Our sweet daughter was born last week. Isn’t she lovely? To say we feel blessed by our latest addition is such a huge understatement.
Thanks so much for all the sweet words of love and encouragement y’all have sent our way over the past week. We have felt so loved!
In our house, we love food. Yummy, home-cooked food that fills our tummies, and leaves us feeling full, nourished, and happy.
But it’s so darn easy in this super-busy life to cut corners. Buy the stuff that’s pre-packaged. Buy the stuff that’s so full of preservatives that it’ll sit on a shelf ’till kingdom come and never sprout a spore of mold. Run through the drive-thru on the way to whatever activity we’re speeding off to just to keep our bellies quiet.
At the start of this year, I decided that we would baby-step away from that kind of lifestyle. Away from the harried schedule that leaves us little to no time to sit around a table together, enjoying each other’s company. Away from the guilt-ridden fast food runs that left us over-fed and under-nourished. Away from pre-packaged food that was chock full of words I can’t pronounce, and that in no way resemble actual food.
Here’s the thing, though. Rome wasn’t built in a day. And for me, an instantaneous 180 degree turn-around spells failure. Guaranteed, every time.
So, I committed to baby steps. We started with breakfast, and committed to it for a month. Anything and everything we put in our mouths for breakfast would be 100% whole – nothing refined, no sugar, no empty calories that were nutritionally void. (Not necessarily organic – that’s another mountain to climb, but again, the only way I can stick with something is to do it in small, baby steps.)
I was apprehensive at first, but you know what? It wasn’t that hard. A little harder than just pulling out the container of Fruit Loops, for sure, but only minimally so. After a month or so, I became brave enough to add lunch into the mix. Again, it’s a little harder than pulling out a frozen pizza, but not so much so that it’s discouraging. Sometime after Little Miss Took arrives, dinner-time will get the same makeover.
But honestly, what we’re already getting out of it kind of blows my mind.
For starters, I had no idea how refined sugar affected me until I cut it out of 2/5 of our eating (dividing our food consumption up into 5 categories: Brekkie, Lunch, Dinner, Snacks, and Tea-time). Before, I was so used to the bursts of energy followed by crashes that left me drooling on the table that I hardly noticed them. Now, if I allow myself a soda or cookie in the afternoon, I can physically feel it happening – the jittery amping up, and the devastating crash after. It’s wild. And gacky. And (and this might have something to do with being pregnant; we’ll see in about a month) the mood swings that accompany it are…stunning. For real.
Secondly, I feel legitimately hungry…and legitimately full. When I wake up in the morning, I’m hungry, but for food – not for a cup of coffee like before (which had been my staple brekkie before the ‘experiment’) – but for actual food. And when I’m done with brekkie, I’m full – not because I’ve tricked my body into thinking it’s full from the burst of caffeine and splash of milk – but full in a way that leaves me feeling content…like, kitty-purring-in-the-sunshine-I’m-ready-to-kick-this-day’s-@$$ content.
It’s freaking awesome.
This was our lunch today: BLT's with uncured bacon, yummy bread from a local bakery, Hildebrand milk *swoon*, and Greek yogurt with berries for desert. Could anybody not love this meal?
It’s safe to say we’re digging it. We’re never going to be the kind of family to hop on a particular strict-diet bandwagon. We’re never going to be afraid of natural fats, or of bread, or of meat. We’re never going to be overly concerned with weight, or size. But this transition into additive-free eating…it’s far easier, much yummier, and way more addictive than I had anticipated.
Are you considering an additive-free, whole-foods lifestyle for your family? What’s your motivation? How are you going about it – all-or-nothing style, or baby-steps, like me? Here are a couple websites that helped me get started:
Hey y’all!
Week four was satisfying. Reading, writing, exercising…all went well. There wasn’t a whole lot of overachieving going on, but I nailed each goal (except one), which is enough for me at the moment. The exception was the ‘do something good for myself’ goal (*scrunches up nose*), but I’ll do better this coming week, promise.
Hey, and you guys, I absolutely loved getting feedback on writing log-lines (and blurbs), and can’t wait to spend some time this week playing with your suggestions. Thanks – like, a ton!
