible at explaining definitions. You'd think as someone who likes to write, I might be able to do this with at least a little less of a struggle, but forget it. So I had to think about it long and hard, and finally decided this is what I would tell him: Trust is when I need someone to do something, and I know that you will do what I need you to do, even without asking you, even when I'm not with you. You are trustworthy, which means I can trust you. You are trustworthy.

Except that that was a few days ago and I forgot to tell him. I should probably get on that.

Thinking about the word trustworthy led me to think about Jesusy-things, since "faith" and "trust" are commonly found words among Christianese speakers. I was thinking about how, as Christians, we are to have faith in God. Because God is trustworthy. And how beautiful it is, in my very simple, explain-it-to-a-four-year-old definition, that he is trustworthy in that sense. Faith, like other words such as grace, is always a word I've heard, so much so that I don't really think about what it means. It's always been tangible, in a sense. Faith. You have faith. You have faith in God. What does that even mean? It means I believe in God, right? I have faith in God, which means I trust in God. That's always how I saw it.

Now I feel like I'm looking at it from a different angle. Are faith and trust interchangeable words? I've never thought about that. I think maybe, but perhaps not all the time. They can be used to mean different things. Faith, perhaps, is something that you just have. Trust, though, is something that develops with time. Does that even make sense? I may have faith in an airplane to get me to my destination without falling out of the sky... but I trust my mother. I trust my husband. 

God is trustworthy.

Which means even when I'm "not there," I can trust him.

Which means even when I'm not exactly sure what life will hand me,

or what direction he's going to take me,

or how a certain situation will effect me, I can trust him.

He is trustworthy.

I don't know if this means anything to anyone else, but it really struck a chord with me. God, you are trustworthy when I'm not there. Even when I have no clue what's going to happen, or how you are going to work, you are trustworthy.

That is such a comforting thought. Just as it's comforting to know that River will stop at a street when I am not there to tell him to stop, it's comforting to know that I can trust God.

to sing God's praise

I've never thought about these lyrics before. Sometimes I have to remind myself to really listen to the words of familiar hymns, especially if they are a bit cryptic for a kid to understand, since I've sung these since I was a kid. I just realized today that this verse of Amazing Grace is about heaven. It gave me chills. Gave me little plink plinks.

When we've been there ten thousand years...
We've no less days to sing God's praise than when we've first begun.

There are times in my life when I feel in my spirit that no matter what happens in this life, I will spend eternity in God's presence, worshiping him, and that is enough. Honestly though, it's not a comfort I feel often, especially since I tend to be a worrier. I think of worst case scenarios and dwell on them, as if thinking hard about it happening means it will never happen, or that I will be prepared in some way if it were to happen. This isn't true in the least bit. I hope to get to that point in my life when my focus is always on heaven and glorifying God, instead of Really Bad Things That Could Happen.

I want a tattoo that symbolizes this passage from the Bible, to help me remember it always:

Matthew 6:26-34 "Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? So do not worry.... But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."

When I catch that rare glimpse of how beautiful and joyous heaven will be, I feel a peace I can't explain.

Everything will be okay. In the end, everything will be okay. But I know there are some days I won't believe this. Probably most days, actually.

I feel like I am going through a time in my life where a lot of uncomfortable healing is happening. I'm working through some painful stuff and learning a lot about who I am, and I'm trying to be open to what God has to say to me. I've realized the past few months that I deal with certain things in my nature that I hadn't noticed before. I found out recently that a lot of my "issues" (like exploding at my kids) stem from anxiety, which is the root problem. I can't control my anxiety, and it's not debilitating, so I want to explore it before jumping to the decision to take medication, but ultimately I am trying to get to a place where I surrender to God and allow him to heal me.

It hasn't been an easy thing, but I've already seen the work God can do in my life when I follow him. He healed my marriage and my relationship with my husband is stronger than it has ever been before. I trust God. I have faith in him. But seriously, it took me a while to get to the place where I can say I had complete faith in him. I still struggle with it daily. I don't believe God gives handouts, or slaps band-aids on everyone who asks for one. So I question whether God is willing to heal me of anxiety; I know he has the power to, but do I believe he will? I thought, and still think sometimes, that it is a problem he expects me to deal with on my own.

I'm not sure what I believe now, but I have more faith that he is guiding me along my healing journey. I can't say fully that I know he will heal me. But do I believe he wants me to be calm and have peace? Yes. So I'm just sticking with that right now.

That verse from Amazing Grace gave me new hope. What a beautiful thought -- forever in the presence of God, who created me, knows me, wants me, loves me.

You have searched me, Lord, and you know me. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely. Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. Search me, God, and know my heart; know my anxious thoughts. (Verses from Psalm 139)

what's it like breastfeeding a two-year-old?

Austen's birthday was on the thirteenth. I was just thinking today, as we were sitting on the couch nursing... Wow! I'm nursing a two-year-old! Which means I've reached my breastfeeding goal of two years.

Why two years? Well, really, there's a plethora of reasons, but the main one I would give if anyone were to ask "you're still breastfeeding?" (no one's asked me that since I was breastfeeding 14-month-old River, though) is that the World Health Organization recommends breastfeeding until at least two years of age. Read that again: at least two years of age.

But I'm not here to talk about how awesome breastmilk is and all that, though I am having to resist temptation. I'm here to talk about what it's like feeding a two-year-old. A squirmy, talking, running, jumping, energetic, playful, imaginative two-year-old. Yes, a two-year-old who can say, as clear as a bell, things like "Mama, I wanna nurse," and "other side!" and "all done."

Honestly? It's no different than it was a year ago.

Since I was pregnant with her, two years has been my breastfeeding goal. I wanted to make it to two years with River, but when I became pregnant with Austen I just couldn't do it. For a number of reasons, I wasn't interested in breastfeeding during my pregnancy. I was disappointed, but not ashamed, and never regretful. But because I wasn't able to breastfeed River until he was two, I was even more determined to be able to breastfeed Austen for as long.

I thought maybe it would feel strange. I thought by the time she had reached her second birthday, I would be done. Emotionally and physically, I thought its toll would be taken on me, and I wondered if I would feel awkward breastfeeding a full-blown toddler.

But it's not awkward. It's as sweet and natural feeling as it was a year ago. I can say in all honesty that nothing has changed. I can also say that breastfeeding in front of the people whom I breastfeed in front of on a regular basis -- my immediate family, as well as my mother, father, brother, sisters, cousin -- does not feel strange or awkward. Everyone is used to seeing Austen nurse (multiple times a day) and everyone is accepting and supportive. It's weird for... well, no one. 

I am lucky to have such a great support system. I know not all women can say this. If I didn't... if instead, my family told me to stop, or told me that she was too old to nurse, or that I should nurse her in another room, or that she needs to find another way to comfort herself, maybe I wouldn't have made it to two years.

Support is so important. If you have a breastfeeding woman in your family, offer her all the support you can. The health and development of our children depend on it.

