Woman, why are you weeping?

A couple of years ago, my blogging friend, Erika, used this quote from Heather Armstrong in one of her posts:

“I fart, you fart, we fart, they fart. People in bathrooms fart. If there’s a place on earth where you should be able to fart, where it’s wholly legal to fart, it’s a bathroom, for crying out loud.”

  She was commenting on witnessing women giggling at the gas of another woman in a public restroom.  Erika did an amazing job of connecting this to church, basically pointing out that, similarly, we should not be ashamed to lose our shit and cry in church.
When Mary goes to the grave of her beloved pastor who has just been brutally tortured and killed and finds that in addition to those indignities, someone has stolen his body?  She loses her shit and cries in that hallowed place, in church.  She wanders the cemetary in her grief, asking anyone she comes across if they saw anything or heard anything about who took the body.  They ask her, "Woman, why are you weeping?"

Mary was not the only one being asked that question during the Easter service tonight at my church.  When we opened up our service by singing All Creatures of our God and King, I didn't make it to the first set of Alleluias before losing my own shit and crying.  Big fat tears.  It got my bulletin wet.  I felt bad touching the microphone afterwards in order to pass it down to someone.  I tried not to slime but anyone on the receiving end would have to be suspicious. 

Jacob asked about it on our way home and I tried to explain.  I have been really wrestling with a desire to avoid church lately.  When I think about going, it just seems like so much work.  I've been a leader at my church almost from as soon as I started going there and I feel a certain, almost civic, responsibility to contribute positively to our culture of hospitality when I'm there.  One of the things I love most about our church is that it not a dispenser for religious services.  You can't just show up, pay your offerings, get a little spiritual candy bar and leave anonymously.  This is a place for folks who are looking for community.  So, I introduce myself to people and ask them questions about themselves.  I keep my eyes open for awkward introverts and make sure they get a personal invitation to stay for dinner.  I touch base with people I know well and talk with them about things I've seen on their Facebook pages.  And so many of them do the same for me.  It's an amazing dynamic.

But, man, that's hard some days when all you want to be is anonymous.  When all you want is to crawl into a dark room, curl up into a ball and wait for God to show up and tuck you in so you can finally rest.  At times like these, going to church feels like just as I'm reaching over to turn out the bedside lamp and people keep knocking at the door to ask if I need a glass of water or to ask me one last question or to sit on the side of the bed and tell me about their terrible night.

I've been dealing with some difficult life transition issues for the last few months, in addition to my advancing pregnancy plus Passover really took it out of me.  And I'm realizing that I haven't finished grieving over the absence of my friends who moved in August.

I've talked about my church avoidance with my pastor and with the rest of the leadership team and with my monthly small group of church leaders from other churches.  Everyone keeps giving me permission  to take care of myself, either by not coming on Sundays or by coming and functioning at a reduced hospitality capacity.  This is a wonderful response from people who love me very much.  So many people are not supported when they need to cut back.  But still, I chafe and it doesn't sit quite well with me.  I especially don't like it when I start wondering if maybe my needs have changed and I should start looking for a new church home.  This makes me uncomfortable in a lot of ways.  So, even though I missed a lot of Christmas this year but I couldn't quite bring myself to find some "high church" Passion week services to go to.  A half-hearted google search was all I could muster.

So, Jacob and I went to the Maundy Thursday service.  It was a good experience for the most part but I felt like my contributions were a little shrill and bossy.  This happens sometimes and I know it's also similar to farting in the bathroom.  If you can't bring your whole self to church, even the shrill and bossy bits, then your problems are bigger than one night of making a bad impression on people.  It wasn't the quiet tenebrae service that I was longing for but it was good to sit with people we know and dedicate some time to thinking about the season.  Then, we showed up for Easter Sunday tonight and opened with a hymn that connected me to every Easter of my youth.

I had changed out of my maternity velour sweatsuit and put on my current favorite outfit, which has become my variation on wearing a new Easter dress in my adult life.  You know, that outfit in which you have no insecurities about how good you look?  In fact, you look exactly like your very best self?  I wore that one.  As we walked from the car to the church, I reveled in feeling just a little bit under-dressed for the weather but not being so cold that I became disgruntled.  This is a very Easter feeling for me.  Who has ever wanted to put a winter coat on over a spring dress?  And a new one at that?  Better to hunt for Easter eggs feeling a little chill.

Between the physical sensation of chilliness and the cascading Alleluias, I was broken wide open.  In all my talk of having my needs met and putting effort into creating a certain social dynamic, I can't believe that I forget time and time again that church is a place where we meet God.  Sometimes that's through other people and sometimes it more intangible than that.  Today, God came to find me and ask me about some things she's noticed lately but reminding me of where I come from.  By weaving me back into the traditions of my youth and reminding me that I belong to a long tradition of people engaging God in similar ways.  That part of why I love this church is because I get to be Presbyterian and contribute to a healthy future for this denomination by building a new model for how to do church.  That, in fact, the reason we sing a traditional Easter carol is that I pushed for it a few years ago.  This church would be different if I did not contribute to it.  Not necessarily worse, but different.

That's powerful stuff.  Even when I feel like there are about four different leadership projects at church in which I should be taking a more active role because of my unique skills and talents, including just plain showing up.  I have had an impact here.  What glamour does being anonymous hold compared to that?

I found that when our service concluded and we moved on to potluck, my earlier physical exhaustion from a day keeping house and making marmalade had dissipated.  My trepidation about engaging people didn't even occur to me.  I was home and I loved hugging my friend as she cried, introducing myself to someone new, making sure all the food had serving spoons and asking about the toddler's new Easter dress.  This is home for me and when God breaks me wide open, I remember that.  It's really no work at all.

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

-e.e. cummings

The Princess and the Pea

Hi folks.  I am recovering physically from preparing the house for Passover and cooking for our Seders.  Last night we had three toddlers and a four-year-old (in additional to 11 adults), so we needed to go past our usual tidying to actually dealing with the piles of crap that had built up in the corners as we have been rearranging, acquiring and purging furniture to make the house efficiently serve our family values of hospitality and baby-raising.  Also, I didn't want the crawler to go home with dirty knees so some major deep-cleaning needed to be done.

Jacob is an amazing partner: taking direction, using initiative and showing understanding when I need to stop and rest.

Yesterday, I made homemade gefilte fish, a huge brisket, homemade horseradish sauce, matzoh ball soup and what feels like a bazillion other things. 

So, after my midwife appointment this morning and some errands, I have plunked my ass into my new recliner in the baby's room (where we did have to pile up some crap that we didn't have time to put away in their forever homes), letting my body rest.  I am discovering that in this last trimester, physical exhaustion manifests itself as emotional instability.  So, as much as I do not like the lack of productivity that sitting in the recliner forces onto me, I vastly prefer it as a preventative to weeping.

I will need to get up eventually and make a fresh batch of matzoh balls, as well as slice the brisket to warm it and prep the asparagus.  However, until then, I want to talk to you about princesses.

One of my favorite t-shirts right now was a Christmas gift.  At the time I thought, "This is so huge!" but now I am grateful for the roominess.  I don't have a picture of it with me in it but I can show you the catalog picture. 

Normally, this would not be my style at all.  The generic arabesque font and design elements, the glitter, the rhinestones and the fact that it is pink would all mark it for the Salvation Army bag.  I am a terrible elitist and the acrylic nails with the French manicure on the model only confirm that I am not the intended market for this product.

However, I have a strange relationship with my title as a Princess.


I grew up as the only girl among three brothers and approximately 75% of the time, when people learn this, they say, "Oh, so you were the princess, right?"  I agree with them good-naturedly but I know that their definition does not actually match my experience.

I think most people picture a girly-girl in patent-leather shoes, Shirley Temple-style, who had her parents wrapped around her little finger, getting whatever gifts and attention she wanted because what she wanted was so special when compared with the rough-and-tumble nature of her brothers.