The really, really good news is that I think we’re looking pretty darn good, homeschool-wise. If that aspect of my life is going smoothly, all the other pieces fall into place relatively easily.
Birthday boy!
Today marks my oldest child’s tenth birthday! We’re super pumped – at our house, we celebrate birthdays for a full week. Birthday weeks are everybody’s favorite because it’s a week chock-full of fun, fun, fun. So I might be a little more absent online than normal, partying my booty off to celebrate a decade with one of the coolest, most remarkable young men I’ve ever known. Go ahead and be jealous! Or, better yet, come over and join us in the fun. We know how to have a good time!
Wishing each of you a happy, productive week!
First of all, let me say to all you who stopped by and left the sweetest, most encouraging words last week, THANK YOU. I’ve gone back and re-read all your encouragement several times throughout the week – it’s meant so much to me. If I could squeeze each and every one of you, I would. Thanks, so much, from the bottom of my heart.
Last week’s check-in turned out to be the start of a week-long pit-stop for me.
With some carefully-worded guidance from my sweet, enduring husband (who knows full-well just how ugly my pregnancy listening filter can make any words, no matter how kind), I decided to all but cut myself off from the web, and focus on the most pressing issue at hand: our homeschool curriculum.
Thankfully, after two months of tears, tripping down the wrong paths, pulling out our hair, etc., I think we’ve finally got it figured out. The week has been spent diving into this new curriculum, and I’m seeing all the signs that we’ve found one that works: the boys are happy and willing to do their work, sweetZ’s tickled to have her mommy-time back, and I’ve got a couple spare hours a day I can devote to writing/blogging/WANA-ing. This coming week will really be the true test for all that, since I didn’t write a sentence – blogging or otherwise – last week. Instead, I snuggled with my girl, napped when I was tired, and had fun helping my boys along. I’ll add back in my writing responsibilities this week, and see how it goes.
Even though last week was less-than-stellar, goal wise (with the exception of the wholesome brekkie thing, and the reading thing), I’m satisfied. Some problems, if you don’t stop everything to fix them, will grow into something wholly crippling. This was one of those problems. Any homeschooling parent lives with a constant nagging shadow following them around – the fear of somehow failing their kids in a way that will cripple their chances at becoming a successful adult. It’s a powerful fear, one that will bring me to my knees faster than just about anything. Last week was one of those weeks, but I’m finally feeling that burden beginning to lift. Phew.
Hoping your week went well, sweet friendlies! Sorry I’ve not been to any of your blogs over the past week, but I’ll get back into the swing of blog reading in the coming days. Much love to you all!
Puppy hiding under desk. I want to join him. Thanks, Google images, for the pic.
It was one of those weeks.
Somehow I managed to meet my goals – writing for at least 30 minutes every day, being prepared for that writing, getting in physical activity, doing something good for myself, reading a little every day. I got it all in, but I felt like I was clawing my way into it the whole time. The triumphant feeling I had last week has deflated into something resembling a canned-pea-green deflated balloon. Ain’t pretty.
Sometimes things come easy, other times…not so much.
I’m not sure this coming week’s going to be any easier. We’re having curriculum issues for my boys’ homeschooling…and it’s taking its toll on me. With a new little one coming in a couple months, and a sweet three year-old girl vying for my attention, we’re having to make some adjustments. We haven’t found our stride yet this semester. Not even close.
Educating your kids at home is a huge undertaking. One I’m glad to do, because I see the fruit of it on a daily basis. I don’t think it’s right for everybody – not by any stretch. I’m not sure it’s always going to be the right choice for us. And I’m becoming increasingly aware of how thin I’m stretched these days. An infant is going to stretch me even further.
Not sure where we’re going to land. And that’s pretty stressful.
Sorry for the disjointed post. Frayed doesn’t begin to describe how I’m feeling, and it’s making it hard to focus on any one thing for long.
Which probably means I’m completely nuts to add another goal to my ROW80 list, but I really like this one, and I think it’s doable, and I think it will help me feel better…hopefully.
The hubster and I are wanting to steer our nutritional habits in a more healthy direction. These kinds of changes can be a little intimidating, but we’re taking it in baby steps, changing one thing at a time. For the next thirty-odd days, we’re changing the way we eat breakfast – no refined, processed foods. Hopefully in a month a few bad habits will be replaced with new, healthy ones, and we’ll be ready to add another baby step in the direction of more wholesome, healthy eating.