I must be transparent and say that last week, I experienced nursing aversion for the first time with Austen, which was discouraging, because it happened so suddenly and unexpectedly and was so strong, that I wondered if it was permanent. It was so awful, I couldn't nurse her for more than ten minutes at a time, and switching sides did not count. Luckily, it was not permanent, and only lasted for three days. So, that means I have really nothing else to say about that. I wish I could give some great advice on how to handle it, but it was so short lived, for which I'm thankful, because I thought the weaning process was going to begin.

I do have a quick word on weaning before I close, though. I don't think weaning is a bad thing. I know this sounds weird to say, especially if you are not familiar with child-led weaning. Some people choose to let their children wean themselves, because they believe it to be the most natural, healthy way: letting their child guide the weaning process and trusting them to know when they are done. I am not opposed to this at all; however, I do believe that mother-led weaning can be a natural, gentle process as well. After all, even mammals in nature wean their young. When I started feeling aversion to breastfeeding Austen, I accepted that perhaps this was my body's way of telling me it was time to begin weaning, which would start with the night-nursing. (Yes, my two-year-old nurses a couple times at night.) Though the aversion did pass, if I do experience the same feelings in the future for a long period of time, I will take steps to begin weaning her. I don't think this is a bad, unnatural, or unhealthy thing. For some families child-led weaning works; I have never seen myself as someone to follow this route. This is just to offer some encouragement for moms who might feel bad for wanting to wean their toddlers. (Again, if you're not familiar with the extended breastfeeding world, this probably sounds really strange to you. Carry on.)

The moral of the story is, breastfeeding a toddler is natural. Physiologically and anthropologically, they are still built to nurse, and to need to nurse. With plenty of support from family members and a solid community of women, breastfeeding can continue painlessly and beautifully into the third year of life.

I love my little nursling, and proud that we've made it to two years. :)

on a leaf hunt 2013

For our second fall here in Washington, we are following tradition with our second annual Canales Leaf Hunt, filling buckets with leaves which will then be pressed poetically in books and unceremoniously hot glued onto a wreath. Austen was able to join us this year, as she can walk steadily and sort of follow basic instructions like, hey Austen pick up that red leaf and put it in your bucket.

Despite what might seem like peaceful, quiet pictures of us happily picking leaves, River was a little sour puss turd and kept disobeying/running up ahead/not listening/almost getting hit by cars. But, it was fun nonetheless, and we came home with nippy fingers and noses and the kids gobbled down squash soup, which made me feel like an A+ mama, and then they each took a rest which means I was able to refill my sanity tank for the day, because as every mother knows, you wake each morning with only so much sanity available.

I forgot to press the leaves, and they have already faded into a nice crispy brown that would look pretty pathetic on a wreath, so I guess we'll be going on a second Canales Leaf Hunt, hopefully with better 'tudes this time.

to be a mother

sometimes it sends a shock through my whole body.
it starts in my throat, and ends in my heels,
breath trying to escape.
and i think oh, what is this, to love someone
so
much.

the very thought
the very thought
of being without them
is too much.

such a big space made in my heart
for such a small creature.

i hope they know i tried

Every moment of the last eight years of my life is shadowed by reasoning and the development of my own opinions. From guns to marine life to high-fructose corn syrup, one has to have an opinion about everything these days. Social media means that everyone's opinion is everywhere, everyday, which is not something that young people born a decade before me had to face. I have always been more quiet and passive in person, especially about politics or controversial issues, but social media seemed to bring out another side of me that even I'd never met before, much less the kind of person I want people to think about when they hear my name.

I became a mother at a very young age. I was married at twenty and we found out I was pregnant three weeks later: a honeymoon baby. I wrote then that I felt like a kid having a kid, and now that I am a whole five years older (sarcasm) my eyes have been opened to what people saw when they saw me: a young girl, barely out of childhood herself, taking on the responsibilities of raising a child; ignorant, innocent, naive, and indulgent. I was, I am, a fairly good mother, but I feel like I've just fallen into the wise, rhythmic role of motherhood. (Not that I am wise, persay, just wiser than I was at twenty, as you can imagine. And never a perfect mother, but one who has a bit better of a handle on things than at the beginning). I feel if I had waited five years (which was our intention, afterall) I would have been a more confident mother. It all wouldn't have been so experimental, I guess I could say. I feel like a woman, now. A mother. That word is no longer foreign to me. Would it have been, had I waited? At twenty-five, if little River Jeremiah had just now graced the world in the same fashion, on the same date just four years later, would I feel confident in myself as a mother? Or is that something that must be learned so matter what age you become a mother? If I became a mother at fourty, would I feel as though I had it figured out, and stuck with a plan, and followed that plan, and never doubt my choices or opinions? I always felt that new mothers who were older than me were wiser than me. That they didn't have the doubts I had. I still think that, really. I've never had much confidence in anything I do and feel the the majority of people I associate with are stronger, wiser, and better decision-makers than I.

Funny how we all have such different opinions about how to raise children, what they should eat, whether they should be swatted on the bottom after hitting their sister, whether we should nestle them beside us as we sleep at night or left to cry to develop strong lungs and independence, whether they should eat red dye number 40 or even wheat and rice for that matter, whether they should be taught there is a God who loves and condemns or be left to figure it out on their own. They are little people, afterall. Individuals. And we have their future in our hands; at least a good chunk of it. What if none of us are doing it right? What if we are all doing it right, in our own way? (Well, not all of us, but you know what I mean.)

I felt so fierce in my opinions when River was a baby, so passionate that I had to shout it from the moutaintops. I am twenty-five now, and I can say that I still feel the same about raising children. My opinions haven't changed much, although I can say that I have more grace for the mothers who choose differently from me and am overall less legalistic in my thinking. Even the things on which I still stand my ground, I am standing there a little quieter, more concerned with my relationships with other women than with how they are choosing to raise their children. Their love for their children is all that concerns me. And there is a lot of love out there. Cheeto fingers aren't a sign of less love. They're just not.

I wonder if I will always lack confidence in who I am as a person, as a woman, as a mother. Although I feel I may be a little bit more organized and my cooking skills have improved (is that the only thing that's changed? And I'm still pretty damn unorgized and I still hate cooking), I am not happy with myself as a mother. I feel that my choices are good ones for my family, but my patience, my attentiveness, my ability to cope in stressful situations, my tenderness -- they could all be improved upon. Will I ever be the mother I want to be? Am I that much different than I was when I was twenty-one and holding my newborn baby boy? I wish I had an answer. I don't. I can read all the articles and books on parenting I want, but it is up to me to change, and I have been unable to thus far.

I hope when they are adults someday, they know I tried hard. I hope they aren't bitter toward me, I hope they don't think I could have spent more time with them, or could have done more things with them. I hope they don't have all these memories of me yelling at them. I hope they are confident and kind-hearted. I hope they feel like I did a good job, and don't roll their eyes when they talk about me, or tell people I could have done better if I'd tried. I hope they are not disappointed in me. That is one of my greatest fears about parenting.

content, and what if my dreams never come true

My pastor once spoke in a sermon years ago, "if you don't know what to do and you feel stuck, go back to the last thing God told you to do, and do it." The words seemed to be the overlying theme of my life, and reverberated through my heart. I've thought of them often in times of discontent.

