Little Man round-up

Some people are not DIY'ers. I get it. And some people simply don't like sewing. I get that too. I didn't sew a single thing for Gwennan's nursery. I lacked confidence and skill. Instead I very happily painted a bookshelf and dresser, and passed off sewing projects to willing friends or relations. Sewing just wasn't my thing.

This pregnancy I'm sewing everything I can think of. This pregnancy it is my thing.

If you don't sew, I don't want to offer a guilt-producing post where I point out how easy it is to make everything you just registered for. If you don't sew, making a crib sheet isn't easy; it's a nightmare. The first set of crib skirts I made took me 6 or 7 hours, and all I could see were flaws. The most fun part was sweeping up and finishing.

But if you enjoy sewing, I want to share the excitement and the results of scanning so many tutorials. I don't feel the need to re-write the instructions that are available, but I thought I'd pass along what I found.

A nursery round up of sorts. A no obligation peek or inspiration and instruction.

1. Pacifier clips at I'mSimplyMe

2. Squared-off crib skirt {more suited to a little man perhaps} at VanillaJoy

3. Fitted crib sheets {without a serger} from Sew4Home

4. Aden and Anais style swaddling blankets from ThisLittleMiggyStayedHome {a note - you do not need a serger if you have an overcasting foot for your machine. Not sure what that is? Check your owner's manual.}

5. Nursing Cover from PrudentBaby

That about does it for Little Man's layette. When I opened the shopping bag after my last trip to JoAnn, Tim's eyes widened with that, 'haven't you ever heard of Target??' look. As of this morning, I only have 2 yards of fabric left. Then I'll be scratching my head for new ideas to stay still and busy for the next 6 weeks.

What bed rest reveals

When the contractions started, however many months too soon, and the doctor told me, I won't put you on bed rest, if you'll put yourself on bed rest {essentially, I set my own up verses down hours}, my heart beat in panic mode.

Didn't she understand that I have a home to run and a family to feed {gluten free, from scratch, I might add}, and two other children to raise{!!!}? 

Didn't God remember how much was on my plate? How much He put on my plate?

I was a little peeved and a lot stressed {except I'm not allowed to stress - stress causes contractions}.

As a family, we've been at this momma rests on the couch thing for a while. Gwennan reminds me to let her pick things up because she can bend down, Mommy. Afton insists on walking now and happily plops down next to me when we read, leaving my lap for baby brother {breaks my heart a little}. Tim, well, he's a champ, could not do this without him. And me, I'm swallowing my dose of humility.

And exposing my fears:

Like work. I'm a work-a-holic in my own home. I fear inactivity, fear laziness. Because I fear I will like it a little too much. Which has revealed:

I fear being the 'velour tracksuit SAHM,' the one on Super Nanny whose children run wild through the house overflowing with singing plastic toys and unfolded laundry, and she screams over General Hospital for everyone to just shut up. If I model my behavior out of fear of that stereotype, won't I just fall into a different one? Say, the 'jean jumper SAHM,' the overly stern, homeschooling, sew-and-bake-everything-by hand, work-a-holic mom who must let everyone know that she does more in an hour than everyone else does all day {crap - that sounds familiar}.

I'm finding a new balance:

Dirty dishes take a back seat to baby projects. I could buy crib sheets and Aden and Anais swaddlers and passie holders. Amazon keeps reminding me that it's one-click-away. But if I have two hours of work in me, an hour is spent at the sewing machine. I need easy nesting more than I need clean bathrooms. Reminds me of the baby I'm taking care of while resting.

My busted sewing machine was a blessing. How I griped at God for allowing my sewing machine to break with all these nesting projects left undone. I had to apologize to him again this morning as I sat down to sew without needing to prep the machine or fuss with tension. Stress-free start every time. I would not be able to rest in baby projects with my old stress machine. Again, thank you, Lord.

Green veggies are still what's for dinner. Quality meals are the first things to go when I feel bad. How about Chick fil a is the standard fix. But man cannot live on chicken nuggets for 13 weeks {or little girls, for that matter}. Keeping real food on the menu has been awesome - everybody feels better. It's not complicated fare, throw chicken and veggies on the grill. Dinner will be ready in 10. Props to Tim for stepping up on the nights I can't and working out real dinners. Love that man!