Also, I’m finding that my five minutes of activity just isn’t enough – my body wants to keep going, so I think I’ll go ahead and give it what it wants. I’m gonna tweak this goal a little. Instead of 5 minutes every single day, I’m going to aim for 10 minutes (still going with the test-mile theory here – 10 min. may be far less than what I want to do that day, but on the days when I’m blech, at least I’ll get those 10 min. in) five days a week (instead of seven).
I hope my other ROW80 friends have had a wonderful, lovely week!! Wishing you all lots of happy, happy ROW-ing!
Something happens when a woman becomes pregnant. Duh, right? At first, the excitement over the miracle of new life can be beautifully overwhelming – the thought of feeling those little kicks inside your belly, the cutest little teeny-tiny booties you’ve ever seen, the anticipation of holding your newborn for the first time. Oh my goodness…it’s euphoric.
But eventually reality kicks in. Morning sickness. All-day sickness. Bizarre cravings. Bizarre cravings that must be satisfied now. Swollen ankles. Swollen fingers. Swollen…everything. If it has a name, and is attached to a pregnant woman’s body, it can (and will) swell.
Maybe that swelling has something to do with the significant amount of crazy that accompanies pregnancy. Maybe the little part of the brain where crazy is normally kept, heavily guarded and only released very occasionally for good behavior, swells, too. I don’t know what, or how, or why it happens, but during those nine months, the crazy is unleashed. Suddenly, what began as a euphoric journey into the magical kingdom of Giddy-Happy-I’m-Building-a-Freaking-Person-Here takes a sharp, un-signalled left turn into the third-world dystopian territory of How-Could-He-Eat-Cereal-In-Front-of-Me-When-He-Knows-I-Can’t-Stand-the-Smell-of-It-He-Must-Hate-Me-and-Our-Baby.
Some days are better than others. Some days I’m able to keep the crazy contained, and do damage control for previous unsavory actions. This usually involves apologizing for things that I know I’ve done in a hormonal stupor, but sound utterly foreign to my ears: ”I’m sorry I insisted I sleep with both your pillow and mine. And that I wouldn’t let you have any blankets. And that I made you stare at me, unblinking, until I finally fell asleep. And that when you tried to gently pull your pillow out of my hands when you thought I was asleep that I clawed you with my fingernails. And that now we’re in the ER waiting for you to get stitches.”
I’m a normally happy, sweet girl. But the deeper I get into each pregnancy, the crazier I get. And since we’re working on offspring number four, the crazy has spawned it’s own sort of crazy.
Examples:
*While at Barnes and Noble this weekend, I spotted a book about cupcakes. A normal person would look at a book of cupcakes and think, “Huh. Look. A book about cupcakes.” My thought was, “Huh. Look. A book about cupcakes. I want a cupcake.” I glanced over my shoulder at the good folks around me. I swear on the slice of pepperoni pizza I’m eating right now that every single person in the store was holding a half-eaten cupcake, with frosting smeared on their upper lip, moaning in gastronomical pleasure over how good the cupcakes were.
“Why does everybody have a cupcake but me?” I asked Thomas, glaring at him, because obviously my cupcake-less status was all his fault.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, taking a huge bite out of a chocolate cupcake with white frosting. My absolute favorite.
“Can I have a bite of that?” I asked.
“A bite of what?” he asked, licking frosting off his fingers with great relish. Bastardo.
“Your cupcake!” I said impatiently, reaching for his cupcake and snatching it out of his hands. He stared at me in shock, mouth gaping open as I crammed the rest of his half-eaten cupcake into my pie-hole.
“Ugh!” I grunted, spitting it out. It was disgusting. Terrible. Tasted like paper.
I looked at the half-masticated mess in my hands. It wasn’t a cupcake at all. It was a Nook brochure. Confused, I looked around. Nobody was eating cupcakes. They were looking at books, talking quietly with each other, some sipping on coffee. But no cupcakes.
Not. A single. One.
I still want my freaking cupcake.