Yeah.  Not so much.  I don't know how to distance myself from that image without sounding full of denial but I'll try.

My dad and I fought constantly.  Ours was a complicated relationship.  I was totally unaware of the power I had over his affection because I was so angry with his attempts to get me to do . . . well . . . anything.  As a family, we have all come to acknowledge that many of my father's parenting requests were often arbitrary and tyrannical, but many of them were also pretty reasonable.  Bike safety, manners and respect for other members in the family are, in fact, lessons that good parents teach their children with a variety of methods.  Still, I resented his attempts to guide me and the power he had to coerce me when I dug in my heels too far.  Also, I'm pretty sure that the force of my personality and the depth of his love for me allowed me to win more of those power struggles than a parenting book would say that I should have.  Just because I was totally unaware of my power doesn't mean that I didn't use it unconsciously.

See?  I let him love me sometimes.

Did we have fun?  Yes.  Did we laugh a lot?  Yes.  Did his struggle to teach me skills that would make me successful pay off in the long run?  Yes.  Does my cell phone bill show that he is the person I spend the most amount of time on the phone with per month now that we're both adults?  Yes. 

But, as a kid, whenever my father addressed me as "Princess," it was usually sarcastic.  He did not hold me in the air and playfully ask, "Who is the prettiest princess?"  At least, I don't remember it that way.  It was usually something like, "Well.  Princess.  Did you want that?" after I had barged in somewhere to take something that, yes, I did want.  I remember being 19 years old or so and sitting in on a meeting he was having with a donor to his organization.  I wasn't at the conference table but nearby on a couch, waiting for them to wrap up.  However, they said something that, in my 19-year-old hubris, I thought I could shed some light on.  I don't even think I turned around to look at them; I think I might have just spoken loudly so they could hear what my thoughts were.  Because I never doubted that they would be interested.  To break the awkward tension this must have created in their business meeting, my father said, "Well. Princess.  Did you have an opinion on that?"  I was totally oblivious.

This story is pretty typical of my entire childhood when it came to telling other people what I thought I knew.  I remember learning about feminism in high school and reading about how many girls don't raise their hands in class because they believe that boys won't like smart girls.

I was blown away.

I had never made that connection.  As much as I wanted the boys to like me, it had never occurred to me to change my behavior that way to get what I wanted.  I liked being smart so much that my sub-conscious must have just made that decision for me without bothering my pretty little conscious mind about it.  Like I said, oblivious.  And, Princess.

But this is not the image that folks have when they ask if I was the princess in my family.

One of my favorite outfits.  The buttons had a picture of Annie and Sandy on them.  My grandma made it.

Additionally, my mom did not model girlie-girl culture to me.  For example, when I was 9 or 10 and wanted to grow out my pixie hair cut, she warned me that she wouldn't be able to help me put it into pigtails or braids because she didn't know how.  We shopped a decent amount together, which is typical of the mother-daughter transmission of princess culture but I remember a lot of helpful conversations about whether I really needed things and about my allowance/babysitting money that were tempered with indulgences. 

My little brother got full-sleeve tattoos when he was 19.  Coincidence?

I wore precious outfits whenever I would let my mom put them on me and often wore matching outfits with my younger brother (who was even worse about letting my mom dress him).   But I was not demanding frothy pink gowns and tiaras.  I think the closest I came to that is when I wore a flower girl dress to play in constantly.  I have no memory of this. 

Seriously.  These pictures are better for how they depict my brother's knees than for illustrating my personal fashion history.

Aside from the clothes I wore when we were getting dressed up to go somewhere, I mostly remember wearing clothes like the clothes my brothers wore.  Maybe they were hand-me-downs?  Maybe not. 

Baseball helmets, Luke Skywalker underoos, overalls, my babydoll George, and a wooden tripod.  I can only imagine what we game we had dreamed up that afternoon.

If I had wanted a princess costume, I'm sure my grandma would have made me one.  She was a horrible woman but I think she was trying to show love in the only way she could when she made doll clothes and actual clothes for me.  She certainly would have indulged a princess dress request if I had thought to make it.

Queen at Medievalfest my junior year.  The fabric came from the calico section at House of Fabrics.

When I got older, I do remember longing for medieval and Renaissance-type costumes.  This longing would be especially strong after I finished a novel by Marion Zimmer Bradley.  When that would happen, I would pull out my stack of catalogs that I had written a letter to the company in order to get on their mailing list that sold Ren Faire costumes.  Many were mom and pop outfits but I remember getting the Folkwear Catalog once a year and Jacob and I bonded because we both got Museum Replicas Limited at similar ages.  I was well into high school at this point and soon made my own costume from cheap cotton, which escalated to getting a job at the actual Renaissance Faire several years later. 

In later years, I was told this was called the ice cream dress.  Blessedly, I was not told this until I had grown out of my innocence gently and at my own pace.

However, I think that fantasy is a little different than the princess persona that 5-year-old girls currently experience.  Which is why I'm a little embarrassed to be wearing my Princess and the Pea t-shirt.  I feel like I'm representing an identity that I don't actually claim.  When I object to the spoiled dog being called Princess or my niece taking my title, I am defending something other than pink plastic high heels and purple feather boas.

I just finished reading Cinderella Ate My Daughter.  This is the second book by Peggy Orenstein that I have read and it was exactly what I needed to help me think in a more focused way about gender typing and this baby I'm about to put forth into the world.  We do not know whether we will have a boy or a girl but, either way, I want this child to have a broad range of experiences open to him or her.  I know that Jacob and I will not be the only influences on this child's sense of what is possible but I want to limit how much corporations (and their minions, the other children at pre-school) tell my child what they can and can't do because of his or her gender.  This includes the pink/blue stranglehold we'll have to dodge when shopping for clothes and toys. 

I'm haunted by this blog post that shows the colors of corporate logos.  It's titled "The Most Powerful Colors in the World."  It has a whole bunch of charts showing the most popular and financially successful colors and charting them according to the color of their logo.  Regardless of whether their choice of color contributed to the success or whether the success reflects on the color choice when others make it, can you guess which color is barely represented?  (Click to enlarge.)

Orenstein presents some persuasive evidence that our kids do seem to make gender-differentiated  choices out of instinct.  (She points out that as parents, we can broaden their horizons, as well.)  Preferring the color pink is not one of them.  This seems to be a purely social construct and when I look at those graphs, I can't help but think that we're unwittingly contributing to the status quo that believes as truth that men belong in business and women to softer pursuits.  Long-time readers kno how much I hate being part of systems that oppress people, even people who are far removed from the direct consequences of my actions.  Can you imagine how much more I hate the idea of enlisting my child - boy or girl - as an accomplice?  If I only buy thrift store clothing to avoid rewarding companies that use sweat shops, if I buy organic meat, dairy and produce whenever possible with the money I saved from the thrift store, if forego the salary my fancy degrees could get me in order to pursue justice professionally, how to I do fight gender inequality in the choices I make on behalf of my child without actually damaging my child by making him or her an outcast among his or her peers and/or totally antagonizing the kid to the point that I've sacrificed years of family harmony for the sake of the larger cause?

I have no idea.

Reading the book helped, though.  Acknowledging that my own princess experience was different from the one my own daughter will experience helps, too.  Being able to sew and craft also helps ease my mind that I do not have to deny my child completely when I deny her corporate crap.  (Have you seen some of the costumes Amy Karol makes her daughters?  Here, here and here.)

I also know that it will be a phase that we'll weather like any other phase.  I'll ask a lot of leading questions and make a lot of safe space to encourage conversation about thoughts my kid will have as he or she engages the world.  I will also not beat myself up if I give in to corporate temptation every once in awhile.

At least I think that's how it will go.  The only thing I'm sure about when it comes to parenthood (6 to 10 weeks left at this points, folks) is that it could go any which way it wants and the best way to make God laugh is to tell her your plans.