I have a habit of feeling stuck. Of feeling ready for something else, instead of being content with where I am currently. I don't want to look back and think, "It's too bad I didn't just see the beauty in my circumstances," because I've already done that. I've already thought that very thing. Truth is, whatever I have gone through in the past, I look back upon those times with a certain affection. There is always something about my life that brought me great joy.

Sometimes it's something as simple of a memory of having the windows open all summer, the gentle light pouring into the living room, the peaceful sounds of Iron and Wine, and watching River color in his high chair.

Or the way I had all those plants beneath the giant window in my living room. The tile floor that, as much as I hated sweeping it three times a day, was beautiful and cool and made every room feel lovely.

Or staying up on Thursday nights with friends, because we only had part-time work schedules and late morning classes, we didn't have children and certainly didn't have a lot of responsibility, but we loved Jesus and loved each other and loved omelets at Jim's at 2 o'clock in the morning.

But whenever life has been still, I've waited impatiently for it to change. When our days begin to look similar, I look for little ways to change them, all the while feeling like my feet are stuck in the mud. Sometimes I want something and don't exactly know what it is. Some afternoons when John is home, I stuff a notebook and pens and a pile of too many books into my backpack, fling it on me, and fling myself on my bike, and run away. Well, not exactly away, but two miles down the road to Starbucks, where I order myself an overpriced iced coffee with white mocha syrup that I always think will be more satisfying than it is, and find myself a table in the sun, always slanted in the Pacific Northwest sky. This is as far as I can go for now. I intensely crave travel -- wanderlust is what it's called, and I think it's one of the most beautiful words in the English language (I think I will get it tattooed between my shoulder blades someday).

Sometimes I think it's that I wish I had the ability to enjoy things as I did when I was a child. To go on a walk and for that to be the highlight of my day -- the smell of trees and asphalt, the birds' song, the crunch of leaves, the freedom, the slow pace, the steps leading somewhere but going nowhere and being completely okay with that. Walking just to walk. Aimless, with the mind of adventure. Although the journey is short, it is worth it.

The world is so big when you're little. Of course, we're all still pretty small, but why is my corner of the earth not so big anymore? What do I know now that makes me unsatisfied with my backyard, my street, my familiar places?

I have a lot of dreams, I guess you could say. I want to travel, yes, but there are a lot simpler things I want someday that would make me pretty darn happy. I really want chickens and goats and a garden so we can live gently and self-sustainably. I'm not sure exactly how that's going to work, since I struggle to keep my windowsill basil alive, but I have hopes. I want to own a house someday, but not some cookie cutter home. I want a small house, an old stone house with ivy and a front porch, with a lot of rooms for a lot of babies adopted from a lot of different places. I want a room in which to think and create. I want to build a few wells in places that need water. I want to homeschool and sew stuff and write a best-seller and take photographs of birth.

And while I've been working on contentedness these past few years and I'm really happy with where life has brought me so far, I realize that holding on too tightly to these dreams can be holding me back from enjoying the life I have right now. What if I am never a successful photographer? What if I never travel outside this country, or even to other parts of the country? What if I can never live a self-sustainable life? What if I never write a book? What if I never own a house? What if I never have enough to fund a well project? What if I never adopt?

Each of those questions sends my heart to my throat for a minute, and admittedly, tears to my eyes. What if, though? That is a very real question. What if this is as good as it gets?

I can't answer that question. Are my dreams my idols? There is nothing wrong with having dreams, but am I expecting too much out of life? Whatever the correct answer to those questions, whatever your opinion of me, whatever my interpretation of my desires, I know that I need to learn to be content if the answer is: no. You will not get to do those things.

There are six billion people on this planet. Not every one of us gets what we want. Not every one of us gets what we even need. It is hard for me to put some of these things in the same catagory as someone who wants a private jet or a million dollars. But in reality, it's just as selfish of me to idolize my dream of having a garden as it is for someone to idolize money or things.

Spiritually, what could be done to me if I choose contentedness over my desires? What does God want me to do? What has he been asking of me? One things weighs on my heart: water for people who don't have it. If there is one thing I want to do... okay, two things... that would bring water to people, and to bring children without a family into ours. These are things that God has asked me. I can feel it in my bones. They are stitched into me, sewn into my skin, intertwined with John and River and Austen in the workings of my heart.

My human nature asks how. The Spirit tells me wait and see, follow and choose contentment.

in the room that is sunniest

...with the sunniest little smiles.

I have so many empty frames to fill in my house. I love frames -- I have so many, I don't know where to put them. I also have literally thousands of photos to choose from and have never completed the task of picking my favorites, resizing them, and taking them to get them printed. In fact, I'm really bad, period, at printing photos. You'd think that as much as I love photography, I'd display our photos all around the house and give a ton to family.

I'm thinking these cuties are going to get printed this week.

River is my model child. He's camera shy as of late, but brother knows how to strike a pose, let me tell you.

two parenting techniques that make parenting a joy

Parenting River has always been pretty cut and dry. He's a great kid, and I'm not just saying that because he's my son and obviously I think he's the greatest kid that ever was. Parenting two completely different people really challenges me to go with my instinct, because what works for one kid doesn't always work for the other. Now that Austen is reaching the age where I believe consistent discipline is key, I'm curious to see what will work for her, and what won't. 

But despite the speed bumps that come up now and then, they are always just phases, and we get through them without too much crying and hair-pulling (if I can stay patient with him). There are two things that have made parenting more pleasant for me. The best book I have ever read on parenting in called Easy to Love, Difficult to Discipline. I took so much from this book. It is so worn and loved and underlined. I want to freakin' declare from the mountain tops what an amazing book this is. If I could buy a copy for all my friends with young children, I would. In fact I've considered doing a giveaway on my blog, just to get this book in someone's hands.

One of my favorite things about the book is that the author explains the psychology and development of a child's brain and offers ways to parent in a way that can build up a child to be the best person they can be. This book is perfect for any parent who is dedicated to gentle parenting, but wants techniques that actually work. I'm not going to lie, it is hard to parent in this way. It would be so much easier to smack a kid on the bottom and scare them into obedience. But the techniques in Easy to Love get to the heart of the matter, and I've even seen it work with Austen, who is my high-spirited, stubborn, intense and easily angered child.

Among the latest parenting woes with River have been arguing and cleaning up after himself. Since he's been two, I've encouraged him to do little chores here and there, but I haven't been consistent. And a lot of the arguing, I've realized, stems from me not allowing him to do things because I don't want to clean up the mess afterward. Maybe this should have been something I'd thought of myself, but one kind woman on Facebook suggested to cut the arguing by just expecting him to clean up after himself. Oh, right. That makes sense. I feel that now, at nearly four years old, he is at the perfect age where I can start giving him regular chores.