We are all blessed by some extra reading time. I can't do playgrounds and such, but I can sit on the couch and read. The girls are getting plenty of book time, replacement therapy for structured school. And this momma, who regretfully spent the last two difficult pregnant stretches watching a tragic amount of tv, finds herself buried in books as well. There's too much to explain in grown-up tv, and little ears miss nothing. A book I keep all to myself. A world that isn't brought to me by the letter K.

Our family priorities are ours, specialized to our little family, and may not translate to anyone else {you might not see baking bread as a top 10 weekly priority}. That doesn't imply wrong-ness for either party.

I'm learning to let my family be right for us, not right for everyone. Learning to let my way be right for me, not right for every mom. Our choices are our own and diligently sought {we hope}. I'm learning to trust other parents to do the same for their brood.

When hands bleed

Like most overly pious people, I like to tell myself that I'm not attached to 'stuff.' It feels other-worldly and spiritual to renounce trivial possessions. 

Then my stuff break.

And I shed tears.

Memories of Christmas morning with my Nannie, opening the box I knew was just for me. It was a ritual between us. These carousel horses. Every year, a new horse with a new song.

I climb the stairs with a heavy heart after Gwennan complains that Afton broke her favorite carousel. I know what this means. It's not just her favorite carousel; it's my favorite. The music box memory of Nannie that I wanted to share with my little girls

And there are their hands and feet stained with tiny smears of blood from trying to clean up their own mess. Shards of evidence buried in the carpet. Glitter and broken glass embedded in quilts and stuffed animals. A stack in the hallway where they wanted to hide their shame, remove it from the scene.

My heart breaks, and my eyes leak as I wash skin, checking for slivers. Wash carpet, checking for slivers. Little pieces of their disobedience lying in wait to pain them again.

The end result: pile of broken glass.

Picture of our sin. All sharp edges. Wounding us over and over as we run circles around the mess we made trying to fix it ourselves.

But this mess needs experienced hands. Fingers that know how to pick up the shards. Fingers that will be cut by our sin, cleaning up the remnants of their own broken treasure.

For he was pierced for our transgression...

He was crushed for our sins...

By his wounds we are healed.

Disobedience breaks God's world, God's order, God's heart, God's relationship with his favorite creation.

And cuts our hearts to pieces, slivers of sin piercing deep and leaving rivers of blood. Slivers of our sin lying around waiting to cut us again.

Then he comes, perfect unstained hands picking up all those pieces in his own skin. Wiping clean our bloody stains. Perfectly gentle and patient with those who deserve the blood and pain. He runs his hands over the wake of our disobedience, leaving nail-shaped scars.
Blood and tears. The price of relationship. The cost of sharing.

I could keep memories packed up, out of reach, safe from damaging forces. But they would never share those memories. Never see the memory of Nannie spinning slowly, plinking out a lullaby.

I could keep my heart packed up, out of reach, safe from rebellion and dishonesty. All those child sins that break momma's heart over and over. But they would not see forgiveness and grace, love from their momma.

I could hide my sin, bury it deep in dark shadows, safe from exposure, conviction. But I would never see the bleeding hands of a savior picking up the shards, taking the pain himself.

The break is good. The shatter a glory. To see the beautiful work of the cleaning.

A few 'thank you's'

Why my hubby rocks:

1. Last night, he accurately read my "will this evening ever end?!" face and offered me rest {more accurately some uninterrupted time to work on 'princess canopies' for the nursery}.

2. He took both girls with him to work, so I wouldn't be tempted to put them to bed by myself.

3. He took out, in public, two little girls wearing: pajamas, rain coats, pink fluffy snow boots, and crocheted hats with bear ears... in May.

4. He thought it was great.

5. All this after painstakingly blotting ball point pen from the couch cushion after an absentminded momma left out her pen and an artistically driven 3yo added a monochromatic pattern to the sofa.

6. And that after a four-shampoo-and-rinse bath cleaning diaper cream out of little one's hair. 

Which reminds me, I need to say some big thank you's.

First to my Love who is doing his job and mine when I sit on the couch and try not to contract. I thank The Lord for you every day!

Then, to Matt {the boss man} for encouraging a flexible schedule during this crazy time.

Finally, to all of you who are praying for our family right now. Your prayers are felt. This week has been a reprieve from the overwhelming exhaustion of unchecked contractions, dual barrel rebellion, and a lot of tears. We feel like a family again. Still in a struggle, but not alone, and not losing. Earthly efforts haven't increased, so I can only give credit to God's grace. And your prayers.

Thank You and thank you!

From a very grateful momma