The Sartorialist

http://thesartorialist.blogspot.com/2011/03/on-streetangelika-milan.html
I have been thinking about this post and the backlash this week.  I think that the outrage is prompted because "curvy" DOES describe weight in today's culture.  It, as well as "sturdy" and "bigger" are some of the few words that woman with normal body sizes (i.e. - almost every woman over 25 not involved in the fashion industry) have left to describe themselves positively/neutrally.  To appropriate the words for a skinny woman simply because she's relatively large for their narrow community just adds salt to the wound that normal people experience in regards to image and self-esteem.

I think Scott puts up a pretty pathetic argument about the vagueness of the word "normal."  In fact, by definition, normal are folks that make up a majority of any particular characteristic.  It's the opposite of "outlier."  So, asking which woman - 5'0" or 5'9" - should be considered normal is a false question.  Neither of them is.  The women who are around 5'5" are normal.  So, since the average dress in America is a size 12, describing a woman who is, at most, a size 6, by words that belong to average-sized and plus-sized women is insulting.

Me want food!

The most common question that I get asked during this pregnancy is whether or not I have any weird cravings.  Pretty much, the answer is "no."

Sure there was that little incident in the first trimester that had me sitting in the car in the Trader Joe's parking lot, digging through my purse to find the fork from lunch two weeks earlier that I knew was still in there so that I could eat the cottage cheese I had just bought RIGHT NOW.

But that's less of a craving and more of an emergency.  I think of cravings as those longings for a specific food so powerfully that you would sacrifice anything - even your partner's good feelings toward you -  to get it into your mouth right now.

I don't have that.  The one night that I wanted a cherry Hostess Fruit Pie, Jacob looked at me incredulously from the other end of the couch and I caved immediately, saying that we could wait until the end of the TV show and see if I still wanted it then.  Then, I ended up just making my own pie.  He did help peel and core the apples but didn't like when I responded to his complaint about how much he disliked peeling and coring apples by making a suggestion of how to do it more easily.

So, mostly I experience preferences.  During my first trimester, I ate a lot of whole-grain toast and butter.  I had a stage a couple of months ago where I preferred to eat snacks that involved cream cheese.  I eat a ton of oranges and other fruits right now.  Lately, I have been choosing grits rather than a traditional dessert.
 
I am lucky in that I think I have formed fairly healthy eating habits before I got pregnant.  I had eliminated most junk food and processed food from my diet so I didn't crave those.  I have been introducing whole grains and vegetarianism into my life.  Most importantly, I have been learning to listen to my body for what it wants.  I think I learned how to do this from Anne Lamott.  (If you haven't read her essay on recovering from her eating disorder, please go do it right now.)  Also, my mother, who taught me never to eat anything that was a waste of calories.  In other words, don't fill up on bad food that you didn't want in the first place.  You know, bad grocery store cake  or a big dinner when your big late lunch is still lingering on your tongue.

So, I think about what my body is expressing a preference for.  I believe that there is a science behind this somewhere that some goofy holistic medicine person somewhere has deciphered but cannot communicate in way that does not sound ridiculous.  Probably, when the body is deficient in iron, it craves meat.  When it needs fats and protein, it craves cheese.  I'm sure this is informed by emotional needs and experiences but for the most part, I figure my body is smarter than I am, so I listen to it.  It's actually kind of fun.  Someone asked me the other day if I enjoyed being pregnant and deciphering what odd, seemingly unbalanced thing my body wants is part of why I can say, "yes."

Today, I ate probably two cups of baba ghanouj over the course of the day.  I also ate half a cucumber, an orange, and fruit salad from the cafeteria over the course of the same 6 hours.  I figure that counts as lunch.  I do eat more meat than I used to, but not all the time.  Tonight, I pick up something vegetarian for dinner at Whole Foods while I buy another armload of produce before my Dungeons & Dragons game.  There is a wedge of brie cheese in the fridge and, at some point, that will probably get consumed in a similar way as the babs ghanouj.

I figure that as long as my midwives are comfortable with my weight gain and I don't feel food-tired (something I learned to determine before pregnancy), eating like a toddler is probably OK.

Let's not talk about how I consume baked goods, though, OK?  That's a little more embarrassing.  Two weeks ago, I walked in front of a woman giving a presentation to a group of 50 co-workers in the cafeteria that adjoins my office to get a piece of cake that I heard was on the other end of the room.

Then, I did it again.

On the third time that I did it, I just took the last two pieces to save myself that inevitable walk of shame one more time.

When I first saw the movie Fargo, my mother about fell off the couch laughing at how Frances McDormand's character ate constantly.  I thought it was funny but not that funny at the time.  Now?  I am grabbing a donut on my way out of a community meeting on the west side, knowing full well that this probably means that one of the local folks won't get one.  Hey, it was offered!  You shouldn't offer donuts to pregnant ladies if you were just trying to be polite.  I get it.  I have no idea why my body is deficient in refined sugar, fat and white flour but, hey, it's rarely wrong.

I checked out an amazing whole-grain cookbook from the library and am hoping to have the chance to make something soon to at least mitigate some of the harm these baked goods are doing by adding fiber.

That should help, right?

Becoming Ma Joad

What I have managed to collect so far for the baby's nursery.

A couple of weeks ago, I was at an event with a warm acquaintance from grad school. I was delighted to see her because, although circumstances weren't right for us to pursue an actual friendship while studying, I thought she was a neat person and would gladly pursue one now, especially since she has a 5-year-old and a 3-month-old. I would love to build a circle of intelligent women with children who sometimes think about the world the same way I do: through the lens of policy, economics, organizational theory and systemic incentives and limitations. This would calm my fears that I will become unbalanced after my child is born, thinking only about how many poops today and the price of laundry detergent.

So, when she told me that she and another mom from grad school (whom I lovelovelove) were starting a business together and were making a presentation the next week, I didn't think twice about telling her that I would be there. I was a little distracted and didn't ask any questions. I just assumed: two U of C graduates + business presentation = something I would be interested in.

It probably won't surprise any of you that I showed up at her house to find a coffee table arrayed with cleaning supplies, cosmetics and "nutricueticals" and that I then had to sit through an hour and a half of a power-point presentation on the benefits of becoming a preferred customer by buying a subscription for $50-$70 worth of the stuff every month. A good percentage of the pitch was also focused on persuading us to host similar presentations in order to receive a cut of other people's subscriptions.

I was disappointed but not overly so and I was suitably impressed at a meta-level at the presenter's skill and earnestness at making what was clearly the company line sound like she was coming up with it on the spot.  I even thought I would actually sign up until I realized that we just don't spend $50 a month on those types of products.

The experience has me examining who I will be once this baby is born.  What will give my life meaning when I am exhausted but the dust bunnies keep piling up?  How will I keep from becoming selfish and forgetting that Jacob needs a partner, too?  How do I avoid becoming the type of person who sells non-perishable household products for a living even though they used to be passionate about changing the world?

I had dinner with a new friend the other night and she shared with me her trepidation regarding starting a family.  She said she just didn't feel ready.

I remember that once I said that to my own mother, years ago, as she peeled me a pear while I sat at the island in the kitchen and did nothing.  I commented that I didn't think that I would ever be able to serve my children so habitually.  My mom said, "No one is ever ready."

Can I tell you something, though?

I feel ready.

I feel like I've spent the last 8 years of my life acquiring a toolbox to help me realize when I have lost the plot and then to help me adjust and get back on track.  I have been practicing a spirituality of imperfection to come to terms with the fact that - because I am human - I am bound to make mistakes.  This is the way it is supposed to be.  So, I don't have to freak out or deny that I screw up every once in a while (or even every day, or several times a day).  Freaking out or denying won't change the fact that it happened or help me make sure that it won't happen again.  So, I acknowledge and examine mistakes that I make - including any feelings that come along as consequences - and try to mitigate the damage before moving on and trying not to do it again.