One of our constant clean-up battles is books at bedtime. He loves looking at books. I've never minded him reading books in bed, because when he is very sleepy, he will fall asleep quickly without a problem. If he is less sleepy, at least he stays in his bed and is doing something quiet. For a while, I had the rule that he could only take three books to bed. But he would always argue (Can I take five? Just one more? Just seven. How about twelve. Just twelve books, Mama.) and eventually I gave in, and every night he takes piles upon piles of books to bed. One night I decided to count his books after he'd fallen asleep and he had thirty-seven! When he is finished with one, he knocks it to the floor, and so in the morning books are everywhere. The task is daunting enough to me, so I usually ask him to "help" me put them away, which means he puts away three or four and I'm left with the rest.

This morning I was about to chide him for the amount of books he takes to bed and complain about how much I dislike putting his books away, and then I remembered the advice of that fellow mama. His room was atrocious and I knew expecting him to clean it up on his own was both impractical and impossible, so I cleaned up his toys and then put his books in the hall next to the bookshelf, and told him to put them away.

Five minutes later, he came to me and sighed. "Mama, I'm done putting books away. I'm tired."

One of the chapters in Easy to Love explains parenting with empathy. Parenting in this way had never even crossed my mind before. Maybe this means I'm an awful parent, but my first instinct is to respond in a patriarchal way. "Excuse me?! You don't tell me you're done! I told you to put them away, now go to do it! It's not that hard. Stop complaining and just do it." Most of the time, in the moment, I want to snap at River to cut the complaining and just obey. But this is both disrespectful and inefficient. Just because he is a child doesn't mean he doesn't deserve understanding. Do I still expect him to obey me? Absolutely. I am his mother, and I know what is best. Gentle parenting doesn't mean I let my kid do whatever he wants. But working with him rather than against him makes our days go so much smoother. Cue empathy.

"I know it's hard to put them away. It's a big job. You're tired, and you've been working at it for a long time. It is really hard. But you have to keep going," I said. He sighed and slumped his shoulders. "Yeah. Okay." and walked back and continued to clean up.

Let me tell you, it took forever. I think the whole process spanned about 45 minutes. But he did it! And he did it well! At one point, I walked past just as he was putting a book with the pages facing out. He corrected himself and turned the book around, "Whoops! The binding goes out," he reminded himself. Squeal! Um, my kid is adorable. (Anything that involves books or cleaning make me really happy.)

When he finally put the last book in, he excitedly announced, "I'M ALL DONE!"

This is where my another of favorite parenting techniques comes in: parent without judgment. The whole concept takes a while to explain and I'd heard quick explanations of it before, but it didn't make much sense to me. Essentially, the idea is to avoid words and phrases like, "Good job!" and "That's so cool!" when responding to children's attempts at doing things (such as mastering the monkey bars, getting themselves dressed, or in our case, cleaning up) and instead, to use non-judgmental language, repeating back to the child what he has accomplished in a positive manner, and letting him come to his own conclusions about what he has done.

This is one of my favorite ways of responding to my kids, because I feel it also makes me a more perceptive parent. It's easy to say, "That's great!" and harder to use descriptive language. By noting the accomplishments of my children, I listen better and pay more attention and appreciate them on a different level.

"Wow!" I said. "Goodness, that was hard. You got really tired, but you kept working, and you did it! That was a lot of books, and you put them all away! Your room is so clean, now!"

He stood and put his hands on his hips, superhero-style. "Yeah. I did a great job!"

Whoa. That makes it all worth it. *climbs off mountain top*

threw out the list, living day by day

I have been trying to accept who I am the last few days, but it is hard. It is so ingrained in my mind to compare my actions to The List, that I can't get through the day without thinking about it. I am trying to change my language toward myself, and get to the real reasons why certain things bother me. This afternoon, I was going to make a big salad for myself with roasted squash, garbanzo beans, dried cranberries, flax seeds, and more. But the thought of heating up the veggies and chopping the leaves and whisking the dressing just became too daunting to me. As healthy and pretty as it was going to be, I didn't want to go through all those tasks just to eat a salad in ten minutes.

I asked myself why. Because it takes too long. Because it's Austen's nap time. Because I have to finish the laundry. Because I need to sweep the kitchen. And a list of probably ten other things, but I stopped. I have an idea of what I think I have to get done today (and tomorrow, and the rest of the week, and next month), and without even thinking about it, I am comparing all the those things to what's happening now, accurately assuming that I will fail at getting them done, and then I feel that if I don't take the time to make a salad and we just eat eggs and sauteed greens for lunch again, that I am failing somehow at being a mother, or at least as a lunch-maker.

Why do I have such a problem with eating eggs for lunch? Is that not better than running to a fast food restaurant? Who says I have to make a glorious salad for lunch and Instagram that ish? Why do I have to sweep the kitchen, anyway?

I know I'm writing about my thought process of deciding what to make for lunch, and I'm not sure there's anything more mundane than that.

Then something else happened. The dog needed to go out, so I asked River to take him out, and then Austen followed him, and they decided they wanted to play outside, and I came to stressful decision: Do I let them play outside and eat lunch later? How long are we going to play outside anyway? And if we do play outside, we will have to clean up all their toys and bring the dog in and Austen will throw a fit and is playing outside for 15 minutes worth all that? (I wasn't literally thinking these things in terms of actual words, just sort of standing there stuttering and picturing Austen screaming as I attempt to drag her indoors.)

I constantly have to tell myself to chill out. Sometimes, the easier way is the way to go, and I shouldn't feel bad about that. And sometimes, the harder way is the way to go, to enjoy the journey along the way. Yep, still talking about lunchtime and playing outside.

So today, we played outside for twenty minutes, halfheartedly threw the toys from the grass onto the porch so the apartment manager won't leave a note on our door (I'll pick those up later), and had scrambled eggs and carrots and cups of water for lunch. Austen didn't take a nap, but she'll just go down for bed early tonight. What is so bad about that?

my daughter's intensity

I will never forget one of the first times we left the house with Austen. We didn't even make it out of the neighborhood. Not two blocks down the road, I shouted at John to stop the car, ran around to her side, swung open the door, unstrapped her as quickly as I could, and pulled her hot, stiff, gasping and screaming, bright red-and-purple body out of the carseat. She had begun screaming instantly when I put her in, and didn't stop. The screams became worse until they were high-pitched, frantic, as though she were in pain, and she started holding her breath for a longer than what was comfortable. Her entire body was rigid. I had never seen such a young infant so upset. She was one week old. I started crying because it scared me. I didn't know what was wrong, and felt horrible that whatever it was ailing her, my tiny newborn had to experience this amount of emotional or physical pain. She hadn't been pinched by the buckle. The straps weren't too tight. She wasn't too hot or too cold. She nursed on-demand and often, so I know she wasn't hungry. She let out exhausted little sob-hiccups as we nursed in the front seat. I stroked her hair and tried to reassure her with a soothing voice that mommy was there and everything was okay. Ten minutes later I put her back in the carseat and we were on our way -- and she was fine. This type of crying from her became so frequent, by the time she was a few weeks old, it hardly phased me.