And then I do it again.  Because I'm human.

As far as I understand it, that describes parenthood, as well.  We do the best we can and still, we screw up often.

The parents that I do not want to emulate tend to be the ones who freak out or deny that either they or their children could screw up.  They go to great lengths to help themselves believe that they can control the outcomes of their actions.  Then, other people have to walk carefully around them so that they don't snap.

However, the fantastic parents that I know are the ones who laugh at themselves and move on.  Or they cry and move on.  Or they scream in frustration, break things, remember to breathe, call a friend and move on.  They set up loose systems to help calm the chaos and mostly remember not to get so focused on the systems that they forget the goal.  

I think I'm getting pretty good at that.  I feel like I have quite a few successful experiences in my history of rolling with the punches or recognizing when I haven't rolled with the punches and figuring out how to back up and fix whatever had broken because of my rigidity.

With this realization that my Batman Utility Belt is now pretty useful, I begin to get a sense of clarity about who I will become when working professionally to change the world is no longer the center of my life.  Last weekend, I wrote this note to the baby in his/her book that we write weekly notes:

I am just sort of trusting in good faith that spending my days changing the world on a nuclear level by helping you develop into a stable and loved human being will be equally fulfilling [to my professional work].  There will be the logistical tasks of making and keeping house around you, as well as the administrative tasks of creating a culture in which a harmonious family can thrive.  I want you and your father to be able to contribute to our life together as much as you receive from it.  I want to make sure that you both know how integral you are to all three of our lives now.  Life will be less good for all of us if any one of us is unable to be fully ourselves. So, I will work hard at encouraging the two of you - as well as paying attention to my own needs - to make sure this dynamic is possible.

Coming up with this mission statement has been very emotional for me.  It's HUGE.  To live my life for others, peeling pears because it makes their lives more pleasant?  I'm already good at living for myself and will continue doing so.  Professionally, I have been gaining expertise at living my life to achieve an objective (which usually involves helping others).  But to make my primary focus two other people?  There is something very noble and spiritual about that.  However, I am scared of it in the way an alcoholic is scared of getting sober.  I have no idea what my life will look like or who I will be once I start acting on that decision.

There are four, things that make me nervous about making this choice.  The first is that this is such a traditional arrangement.  The woman changes her focus from her career to her family and the man brings home the bacon.  In the case of our kosher home, the man will be bringing home the brisket.  Because the man is bringing home the brisket and this is stressful, he has less time and energy to worry about the social calendar, extended family dynamics and learning exactly which small crunchy snacks the toddler is allowed to eat.  So, because they are partners, the woman becomes the expert in those things to ensure that they are attended to.

I have plenty of friends who switch this up because it works better for their personalities and their earning potentials for the man to safeguard the harmony of the family.  We don't happen to be one of those families.  This should be fine.

However, there is this whole historical precedent that continues to inform a culture where most women must take on this role; they have no choice.  If I choose it for myself and do not oppose the systemic injustice of misogyny that is still institutionalized in our society, am I contributing to the problem?

Ultimately, I will choose what is best for my family but I think I'll always be a little conflicted about it.  This weekend, I attended a conference with other members of my church's leadership team and we got to hang out a little bit with Bruce Reyes-Chow.  The conversation turned to enneagram personality types and I was reminded that I am very clearly a 1 - "The Reformer". Can I really make a choice for my life that will not directly and positively impact the suffering of others?  Is it selfish to have children of my own who will require me to take my eyes off the prize in order to be fair to them?  I can't see myself getting comfortable with this anytime soon.

Another fear that I have is that I will become a little unbalanced since every report of parenthood I've ever heard seems to describe unending exhaustion, isolation and insecurity. This makes me worry that Jacob and I will fall even further into traditional household roles, becoming Everyone Loves Raymond, where I have particular ways that things around the house must be done and Jacob's only option for navigating those obstacles is to become the bumbling husband who sometimes "babysits" his kids so mom can get out for a half-hearted book group that exists for the large glasses of wine served.  I know that women do this because they feel under-valued in their roles and so grasp for whatever power they can get.  This often means that they create territories where they are the expert and defend that territory fiercely, insisting that the dishwasher be loaded in a particular way and that Junior certainly will never be able to fall asleep unless he is sung to in a specific way that dad can't possibly duplicate.  I have always thought Hanna Rosin did an excellent job describing this trend in her article The Case Against Breastfeeding in The Atlantic.

Similarly, I fear going too far with the Defender of the Hearth identity, taking over too many tasks and making Jacob feel infantalized because of my low expectations of him, which might alienate him and drive a wedge between us.  I also want to always have the ability to see those things that make me admire him and respect him.  I don't want to lose my delight in the fact that I actually get to hang out with this hunk of a guy or lose the self-esteem boost that I get because this man thinks I'm awesome or lose the constant sense of gratitude I have that the universe aligned in such a way to help us find each other in just the right moment when we finally able to recognize the benefits of a life together.

Finally, I fear losing my edge and thinking that becoming a direct sales person is a good use of my time.  I love having smart conversations with people about education policy and local politics.  I care a lot about how Christians engage the world on topics of injustice and race.  If I need to make more money, I want to use these unique skills and passions to do so.  At the same time, I can understand how direct sales is appealing.  The more time that you dedicate to using your high levels skills, the more energy that you have to take away from cultivating a safe emotional space for your family to reach their full potential.  If you can work a simple job, all it costs is your time.

What I need to do is let go of these worries and trust that the type of person that I become as a result of my choice to be the glue that holds my family together will be someone that I like.  I like most of the people that I have been in my life and this identity shift will probably not deviate much from that pattern.

My mom told me once that when my younger brother and I were little, the three of us conspired to "surprise" my dad when he walked into the house after work.  We "hid" in the fort we had made of cushions and jumped out and ran over to him when the door opened.  Mom must have thought of it when she heard his car pull into the driveway.  Later, my dad told her that coming home was the best part of his day.

I want to be deliberate like that about the interactions my family members have with one another.  I want to create the space for it.  I included the picture of the nursery-so-far at the beginning of this post because I look at those newly-painted orange walls every day and get excited about the start I have gotten on tending to my family in this new way.

Look hard.

I have several friends on Facebook who have been actively lobbying to see pictures of me in my pregnant state.  Until recently, I had yet to give into their requests, not out of pique but simply because I’m a little lazy and because I did not understand the motivation behind their requests so did not place the task high on my list of priorities.

However, Facebook being what it is, another friend heard their pleas and offered to bring her fancy camera and her composition expertise over to my house on Saturday and document my growing bump.  How could I refuse? 

24 weeks

As you can see, she positioned me so that you can see my belly in the mirror while the camera looks over my shoulder.  She told me that this was so that people could see that I have only gained weight in my belly and that my ass remains its regular size.

I appreciate her attention to detail.

One of the Eastern European cafeteria ladies at work has recently declared that we are having a boy since my lips and backside “they do not get big, yes?”  She claims she has never been wrong when guessing the gender of a baby and who am I to doubt the folk wisdom of middle-aged ladies from Albania?  So, I've been thinking hard about boy names.

I have been feeling pretty good during this second trimester.  The nausea and utter exhaustion are behind me and I’m not so large that I’m uncomfortable yet.  I’m able to swim 2-3 times a week and I have gone back to my regular yoga class, which is equipped to modify my regular, fairly rigorous practice for safety during pregnancy.

I’m pretty lucky.  I am definitely not willing to congratulate myself on this turn of events.  Other women make the exact same nutritional and activity choices that I make and are having a terrible time at this point.  Every baby plants him or herself differently in the torso and every woman’s body responds differently to the influx of hormones and structural changes necessary to manufacture a tiny person.

In other words, there are way too many variables for me to narrow down the cause of my relatively successful experience as my own efforts.  That would be like when super-models tell their interviewers that the reason they ended up on the cover of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition was that they drank a lot of water.  It probably helps but it’s no guarantee.