Austen has always been like this. There is so much intensity and emotion in her tiny body.

She is extremely particular. When she was a baby, I'm talking two to six months, she had to be held a certain way. Not just on the hip, or in a cradle hold. She had to be twisted between arms, held by her chest, on people's shoulders, swung like a carnival ride. She didn't have bad colic, but there were a few days when she would cry for 45 minutes to an hour and I didn't know what to do with her. A handful of times I had to let her cry for a few minutes while I left the room and regained my composure. I'm surprised it wasn't ever worse than this. It usually just came down to finding a position she really liked, or swinging her swiftly. My arms and emotions would be worn.

One time when she was about three months old, she was playing with a toy that fell out of her reach. She screached and screamed in anger as she grasped for it, and wasn't happy until someone handed it to her again. That is the exact moment I knew -- my child is going to be very strong-willed. Toddler Austen might be a little scary.

Distraction did not work with Austen. When she was about 7 months old and became increasingly more mobile and began pulling up and crawling, once she had her mind fixed on something, she was not giving up. Taking the object away, removing her from the situation, and giving her something else to play with quickly became a non-option. She would not fall for that, as most babies would. She would go back again and again. Nothing I offered would top what she really wanted. I might hold out something for her to grab and speak in my most enticing baby voice, and she would glance at it, unamused, and turn her attention back to the object she wanted. Her focus was impressive. She's smart, my family would chuckle.

She hated be surprised or scared and she was easily overwhelmed. Popping up from nowhere and saying, "Peekaboo!" only made her cry. Stacking blocks and toppling them over made her cry. Loud noises, crowds, new places, and new situations made her cry.

The ages of sevenish to 16 months were rather pleasant. Once she was more mobile and could entertain herself (and retrieve her own toys), she didn't cry as much. She threw passionate mini-fits from time to time, but they never lasted more than a few minutes and all I had to do to calm her down was pick her up and stroke her back. She would melt into me and forget about being angry.

Lately, however, she has become increasingly difficult. Some days, all day long I hear high-pitched ear piercing screams, from something as simple as River taking a toy away. Just a couple weeks ago, when I put her in time-out in her room, she would get distracted and play and come out happily when her timer went off. Now she screams bloody murder and pounds at the door with all her might. I have decided I can't do this to discipline her anymore; it's too much of a strain on the both of us, and she exhausts herself. It is not a "gentle" parenting method that works for her. I can't go to the bathroom without her screaming outside the door, or sit at teh computer without her screaming to sit on my lap.

Most of the time I am emotionally, mentally exhausted. When she is by herself, she can be an angel. No brother to fight with, no sharing required, no older influence. She listens well and is happy. But when the two of them are together, it brings out the worst in her, and all I do is count down the hours until they can go to bed, and I don't have to listen to her scream any more. I don't know what to do. I feel like a failure as a parent. This is the one thing I've always known I want to do: be a mother. Since I was tiny. I've always wanted a houseful of children, I've always wanted to homeschool and devote all my time and energy into raising kids, and I feel like I can't even do that well.

My patience is worn thin enough, and I feel like Austen's intensity plucks away at the strings holding me together. I love her so much. I get so much joy out of holding her, kissing her little upturned nose, nursing her, chomping on her toes. I love watching her, reading to her, spending time with her. But the screaming and constant out-pour of emotion does me in.

My husband is a patient person. He doesn't yell or loose his patience. He can put our daughter to bed in five minutes. He can stay home with the kids all day and have the entire house clean, both kids bathed and in bed, and dinner waiting on the stove. He is a better stay-at-home-parent than I am, and that's supposed to be my job description!

I wish being a mom came easier to me. Often, I think my children deserve better. I wish constant talking, questions, screaming, bickering, arguing, and being ignored didn't phase me. I wish I had an endless supply of patience. I wish I didn't snap and yell. It seems that as my patience increases with one child, the other starts giving me another issue. Sometimes I do believe being a mother brings out the worst in me. I don't feel worthy of raising these two precious souls. I have one chance to do it right, and I don't think I'm doing a very good job.

I have recently realized that the thing about having a blog with a modest audience is that you seem to have to have an answer for what you're writing about. You can go through a trying time, and then write this how-to blog post for how other moms can get through it. But you can't be in the middle of a journey. Well, I don't have an answer for this one.

who i am versus who i want to be

If there was a theme to my life, it would be looking elsewhere. Looking ahead, wishing for what's to come, instead of enjoying the moment. Looking past, wishing things were as they once had been, instead of living joyfully in my current circumstances. I did this a lot, especially, when I was a newlywed with an infant. I'd look back to my fun fresh-out-of-high-school years, and wonder if I had done it all too soon.

Along the same lines, it is another attribute of mine to make goals, or lists, and leave them incomplete and undone. For years, I've wished I was an early riser, but I'm not. I'm a night owl, and after the kids are in bed and I am enjoying my first quiet moment of the day, I find it hard to have the self-control to put myself to sleep when my body tells me I am tired. I've been wanting to eat dairy-free and factory meat-free for a few months now, and I will do great for a couple weeks or so, until my dad calls me up and says, "Hey, we're going to our favorite BBQ place for lunch! Want to come?" It is incredibly difficult for me to make changes, even when I know they are best for me. It's like I don't think I will be able to succeed, so I don't even try.

I have this idea of the person I want to be, and I can't keep my gaze off of her. In my mind, she is the perfect mother. She is organized and patient. Lighthearted and wise. Full of energy and always equipped with glue stick, construction paper, and a book full of educational craft ideas for her well-behaved, well-mannered children (who eat all their spinach).

I want to do a lot of things, I have plans to eventually do a lot of things, but I've not succeeded in actually transforming myself into the person that does these things (with the exception of having successfully given up soft drinks) and I'm not sure I know how. I believe that my life would ultimately benefit from these things, but apparently that is not enough motivation for me to just do it already.

And then I had the thought -- what if I just accepted myself, my life, my habits, as enough? What if I gave up every attempt to change myself, and became content with who I am now, and threw out the lists, the plans, the currently unattainable goals. What if I simple lived life as it came, and made decisions and choices that I felt were best in the moment? What if I just chose whether or not I want to go back to school this fall, instead biting my nails and dreading the process and going back and forth about it in my head? And then, if I say, Okay, yes. I am going back to school and will take it one step at a time, then I really, truly do that without a second thought, without a worry, and just trust that it will work out, because I AM capable. And if I choose not to, then I forget about until next spring, when I have to decide again. This doesn't mean I would loose all ambition or that I would just lie around all day, watching Netflix and giving up on going back to school. But what if I just accepted the Whitney that is, instead of focusing so much on the Whitney I intend to be? (

My first instinct when I thought this was that is not okay. After some pondering what life would be like if I did stop the lists and goals and expectations, I realized not much would change. My lists can sit there stagnant, with duties uncrossed and rewritten a million times, switching from crumpled paper to fresh, clean pages to make me feel better and give myself more motivation, but if I'm not actually doing anything on the list, then all I'm doing is adding extra stress to my life by wishing I were different. And wasting paper. If I stopped trying to always be better, or if I'm honest, trying to be perfect, would I be happier? Would I make wiser choices in the moment, because I didn't feel the pressure of trying to please... someone. Who? Myself? My children? John? My mother? My friends? I don't even know.

I can't even really answer these questions, because the thought of not having The List is almost unimaginable to me. I've always had The List, since I was a young girl. I've always wanted to be better. Do better. The problem is I so rarely follow through. I never change. I remain very much myself.

Night owl. Relaxed. Hates cooking. Loves cheese. Eats excess amounts of sugar.

One thing I've wanted to do in the past that just happens to fall into place when needed is getting myself off the computer. I often found myself lost in Internet world, debating parenting styles and politics with angry people on news websites and message boards, playing mindless games that took up way too much time, scrolling through social media sites and liking and retweeting and hashtagging and whatnot. And I realized I hated this. It took up my time, it made me feel lazy and unsatisfied and negative, and so I decided to stop. It wasn't ever on The List: Stop spending so much time on the computer. It was just simply a part of me that I wanted to be different. I wanted to read more. I wanted to be more present for my children. And now, if I spend a day on Facebook and am feeling tapped out from the rest of the world and need a break from a screen, it's not difficult for me to sign off for a few days, or weeks, or even months. I don't freak out when I leave my phone at home.

I wish other choices could be this easy. Maybe they would be if they didn't hang over my head with so much authority and disappointment and negativity. Maybe I need to stop looking at them as tasks, forget about them for a while, and just live the life that comes to me moment by moment. And maybe they'll fall into my life gently, without a fight, without expectations.

That's almost a scary sentiment. I don't even know who I am without The List, much less, if I will be able to accept that person as Enough. Part of giving up on this idea of who I want to be will have to be okay with failing, once I make the decision to do something. And not failing in the I-give-up way, but failing in the I-tried-everything way.

on asking and receiving

It was kind of easy to say in my head with a sigh, "Yeah, yeah, I'm blessed. Lucky me. I have everything I need." I've always known I am blessed, but I haven't always realized it. I have been through a few challenging circumstances, many that I've never talked about publicly, but I don't see myself as a victim to these circumstances. That is life and I have worked through them. My life, compared to so many others, has been incredibly easy. I don't understand why things have happened the way they have. I don't understand why my life has thus far gone with very little heart break. I could sit down and write a list of all the heartbreaking things that have happened to me, and it wouldn't be very long at all, and very few of these things actually had a lasting impression or still affect me today. It doesn't make sense to me why some people have to go through so much worse, and I am not really of the "everything happens for a reason" mindset, so I see it more as chance than anything that I have "dodged the bullet" per say.

(My belief is that God gives us free will and out of that free will comes selfishness and greed and lies and poor decisions, and from that, very shitty things happen that affect many people, like death and cancer and car wrecks and accidents, you know, the whole cause-and-effect thing, and his heart breaks when we are in pain and suffering; after all, he wept over a man he raised from death just minutes later because the sisters' hearts were broken... he is a merciful and loving God, but he does not control everything that happens on this earth, which is not our permanent home anyway, so on and so forth... this is what I believe and I am not going to get into it here and now, but I can feel it bubbling forth into a blog post in the very near future. Stay tuned for the sharing of my very personal, screwed up theology that is the result of years of arguing with myself and others over western Christian beliefs.)

I look at the homes of friends our own age, and some of them are spacious, filled with light and pretty rugs and brand new furniture and nice, expensive, fair-trade wooden toys for their children, and sometimes a twinge of envy makes its way into my heart, and I am just now aware of its presence and want so desperately to change it... but I am not going to pretend its not there. Our dwelling places have always been on the smaller side, and in the past we couldn't afford simple furniture like a table and chairs and a decent couch. We've lived mostly in small, old apartments because they are cheap and available. But you know what's really amazing?

Well, okay. Let me tell you what happened when we had to move last month. Just, go ahead and get settled with a cup of coffee or something because this might take a while. We were not prepared at all for the move, mentally as well as financially, because we were expecting to resign the lease and stay another six months. All of a sudden, we had to be able to pay for all the expenses that come along with moving, including a truck rental and storage unit, first months' rent, move-in deposit, pet deposit, so on and so forth, along with our normal living expenses, which are usually just covered by our monthly income. I had no idea how in the world we were going to do it. It looked absolutely impossible to me. I mean, what were we going to do, pull money out of our butts? Pluck it off the money tree in the backyard?

We stayed with my parents for a while, but had to be out by a certain date (they are renting) and in the meantime, I had to find an apartment that had to meet a lot of requirements, which included being close to my husband's work (we only have one vehicle and I need to be able to take him to work sometimes), on the first floor (we have a piano), having a washer and dryer in the unit (we use cloth diapers), and allowing dogs over 20 pounds. With all of these demands and on top of living with my family for over a month, I was getting so stressed out and turning into someone you wouldn't want to be around. I was venting to John a lot and his answer was always just to trust and not worry. NOT WORRY?! Are you kidding me? How could I not worry? I told him there was no way I could just sit back and continue on as if we weren't in a dire situation that seemed to have absolutely no solution. I am a realist, damnit it! I don't live in some fantasy world where everything works out! We are going to be on the streets in a couple weeks and you are telling me not to worry?!

But I tried to take his advice and not worry. Instead, I started praying. Now, I have sort of a weird relationship with prayer, so before you start pinning me as some blind believer in Goodness and Fate and white American blessings, let me just say... well, I'll save that for another blog post, too. I began to pray and when I found I didn't have the words to pray, I started repeating certain words over and over. Whenever I would start to feel the worry creep in, instead of dwelling on it (which is so natural for me to do), I began praying, Jehovah Jireh. My provider. Your grace is sufficient for me. I looked back on all the times that I thought things were looking really bad, and reminded myself that although we've faced some really hard times, we'd always had what we needed... even if it came at the very last millisecond.

The very last week we were to stay at my parents, after calling approximately thirty-five apartment complexes and physically visiting at least a dozen, and praying to Jehovah Jireh a lot, I found exactly what we needed. When I say that this was the only two-bedroom apartment that was close to John's work, that accepted large dogs, had a washer and dryer, and was a ground floor unit that we could actually afford... I am not exaggerating. This was the only one in the entire city of Lacey (or Olympia, for that matter). What was better, they would allow us to make the deposits in payments. I still wasn't quite sure how we were going to afford everything, even in payments, what with bills to pay and gas being $4 a gallon and not being millionaires and all... when our tax return came in. And the only reason our tax return came in is because it didn't go toward student loans like it had the past five years, because we had just recently started paying those off (another reason money was so tight). This was a small miracle. No, I'm serious... for us this was a small miracle. 

So do you see why it doesn't really matter to me anymore if my home isn't spacious and full of light and dreamy and perfectly organized in Martha Stewart aesthetics and decorated with nick-nacks from Anthropologie and West Elm? (God I love those stores. I've never bought anything from either.)