Where does this impulse to take credit for good things come from?  I’ve noticed it in parents with “good” babies, too.  The reason their kids sleep so well is because they co-sleep.  Or they don't.  The reason their children are so content being held by new people is that they socialized them early.  Or they didn't.  I rarely hear someone give credit to luck or chance when they had "easy" babies.

My experience so far tells me that this is a defense against the fierce judgmentalism that comes down on new parents from the moment they announce their pregnancy.  And this judgment doesn't only come from mean-spirited people.  Lots of people lots of the time imply that a new parent's choice is the wrong one simply because they don't know what else to say but want to say something. Or, I know that I have twice already said something truly ugly to each of my sisters-in-law because I was feeling insecure myself.  I mean, come on, at Christmas one of my aunts was upset because I didn't have to wear jeans with big elastic belly panels like she had to wear when she was pregnant.  The chain reaction was that she made me feel bad and I turned on my sisters-in-law.  Beware anyone who wasn't expecting to have to defend themselves against my raging incredulity that anyone would not prioritize a well-informed and self-advocated natural birth experience, complete with a detailed understanding of the history of modern medicine and how it has marginalized women's knowledge of their own bodies.

Yeah.  I know.

Luckily, my sisters-in-law are beautiful creatures who allowed me to make amends so I probably didn't cause too much harm to the relationships.  Luckily, it's no longer the holidays so I only have run-of-the-mill judgment to deal with and not additional extended family judgment.

So, if we as new parents have a proactive defense against these attacks, like claiming that the good things are a result of our own choices, we hope to diffuse potential advice givers/failure imply-ers.  You see, we're already doing it right.  We don't need you to tell us what you think we should be doing.

I have been thinking a lot lately about my own capacity to judge others unfairly. 

Awhile ago, I commented on a guy named Andrew Marin and basically stated that until he came out a declared his beliefs regarding sin and homosexuality, I couldn't trust him or his ministry.


However, after listening to his interview on Moody radio, I began to realize (yet again) that my condemnation was coming from someplace inside of me rather than being prompted by him.  I realized that he answers questions like my pastor.  By that, I mean that he reframed the questions people were asking him and pointed out the larger issues at stake.  When someone asked him point-blank whether homosexuality was a sin, he talked about how Jesus often got asked yes or no questions but only answered them on two occasions that we know of.  All of the other times, he told a story or asked another question in response or answered what wasn't being asked.  I was impressed by how well he knew scripture and impressed at the way he used it to redirect the question to what was more important: the role model Jesus was for how to deal with beliefs that could potentially divide people rather than helping them to see one another as sisters and brothers. 

And of course, when I heard my own question come out of an angry conservative's mouth, I had to re-examine myself.  I realized that if someone had labeled Andrew "emergent," I never would have been so hard on him.  I would have defended his right not to be defined by his beliefs but rather to be judged by his practice.  That is what my church is all about: finding a new Christianity that is practice-based rather than belief-based.

And yet, I find that I still must not be quite confident all of the time in my spiritual identity.  I needed to define this guy as "other," probably in defense of my own choices.

Glennon, over at Momastery, has posted a follow-up to her original post about bullying, homosexuality and Christianity.  I was so moved by the original post that I plan to print it out, frame it and hang it in the baby's nursery.  In her follow-up, Glennon details her own spiritual realization that she was doing what I was doing: dividing groups into good and bad that God has declared to be unified as loved.

Luckily, I got a chance to have lunch with Andrew and I found out that he is a fantastic guy.  He's doing good work and trying hard to do it with integrity.  He tells his story and works hard not to exploit the stories of others.  He is funny and good-hearted and went with me to Hamburger Mary's to satisfy my baby's trayf craving for red meat with cheese.  As Glennon says in her post, "Do not be afraid of people who seem different than you, baby. Different always turns out to be an illusion. Look hard."

I am lucky to be getting to learn that lesson over and over and over again.  I think I'll need it as a parent.

Birth and re-birth

On Sunday morning, I looked at myself in the mirror of a public restroom and thought, "This must be the time of life when women start wearing too much make-up.  Anything is better than nothing."

Many women glow during their pregnancy.  Others, regress to adolescence because the new hormones cause them to produce a lot of oil and they break out in acne.

Guess which camp I'm in.

I do not wear make-up except when I'm dressed all fancy so a fancy face matches or when I'm interviewing for a job.  Even then, there is no foundation or eye-liner involved.  Lipstick, mascara, maybe some eye shadow.  Just enough to enhance the contrasts of my pale skin, dark lips, blue eyes and dark hair.  You know, the Snow White look.  I never have worn much make-up probably because my mother didn't so I never had that kind of time commitment modeled for me.  I am grateful to her for that.

But Sunday morning, I wished for a little something to give a boost to my sales pitch.

I was at a satellite campus of one of the mega-churches that flourishes here in Chicagoland, recruiting volunteers for my organization.

Mega-churches are always so surreal for me.  As I drive around Chicagoland, I am beginning to notice that they are often across the highway from each other since they came into popularity (or, at least, had raised enough money in their capital campaigns) around the same time and so were able to purchase large swaths of farmland as it went on sale at the same time.  It's kind of a neat parallel to the historic downtowns of many midwestern towns where there are mainline Protestant churches and Catholic churches across the street from one another.

However, I tend to like the satellite campuses much better than the main campuses.  The people on stage are less manicured, more like real people, even if the camera-person doesn't ever give the Big Girl on the music team her close-up.  The people milling around the narthex (can you call it a narthex if it's a converted warehouse?) mostly look like people I would actually be friends with, rather than being a homogeneous group of make-up-wearing, skinny suburban moms and their un-intimidating and soft husbands.  Don Miller describes churches like that as going to church at The Gap.  The reference is becoming outdated but I think you get the point.  I'm never quite comfortable at the main campuses, which are generally located in wealthy suburbs, even though I have come to know and love some really good and interesting people from those communities.

(Yesterday, in response to a snarky comment I made similar to the one above describing the members of main campuses, my father wrote back, "Maybe this is a reminder to you and I that we worship a God that NEVER gives up on us no matter how bad we screw up."  I love that my father knows that I make those statements with a tone of self-deprecation because AS I AM SAYING THEM, I know that it's mean and that I am a little bit a bad person for thinking it's funny.  He knows I won't take offense for pointing out that I am "screwing up" in that moment.  I consider the friendships I have with folks who fit that description as the grace God offers me by reminding me that every person is unique and most are quite lovely, regardless of their appearance.)

For whatever problems I have with the evangelical culture, though, I have to admit that they do adult baptisms really well.  Full immersion in hot tubs on stage.  These baptisms, like the revolution, are definitely televised.  You get to witness the emotional experience of the candidates as the jumbo-tron displays their faces in close-up as they tell their story to the pastor who is standing in the tub with them.  During the year that I spent at the evangelical church here in the city, I was really moved by being able to be a part of the worship team for the baptisms that took place in the lagoon down the street.  The physicality of full immersion allows people to access their spirits and let them come to the surface and you can really see just how excited and grateful they are that their life has been changed because of their new-found relationship with God and that transformation has been made public through this ritual.

Jacob and I lay in bed at night and talk about the birth rituals for our baby, including baptism.  In my tradition, we baptize infants as a way of welcoming them into the community and exacting a promise from that community to teach the child what they know about God.  I know that some traditions include a belief that eternal salvation as part of the equation but that doesn't come into for me or for my denomination, as far as I know.

When we first began discussing baptism when the first babies in our church were being baptized, we toyed with the idea of doing the bris or the simchat bat on the same day as the baptism for the convenience of gathering our large community together only once.  Also, I wanted to insist that my in-laws commit to loving and accepting the both-ness of our child by being present for the Christian baptism.

Over time (what a difference a year makes!), I have less need to control my in-laws.  They are good people on their own journey and I'm becoming much more willing to let them take their own lead (and accept their own consequences) in how they interact with me and my children.  For one, I probably don't know how to make sure that everything between us is hunky-dory and for two, I couldn't pull it off anyway.  So, we'll baptize the baby when s/he's a little older and do the traditional Jewish welcome straight.  Last night, we fantasized about the menu of bagels, lox, egg salad and kugel for the celebration.

The baptism on Sunday had me in tears.  However, I can never fully immerse in evangelical worship and sat in the tension of being so happy for these people putting themselves forward for this extremely vulnerable ritual and so moved to "remember" my own baptism but at the same time being completely disgusted that the song the worship team was singing had the recurring back-up vocals of "we crown you, we crown you" while the melody sang, "Kings of kings and Lord of lords."

Ack!  I cannot relax into a theology that puts me, ME, in a position to crown God, to give God the authority to rule, to decree that from here on out, God gets to make all the decisions.

Our covenant with God is not a democracy.  We do not get to elect her out of office if we get tired of her.  The beauty of it is that we will never need to.  God is good and it always turns out to be us who are wrong when we take it into our heads to break the laws that God sets forth.

How could I be the one to make God the King of kings and Lord of lords?  I would have to be pretty powerful myself, wouldn't I? 

And I'm not.  I can only witness the spectacle and report back to others what I've seen.

Now, I do resonate with a theology that puts forth that I have to bow my head and accept God's authority, that I have to acknowledge what has always been true: that God is in charge.

I find this to be terribly liberating.  Because the concurrent realization is that I am not God, which means I don't have to know all the answers and that I'm not responsible for making sure everything turns out OK.  What a weight off my shoulders!  This is a spirituality of imperfection that I practice and that makes claiming the ability to actually confer sovereignty on God as repugnant.

Still, despite the soundtrack, there is no denying that the members of this church were experiencing real transformation.  Given my disgust at looking in the mirror earlier that morning, I was struck by the two women who climbed into the tub, completely devoid of make-up and exposed.  I felt a kinship with them, our physical appearances altered by the expectation of birth and, for them, re-birth.

Aren't we lucky that that we worship a God that NEVER gives up on us no matter how bad we screw up?

The sun and the rain and the appleseed

I have been thinking about what I will sing to my little one.

Both of my parents are kind of tone-deaf when it comes to singing so I did not grow up with what I consider to be a classic childhood of lullabies and folk melodies.  A friend once told me about how special it was to him to get to sing "too ra loo ra loo ra" to his granddaughter like his Irish mother sang to him.  As often happens, my suburban, totally ethnic-less upbringing made me completely jealous for that kind of generational continuity.  I am also often struck by a quote used in Oh Coward, a review of Noel Coward songs that I grew up listening to: "I was born into a generation that took light music seriously. The lyrics and melodies of [the Edwardian Era] were hummed and strummed into my consciousness at an early age. My mother played them, my father sang them, my nurse, Emma, breathed them through her teeth while she was washing me and putting me to bed.  My aunts and uncles, who were legion, sang them singly and in unison at the slightest provocation...."

This was not my experience.

However, I had a childhood full of music.  Both parents loved showtunes and we listened to cassettes that my father brought home from work where they had the amazing technology of transferring his LPs to cassettes.  They were adorned with manually typed labels that look like parchment paper.  I wonder now which old-school secretary he talked into putting such care into the tapes that we listened to in the big red van.  Before I understood recorded music, I remember marveling out loud that my favorite song was always on the radio when we got into the car.  I think I just lumped the entire soundtrack of They're Playing Our Song together as my favorite song.  A different memory of that musical revolves around being gently pulled aside into the adjoining dining room from the kitchen and being told that there were some songs we don't sing when my Great-Aunt Delores was visiting.  To my eternal gratitude, my parents were big fans of differential response to behavior that was appropriate in some settings but not in others.  I guess they thought we were smart enough to figure it out if they were instructive.  Or, they were wary of being hypocritical by punishing us whenever they realized that there was no possible way we could have predicted a social rule.

I had been singing the line, "To him 'broken heart' is a phrase I should write for his God-damn middle part."

So, there was a lot of singing in my house.  It just wasn't usually generated from the inside and sung as a serenade by the adults.  It was sung along with recorded media.  Of course I'm jealous at others' stories of family sing-alongs.

It's not really fair.  We often sang the Johnny Appleseed song before dinner and another pre-dinner song when with my grandma.  At Christmas, we celebrated Advent every four Sundays before Advent and would sing carols as part of the ritual, often to the accompaniment of the piano from the other room that my brother and I were painfully learning to play.  There was a lot of stopping and starting since neither of us actually liked practicing.

All four of us kids are actually above-average musical.  We all studied under Dick Whitecotton and all played instruments in the band to varying degrees of commitment.  I am also the dork that played in the varsity handbell choir in junior high.  Occasionally, we sing together in church or around the dinner table in nostalgia.  It sounds pretty good.

I don't know how to re-create that for my own kids given their likely urban setting with its fluid nature that will lack a stalwart influence like Dr. Whitecotton and his wife.

Also, since I still have a lovely voice (not to my own credit, at this point, since I continue to not actually like practicing), it seems like I should be somewhat intentional about singing to and with my kids.

There are lots of Jewish prayers we'll probably introduce into our routines including the Shema at bedtime and the Modah Ani in the morning.  But what will I bring to them from my own traditions?

Johnny Appleseed, definitely. 

But what else?  Lullabies?  I don't know any of the words past the chorus.  Are there any good recommendations for particular versions I could listen to in the car and learn the words?  I suppose there are songs like the itsy bitsy spider and such.  Any good resources for that?  Who wants to make me a mix CD?  Anyone?

I'm actually looking forward to figuring this out.  I know without some deliberate learning, I'll default to just turning on my iTunes.  But I think it will be more fun to actually sing as I go about my days, getting to know this child of mine.  What do you think?

Virtual Quilting Bee

I'm nesting pretty hard.  The day after our roommates moved out I found I was urgently scrounging up the two baby magazines I've unwittingly acculumlated because alluvasudden, I needed to see pictures of people who had successfully used a peachy orange color on their nursery walls.

As part of that, I've been drawn to something called a Virtual Quilting Bee.  There is a great explanation here.  Basically, 12 people gather via the internet and every month they make just one quilt square for someone else in the group.  So, when it's your month, you send out  11 packets of fabric and you get 11 quilt squares in the mail.  Add your own and you've got a sizable quilt.

I know that I've got a lot on my plate right now but I'm really being tugged by this idea of creating small pieces of art on a schedule for other people.  I've learned to pay attention to these artistic tugs.

I know there are some quilters out there.  Would any of you like to join in this project with me?  Let me know by sending me an email or commenting on this post.

Yay for art in the midst of chaos!

Just to get back in the swing of things . . .

 . . . let me tell you the two favorite things anyone has ever said about me that were both said in the last couple of months.

From a guy that I spent every day with for five months (we were on tour together) but who I haven't seen in a decade:  "Someone would have to work pretty hard to be as naive as you were in your early twenties."

I don't know why this makes me laugh as hard as it does every time I think about it but it does.  Maybe I'm just so delighted to come as far as I have and to have that affirmed by someone who didn't necessarily watch the entire process. 

From one of my closest friends, "It's OK to be not OK when I'm talking to you because you don't think you're OK either."

This is the best compliment I could ever ask for from anyone.

Baby Brigade

One of the main reasons that I keep a blog is because I have a strong sense that it helps to mend the world a little when I write about my experiences (both external and internal) so that other people who read them might sometimes be struck with a sense of not being alone because someone else out there had a similar reaction to a similar situation. 