Beside all this, once we moved in, I realized I love this apartment so much more than the last. The floor plan is more open and our kitchen and living room get more light. The other apartment was so dark, even during the day it still looked like it was 8 o'clock at night. And I have a window right above my sink! I've always wanted a window right above my sink. Right outside our new patio is a small field of bright, green grass and a little park. River can ride his tricycle on our long porch while I am cooking dinner and I can open my window-above-the-sink and keep an eye on him. He goes outside every day now, rain or shine. And I love that on nice days, I can plant myself outside on a lawn chair and read while the kids play at the park, and it is just steps away from our door. And another thing: the trash bin is just steps away. At the old place, I had to get all bundled up and walk across the parking lot; it was such a pain in the ass.

And to perfectly match our old, little apartment, our car is pretty old and certainly isn't a beauty... but heck, that car is the result of desperate prayer to God when our previous car was on its last leg, and I have the faith that he gave us this car when we had no other options... and so to me, this car is a frickin' limo! Oh, that's a story too. Is your coffee still warm?

Before I got pregnant with Austen, my white mini-van that I lovingly called Sexii (no Y, two Is) started giving us a lot of trouble, and something... happened... that was going to cost a lot of money to repair. More than the car was worth, and more than we could afford. (I am not a car person, but essentially the steering wheel stopped turning and you had to muster up the strength of the Hulk to make turns... which I did, when I was pregnant. It would give me these really strong Braxton Hicks contractions whenever I would drive. Eventually I stopped driving.) We also needed a washer so we could stop spending $55 a month washing our clothes, linens, and cloth diapers at the laundromat, and since our rent had just gone up, we started looking out for a less expensive place to live. I decided to make a list of needs. A plain and simple list, in black and white. A list that I didn't have to feel guilty about, or try to remember when I remembered to pray. One that was full of things that would make our lives so much easier. Every now and then, particularly when I started worrying about it, I looked at the list and not in the least bit eloquently or fervently, I would pray a simple prayer asking God to miraculously bestow upon us a new car, a new place to live, a new washer, and a bit further down the road, an entire maternity wardrobe was added to that list.

(Another side note. I know that at this point everyone has stopped reading, and I don't blame you. I am writing this mostly for myself. Anyway. I do realize these are very minimal "needs." Again, I won't go into it... right now.)

Long story short, we moved from our apartment at the time into a three-bedroom house that was going to save us $120 a month in rent (in exchange for laying down new tile and redoing the baseboards), and during the the same time, a friend's mom gave us her washer. She said her dryer that went with it broke down, so she wanted to get a new washer as well, and just gave us her old washer. A few months later, after we'd discovered I was pregnant and added maternity clothes to the list, my new friend Elise gave me two HUGE bags of maternity clothes. Hello new wardrobe! And, as far as the car goes, John's grandparents offered to sell us their car for a price that we could actually afford.

I remember staring down at the list and being amazed, my heart holding more gratefulness than I could ever express. I had crossed out these things one by one. The car was the one that boggled my mind the most. I remember writing it down -- "a working vehicle" -- and thinking, Ha! Yeah right. You have to understand at the time that we did not have extra money to buy these things for ourselves. The $55 a month that we were spending on washing our clothes was needed to buy groceries. The extra $120 that had been spent on our apartment helped pay our steep electricity bill that summer. And I certainly didn't have the money to buy even used maternity clothes at the time. These may seem like small needs, but to us, they were essential, and they were provided.

I don't believe every prayer will be answered with, Sure what the heck. I can really see you're struggling with rent there, and it's kind of inconvenient to drive that car around like that, so here ya go. And sure, here's an apartment that accepts Colby-size dogs so your kid can keep his pet. I don't know why these prayers were answered. But I am grateful, and consider myself as blessed as someone who lives in a mansion and gets to take numerous vacations a year and drives a Lexus. Maybe we have the wrong idea about what blessing and grace means, anyway.

cloth diapering a newborn

If you are considering cloth diapers, start from the beginning. Trust me. It will never be easier than when your child is a newborn. The reason for this is that as long as a baby is exclusively breast or formula fed, the poopy diapers do not need to be rinsed out before they go into the wash. Poop from an exclusively milk-fed baby is water-soluble and dissolves in the first rinse cycle in the wash. And breastmilk poop is amazingly stink-less.

When you're using cloth diapers on a newborn, you deal with less poop than you would if you were using disposables. Both my babies always blew out of their disposable diapers, and poo stays contained in prefolds and covers very nicely. And since you don't rinse out exclusive breastmilk poo, it goes straight into the wetbag, and then straight into the wash. No touching poop -- I promise.

When I was pregnant with River, we considered cloth diapers for a time, but then decided to go with disposables. I was really overwhelmed with the choices and didn't know anyone else who was using cloth diapers, and therefore, no one could personally answer my many questions. I didn't want to invest a whole lot of money and then decide it wasn't for us. Looking back, I so wish I had started when he as a newborn! Cloth diapering a newborn is stupid easy. If you exclusively breastfeed for six months, you get six months of practice before you have to start rinsing out those poopy diapers over the toilet. And even if you decide to make the switch to disposables when your baby starts eating solids, you will still have saved a lot of money during those first six months. Although, of course, I totally recommend continuing on using cloth. ;)

Here are few tips I have for using cloth diapers with a newborn.

Start with prefolds. Trust the prefold. Both pockets and all-in-one diapers are really hit-or-miss, not to mention a huge investment. They are expensive and not every brand works for every baby. One baby will fit great in one brand of pocket diapers, and another will blow out every time they wear them. A great example of this is BumGenius. I have a friend who has an entire stash of BumGenius for her son. She loves them. River always blew out of them. And on Austen, they work fine. It's a mystery.

Prefolds work for everyone. They really do! There is no trying all these different $25 diapers to find the perfect one, and I've never met someone who doesn't love a Thirsties cover. They are so affordable and so absorbent, and if you are afraid of using Snappies or pins, don't be -- prefolds can simply be folded into the cover. No fasteners required. Prefolds and covers, like I said, contain poop really well, for all ages. Both my children leaked out of pockets about as often as they leaked out of disposables. I love 'em, but they are just not as reliable as prefolds. I can probably count the number of blow-outs we've had with prefolds and covers between both kids on one hand.

Besides this, most newborn babies will not fit into one-size pocket diapers. Even my 8-pound baby looked scrawny in pocket diapers snapped down to the smallest size. It wasn't until she was about two months old that they fit well.

Have a lot of prefolds in your stash. Newborns pee and poop a lot. In the first few weeks of Austen's life, I felt like I was changing her diaper every hour. Sometimes I was! Have enough and keep some in every room.

Use cloth wipes. Cloth wipes work so much better than disposables. You'll use three cloth wipes for a seven-wipe job... trust me! Buy a few used receiving blankets and cut them up into squares and use a homemade wipe solution. Have a lot on hand, and you won't absolutely dread changing 15 diapers a day.