I have not been writing much lately because I have felt underwater.  My job is very emotionally difficult right now and that sucks all of my energy because I continue to care about doing good work there.  Any leftover energy goes to basking in the love my husband and I share, getting as much time with my family as I can, and working through some of the issues that bubble up inside of me and that come out of Jacob because I'M HAVING A BABY IN FOUR MONTHS!

I often think, "I should write about that on the blog because I bet I'm not the only one who feels like that."  And then I think about how soothing it would be to run the sewing machine for awhile while my fingers play with color and I consistent eat the candy instead of the broccoli.

We have had a relaxing weekend and, with the encouragement of one of my closest friends, I think it's time to get some of this out of my head and set it loose into the world.  Also, one of my new favorite bloggers recently wrote on the same topic and this kind of online dialogue really intrigues me.

High school was really hard for me in terms of making friends.  I did not have a group of friends that consistently included me and my best friend was a relationship that existed independently of other relationships so I felt consistently like I was not successful socially.  I was constantly reaching out to kids and asking to be included.  Sometimes I was but often I felt like everything fun and meaningful happened on nights when I didn't want to risk being rejected or being viewed as pathetic and therefore unworthy of future inclusion so I didn't try to tag along.

I am sure it wasn't that bad.  I was active in choirs and theater and speech and spent lots of time with other people in those venues.  I remember a lot of laughter and moments of being deliberately included as someone who had earned a place within some of those circles through my talent and tenure.  I had friends like Tricia and Janstee who would come by and pick me up and just drive around with me talking and talking and talking.  Still, my lack of a designated role within a delineated group made me feel inadequate.  I always felt jealous when Tricia or Janstee or my best friend talked about experiences they had where I had not been invited.  I wanted to be essential to someone else's experience or the group activity.

When I got to college, I began to really explore social dynamics and my place within them.  I read books with titles like Making Friends.  The sitcom Friends was in its heyday and when my mother pointed out that real life wasn't like what was depicted there, I clung tenaciously to that truth as an "unthought known," even though the feelings of inadequacy and insecurity continued as I won and lost temporary places in a variety of groups and most of my four years without a best friend on campus.  Again, I made good friends (many of whom I remain close to) but was never crucial to anyone's experience.

My ex-husband did have a group of friends and, after some initial friction, I fit in well with them.  In fact, when they turned their backs on me during the divorce without ever asking to hear my side of the story, I felt more betrayed by some of them than I was by my husband.  It was a welcome relief to be valued by a group but they were mostly guys and and most did not yet have female counterparts (we played a lot of Dungeons and Dragons) so I knew I needed to continue seeking out my one-on-one female friendships. 

Thus began my adult pattern of practicing the adage: "To get friends, be a friend."  Recently, through my church involvement and my fabulous pastor, I have begun to see this as a spiritual practice of hospitality.  I know now that most people feel as insecure as I do and want to be invited as desperately as I do.  So, now I see it as extending grace that has been extended to me.  In the beginning, though, it was pure survival.  I became socially disciplined under the impression that people would not be interested in me unless I took risks and sought them out.  Based on those early experiences, I consistently make lists of people I haven't seen in awhile and reach out to them to set up coffee or dinner.  My ex-husband used to joke, "Rebecca sees all of her friends twice a year, whether she needs to or not."  I throw parties with themes and mailed invitations and fancy fonts to make them seem like events not to miss  (lately, I've let evite take over this task).  As my friends began to have children, I made sure to be flexible to accommodate their new schedules and to make it as easy as possible to get together by driving to their houses for dinner so they wouldn't have to get babysitters.

The pursuit of these friendships has been worth every minute of planning time I have dedicated to it.  I have countless hours of meaningful connection with good people that has shaped me into the person that I am.  There has been laughter and joy and great excuses to make gifts for them.  I learned that I am a person of value to some pretty neat people.  When I was planning my second wedding, I realized that it would look ridiculous to put all 15 of my girlfriends into matching dresses and parade them down the aisle and instead formed them into a Bridal Brigade and gave them matching brooches.  Who has 15 girlfriends close enough to be bridesmaids? 

I do. 

None form a Sex in the City-style group but individually all love me as much as I love them.  It's hard to be more blessed than that.  I have also gratefully noticed when these folks have reached back to me, deliberately including me or seeking me out.  When I get an email with dates included for potential dinners or a request that I be a bridesmaid or that I assist with a birth, I just about lose it because it utterly refutes my unshakable belief that I will always be on the outskirts of others' existence.

Now, the pursuit of these friendships has not been without its bumps.  I have had to figure out when folks were making me feel worse about myself because they demanded more than I was already giving or because they weren't putting even a little energy into maintaining the relationship.  That was usually painful to resolve in my heart.  Sometimes, I could let a person slide from my life knowing that friendships are made of equal parts effort and circumstance.  So, when circumstances change, I learned not to take it personally when my emails and phone calls weren't being returned. 

I know that I have not been a perfect friend.  There are times when I couldn't reach out as much as I'd like or when I couldn't give what someone needed and so avoided them just a little.  Not blatantly shunning them but not going out of my way to connect, either. 

Which brings me to one of my fears about having a baby.  I am afraid that my friends are so used to me being the one to organize get-togethers and used to me being the one going over to their houses for dinner that when I am no longer able to be as proactive with scheduling or as flexible with location, we will fall away from one another.  Maybe I am having "delusions of grandeur" about my role but I am afraid that when I am no longer pursuing friendships with practices developed by a desperate twenty-something, the circumstances will be so different that my friends will let me slip away rather than stepping in and shouldering some of the responsibilities that I have been willing and eager to own in the past. 

Intellectually, I'm pretty sure that this worry is totally needless.  Emotionally, it makes my gut twist to think about being isolated like that as a new mom.

It makes me want to brainstorm what practical things I can do not only to alert my friends to this vulnerability but also to empower, encourage and affirm them in changing the way they interact with me regarding the logistics of our friendships. 

Are there other responses to this worry that I should be considering?  Is there some other angle from which I can look at the situation?

At the practical level, are there any suggestions for how I can deputize my friends into a Baby Brigade?  I trust that they will want to help me out (this is a huge step for me) but, like anything, I know that folks often feel more able to help if they have concrete suggestions.  What types of support could I ask them for?

O Come All Ye Faithful

Most religions develop a liturgical calendar. Liturgical calendars are basically a cyclical journey through a year that creates a ritual scenario in which to experience the major emotions that we tend to feel in life in a controlled setting. The purpose of having a liturgical calendar is to practice for these real life events. When we "cry out" in anguish, the spiritual leader reassures us that our pain has a purpose and that God is in control. When we "shout" Hallelujah, we are accompanied by brass instruments playing in a major key. We confess both our own sins and the sins of our community and a shofar is blown to reinforce both it's importance and it's forgiveness. We "gather in" the harvest and are led to give thanks for the bounty in our lives.

Because we have practiced these emotions, we have an expectation for what comes next: redemption, comfort, joy, gratitude and even repentance. Think of it this way: do you remember mix tapes? Remember how you would listen to one over and over and over to the point that when you heard a song from the mix on the radio, you felt a little disappointed when you didn't hear the next song from the mix at its conclusion? The liturgical calendar is a little like that. It creates spiritual associations for the universal experiences in which we all find ourselves at some point or another. Fasting ritualistically prepares us for life's lean seasons because practice tells us we can look forward to breaking the fast with joy someday. Mourning the death of the deity or even fearing that we ourselves have not been written in the Book of Life this year prepares us for the death of loved ones because every year the spiritual story has a happy ending. The ritual acknowledges the need to mourn and atone and makes space for it but reminds us that ultimately life is for living.

The Christian liturgical calendar has two poles holding it up: Christmas and Easter. Birth and Death. Could there be two more universal experiences?

For many of us, Christmas is an entire season, starting at the beginning of the month of December with the First Sunday of Advent. Advent means "coming" and by ceremonies of anticipation for each of the four Sundays before Christmas, we replay what Mary and Joseph (and all expectant parents) must have felt: excitement, self-reflection followed by a sense that we don't measure up, reassurance from outside sources that we will be fine, reaffirmation of why we made the choice to have children (or embark on any endeavor), preparation of the necessary accessories to the birth including love, swaddling clothes and the gracious acceptance of gifts.

My life feels pretty chaotic right now. Jacob points out that to the outside observer, it doesn't look chaotic but it certainly feels that way. I've lost the list of things to do that I wrote a month ago, my things are strewn around the house because we haven't yet assembled the shelves that should have been done in October. Craft projects are piled everywhere. Stuff I've cleaned out of my purse as I was walking out the door is piled everywhere. Nothing has been cleaned, like with soap and water, in weeks. (The kitchen counters might be the only exception to this.) Work emotionally exhausts me daily. I'm digging into some pretty heavy stuff with my therapist. There are several important friends that I haven't seen in over 3 months and some in over 6. My efforts to do some the work that needs to be done for our church to thrive has been cut back to the bare minimum, which does not feel like enough. To top this all off, my body is becoming increasingly high maintenance, needing food and fluids at much more frequent intervals, which also requires me to urinate much more frequently or experience light-headedness if I don't pay attention to my body's demands. The nausea in the first trimester caused me to stop working out and I haven't yet put that back into my schedule, which makes me feel slow and creaky. I have roommates for whom I don't do a particularly good job of making feel welcome. The Christmas letter is definitely not written.

I'm a hot mess.

I'm happy, which is a blessing. Tired and totally spacey but happy. There is a low-grade despair that seems to be always lurking around the corner because of the chaos in my head, but when it makes a full-blown appearance, Jacob lays on top of me while I cry and then I feel better. He and I are particularly playful and I only yell at him every once in awhile and mostly without the venom and instability that I displayed in the past. We watch TV to decompress and I slowly accumulated the necessary Chanukah and Christmas presents.

But we haven't really celebrated Advent this year.

And I have missed it.

We haven't celebrated Advent because, frankly, Jacob is still uncomfortable with it and I didn't want to fight for it amidst all the other chaos. So, no tree, no decorations, no candle ceremonies, no Christmas music.

I have missed it.

There is an emptiness in me from the absence of the rituals of preparation. My decisions and motivations are built upon a foundation that views Jesus as a divine teacher whose ultimate sacrifice on behalf of mankind was a major example of God's love for us. Opting out of the spiritual practice of anticipation and preparation - especially when, for the first time, I am expecting my own child - was a mistake. My decisions and motivations wobble if I don't maintain the foundation through participation in my own liturgical calendar.

I have absolute faith that Jacob will come around. He has promised to create a home where our children feel comfortable living into their identity as products of both Christianity and Judaism. This will only happen when he celebrates Christmas with joy. He will eventually find values in Christmas that are meaningful to him much like I value food deep-fried in oil for Chanukah and the gathering of friends even though the victory of the Maccabees means nothing to me. I know it's hard for him and I know why it's hard for him. It's worth reading the comments on the Velveteen Rabbi's post on Christmas through Jewish eyes if you want to go deeper into where he is coming from.

And he's trying. Remembering that I expressed interest in the Do-It-Yourself Messiah last year, he got us tickets and doggedly sight-read the entire piece so that I could immerse myself in an experience I haven't had since college. It was phenomenal to flex those muscles again (figuratively and literally). I was astounded to come across passages that I vividly remember being drilled in the rhythms or note patterns to get them right.

My father asked me a few weeks ago if I considered myself athletic and I said that I did. I feel like I have slightly above-average eye-hand coordination and enough hours logged successful being athletic that I have the necessary confidence to tackle physical tasks without the nervous hesitation that will guarantee athletic failure. Also, I have muscle memory. When I pick up a tennis racket, I can shift it to the right position in my hand if the ball comes to my left side rather than my right. I follow through on my strokes without thinking about it. I catch things that are thrown at me. I throw things where I want them to go. In yoga, I can isolate and refine movement such as tilting my pelvis correctly or balancing better by adjusting my center of gravity. I have been seeing a physical therapist for an old injury that pregnancy has re-ignited and she loves working with me because I'm "body conscious."

This athleticism is necessary in singing a piece like Handel's Messiah. How you stand affects the quality of breaths you can take. How you hold your music affects how you well you can watch the conductor. How you hold your head affects the sound of the notes you make.

I remembered all of it even though I haven't been in a choir in 8 years. It was glorious.

In Waiting for Guffman, one of the subtle pieces of humor is that the strange little music director who feels threatened by Corky has built a professional-grade orchestra out of the various members of this little Midwestern community. My childhood experience was like that. I was taught by classically-trained musicians who imparted good technical form, professional behavior standards and a sense of discipline through regular and rigorous rehearsals. Sure, lots of kids goofed off but those of us that wanted to be at the top of our games were given the opportunity. I was blessed with a voice that people like to listen to and doubly-blessed to be born into a community that had the resources to help it flourish. I get so much satisfaction from singing a difficult piece well.

There is no audience at the DIY Messiah. The audience is full of participants. Self-satisfaction in one's own group participation is the only motivation.

It filled in some of the emptiness. For an encore, the director had the audience play the Hallelujah Chorus again. I had already put away my score but actually know that movement by heart. To stand and sing victoriously to the sky with no sheet music to block my communication, "The kingdom of this world is become the kingdom of our lord," nearly caused me to lose it entirely. It is a ritual that I know by heart to begin quietly for the first half of the sentence because I do not belong in the world. As Yoda says, "Luminous creatures are we." Without fail, the music suddenly becomes loud and the orchestra fully supports us as we sing of the radical transformation and shift of power. Where before the world used to be in charge, I can now choose to put God in charge with the coming of Christ. So powerful. So redemptive. It reminds us of the creation of the world. God (or Aslan) speaks a word and the chaos becomes ordered.

The old pastor of my parents' church would walk into the darkened church on Christmas Eve with one candle and recite with gravitas, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." This piece of scripture explicitly describes Jesus as the Word that brought order out of chaos.

Singing Handel's Messiah again was a spiritual practice to help me remember that I can choose to put God in charge of my life. That I am not left to wallow in this chaos alone.

What is the Word? It can be a lot of things. Certainly, John says that the Word is Jesus and I think he was definitely a physical manifestation of the larger definition. What makes the most sense to me is to think of the Word as the guidelines that God puts forth in scripture for how to make decisions in order to be satisfied with this life. Love others. Make them feel welcome. Take care of the hurting. Work towards justice. Rest. Tithe. Be mindful.

Keeping a kosher home has certainly given me new insight on how to hear God's Word if it is defined this way: as the laws she sets forth. My favorite part of saying the Shabbat blessings is that after I light the candles I say in Hebrew, "Thank you, God, for giving us your commandments." The Word is something to be grateful for.

Jesus said that he did not come to abolish the laws that the Jews followed in an attempt to be faithful to God. Instead, he came to fulfill them. He was born to help give people that next big push that they needed to be faithful to God. For many folks, the Jewish purity laws weren't helping anymore, so like she always has, God sent a new Word to help people create order out of Chaos and to put their relationship with God as the highest priority in their lives by following the teachings of Jesus, which were informed by the Jewish purity laws and, by the way, their liturgical calendar.

I told my pastor friend yesterday that I believe God leads us to our spouses to teach us that we don't always get everything that we want immediately. We have to practice waiting and working in good faith for that which has been promised to us during our marriage vows. This, too, is part of choosing to put God in charge, which will bring order out of the chaos. It is practice for the larger narrative of an entire life. I may feel a little empty without a tree or Advent candles this year but I got what I needed from Handel's Messiah and Jacob is the one who delivered me to that ritual.

I will wait in good faith for the birth of Jesus on Saturday and I will work in good faith alongside my husband to create the interfaith house that we have promised each other.

O come let us adore him.