Use a diaper-friendly detergent. Newborn skin is so sensitive. Don't try to get by with using whatever detergent you have on hand. Buy something trusted and gentle, such as Country Save or Rockin' Green. Make sure your diapers are rinsed thoroughly of detergent before they are tossed in the dryer. Urine will activate the chemicals and will burn your precious baby's skin. Remember: gentle detergent, and rinse well.

Different folds contain poop better. I was lazy when it comes to prefolds; I simply fold them and lie them in the cover. But the "jelly roll" works best at containing liquidy infant poo. If you use this roll you will not have to change the cover as often.

You really don't have to rinse out the poop . No, really. Even though I knew this, I still rinsed River's EBF poopy diapers out. I didn't trust that it would be rinsed completely clean and come out fresh. Once when he was already on solids, I tried washing his diapers without rinsing them by hand first... bad decision. After the first rinse cycle, I peeked in the washer to see bits of digested foot stuck to the sides of the washer. Sorry to give you a lovely mental image. I was worried this might be a problem when washing newborn poopy diapers, but by the time I was pregnant with Austen I was so sick of rinsing out diapers, and that alone was enough to convince me to at least try throwing the diapers, poop and all, straight into the washer. And lo and behold, EBF poop is water soluble, and the diapers came out stink-free and completely clean! Austen was exclusively breastfed until she was ten months old and I did not have to rinse one single diaper of hers over the toilet until then. (If the thought of leaving diapers sitting with poop on them sounds gross, don't worry -- EBF poop doesn't smell like poop!)

what i want them to know about god

To be honest, I have not taught River much about God. I've told him on a toddler level that God created the world and people and everything in nature and loves everyone very much. We recently started going to a new church and River is retaining everything they are teaching him. Last Sunday he told me about "Jesus' friends waving palms and Jesus rode on the donkey." And he has also shared with me that, "Jesus is God, and God is Jesus," which is not something I have taught him. We occasionally pray and thank God for our food, and some nights we pray for protection or healing and thank God for our family, but we as a whole family do not pray often (this is something I want to change).

It's funny how these are not things I really thought about until I had children. I grew up in a Christian family and Easter was always a celebration of the death and resurrection of Jesus. I knew this is how I would celebrate with my own children someday, but I thought very little about how I would actually approach the topic. Actually, I didn't really think about how I would approach teaching about the Bible and God at all. Then, when this little soul was given to me to nourish and grow, I sort of began to stutter my way through mentioning God every now and then and answering questions like, "Who made God?" and "Does Santa live in heaven, too?"

Then I think of the stories that I have helped teach to tiny people in Sunday school, stories about mass genocide and slavery and women being treated as property and the Savior of the world being beaten and nailed to a cross, and when the time has finally come that there is some expectation for me to teach these things to my three-year-old, I am horrified that it is expected that this be shared with my very young child, simply because of the prevalence of these stories to the religious side of Christianity. And yes, I know the story of Christ is what Christianity is based upon, but it doesn't settle with me to yet explain the violence and torture of Jesus or even sin and the whole reason for Christ and the cross. I've barely explained life and death to him, and it is only because of death of a gerbil named Macey.

As our little Christian selves grew up these stories were taught to us to show us God's grace, power, strength, and forgiveness. But then I begin chasing my tail, these simple questions to be answered, not so simple anymore, and making me question the faith I've kept close to my heart for twenty-five years. Though the questions don't shake my faith, they leave me confused and unsure of exactly what to teach my children.

So I think, what do I want my children to know about God, right now? I want them to know that God is Love. That Love is everywhere.

And in the coming years, as they chase their own tails and offer questions that deserve answers, I want them to know that theology is not salvation, and salvation doesn't come by repeating facts; facts don't save people.   That the grace God has is bigger than the grace that be contained by man. That you don't get to heaven by believing a donkey spoke or that gay marriage is wrong or that women shouldn't lead. I want them to know that only God truly knows a heart. That if love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control are fruits of the Spirit, to look for the Spirit in everyone. That God said "it is good," and every good and perfect gift comes from above. That people are fallible, and that not everything happens for a reason, but God is patient and full of love.

Facts can wait. But these simple things, I want them to hold onto for the rest of their lives.

artichokes, spinach, & sun dried tomatoes cashew cream sauce

Hands down, except maybe for veggie pizza (I really like veggie pizza), this is my favorite vegan meal that I have been brave enough to make. Ever. I have had a lot of vegan recipes that were very, "Eh, that's pretty good. I'd make it again," but never, "Wait, this is made out of cashews?! This HAS to be bad for me, it's SO GOOD!"

Yeah. That good.

I got the recipe from The Gluten-Free Vegan. It seems like a lot of gluten-free recipes rely on cheese or milk (I mean, who wouldn't, it's delicious), and a lot of paleo recipes are meat-based and allow no grains. I want meals that are more plant-based, and hello, I like grains. So I've come to love this blog. I'm often looking for creative, meatless meals, but if I want to add meat to the recipes, I can. But at least I'm getting gluten-free, dairy-free, plant based meals for inspiration. 

The recipe really only calls for four main ingredients: cashews, sun-dried tomatoes, spinach, and artichoke hearts. And I'm going to assume most people have onions, garlic, and dried parsley on hand. So, vegan and delicious as it is, it doesn't call for any wonky ingredients or a talented hand at cooking. 

Here, I can buy cashews in the bulk section for $12.50 a pound, so I was a little wary of how much this was going to cost. Lucky for me, they were on sale for $9.99, and I got exactly one cup which cost only $3.50. Already, that's cheaper than making a cream sauce with wine, butter, and corn starch, or cream, butter, and Parmesan cheese.

As with most recipes, I adjusted it a bit to fit with what we had on hand, and that is the version I will share here. For the original recipe, visit The Gluten-Free Vegan. Alright, that's enough rattling on about the recipe... I hate it when people do that! Enjoy.

Ingredients:

1 cup of raw cashews

1 1/2 cups of fresh water

1 clove of garlic

1 tbs reserved oil from sun-dried tomatoes

Half a large onion, chopped

2 cloves of garlic, minced

1 can of artichoke hearts, chopped (or about 2 cups)

1/2 cup of sun-dried tomatoes, chopped

1 tsp salt

• At least two hours before cook time, soak your cashews. 
• After two hours, drain the cashews. Add the cashews, fresh water, and garlic to a blender, and blend on high for a few minutes until very smooth. 
• Heat the oil on medium heat in a large pot. Saute the onions & garlic until they soften. Add the artichoke hearts and tomatoes. Cook for about five minutes more.
• Add the cashew cream and 1 tsp of salt. Taste it. Trust me, taste it. Isn't that amazing?! Okay, now put down the spoon. You might eat it all if you don't stop. Cook for about 15 minutes on medium low, stirring often. It'll thicken, so just add a little water here and there, totaling one to two cups.

Now enjoy it on top of pasta like we did, or dip your favorite bread in it. Um, or just lick it off the spoon. SO good!