*While I was making a salad last night, the hubster sat at the kitchen table to keep me company. He cracked open a beer and continued chatting with me. Now, a normal person would think, “That’s nice. He’s having a beer. Maybe I should offer to fetch him a coozie.” My thought was, “I can’t believe he just opened a beer in front of me!! Doesn’t he know that if I even smell alcohol, our child will be born with severe birth defects?” I stabbed the head of lettuce with my knife, called him a jerk, burst into tears, and fled to the bathroom where I sequestered myself for 45 minutes. Thirty of those minutes were spent sobbing over the fact that I’m the only one who cares about the health of our unborn child, five of those minutes were spent missing the cold, refreshing taste of beer, another ten were spent vengefully cleaning the toilet with the hubster’s toothbrush, and the last five were spent unconscious in an impromptu power nap. Once I regained consciousness, I stumbled back into the hall, no memory of the incident at all, wondering why my husband and three children were staring at me like I was wearing a vest made of C4.
And guess what. I still want my freaking cupcake.
Someday soon, our little bundle of joy will enter the world. The crazy sector in my brain will shrink back to it’s normal size, and life will continue on. And I (hopefully the hubster, too) can look back on that time fondly, knowing it was all in an effort to add a little more innocence, a little more sweetness, a little more hope to the world. Because kids are, and always will be, one of the biggest reasons to have hope for the future. They are absolutely one of the most beautiful blessings we can receive in this life. The forays into Crazy-Town will have all been worth it for the sake of a new little life.
But if somebody doesn’t get me a cupcake, pronto, there will be blood.
Sidewalk chalk is a staple of childhood in the Shafer house – along with bubbles, slip-n-slides, and water guns. Our driveway is often covered with graffiti: aliens with fourteen eyes, giant scary spiders, kick-ass rainbows. Every single one of us becomes a Klimt, a Van Gogh, an Escher, a Michelangelo, when we’re squatted on the ground with a fat piece of chalk between our chubby little fingers.
But holy cow, guys. Some folks have taken this childhood art-form to a whole ‘nother level. And it is oh, so good.
Any childhood activities you’ve seen translated into grown-up fabulousness that have made you stop and stare in wonder? Share ‘em here!
Big grins,
Myn
I love Handel’s Messiah. Okay, dork that I am, I just love Handel. But this time of year especially, his Messiah can oftentimes be heard playing loudly on our hi-fi; even more frequently rolling around in the private spaces of my brain.
Christmastime is very near and dear to my sweet little family and I. Our kids know it as Jesus’ birthday, and they celebrate it with as much voracity as they do their own. Not for the sake of presents, or goodies, or fun (which, of course, are all lovely parts of any birthday celebration), but because they genuinely love their King Jesus. They have the kind of faith that puts mine to shame: strong in backbone, tender in heart.
Christmastime, for my family, and for so many Jesus-followers around the world, is a time to focus on the miracle of the Incarnation. God becoming man. Doing the unthinkable to save his stubborn, willful creation.
And that is as it should be.
But when I look at the nativity scenes people put in front of their houses, or on their mantels, there’s one figure who’s always there, but is often overlooked.
Joseph. Jesus’ adoptive dad.
Joseph was the living definition of a strong backbone and tender heart.
Really, he was a nobody. A laborer. A blue-collar worker with no decent family lineage to speak of (something that counted for a whole lot back in the first century), save for a very distant relative. The distance between him and King David was so great that it didn’t even count in minds of his counterparts.
Joseph was engaged to be married to this girl named Mary. Mary was a catch. She was pretty. She was good (understatment? Probably). They loved each other.
But then one day Mary came to Joseph. We need to talk, she said. He listened as she told him the news:
She was pregnant.
What a punch to the gut. Because Joseph knew that this was not his child. Humiliation. Shame. Embarrassment.
There were a lot of things Joseph could have done. He could have dragged her by the hair to the public square and told everybody in town that his fiancé was pregnant with another man’s child. Could have had her whipped. Stoned to death. All these were acceptable options for a man wronged in this way in the first century.
But Joseph wasn’t that kind of man. His heart was tender.
Instead, he chose to deal with it quietly. His first thought was to avoid bringing shame to the woman he loved – even though he believed she’d betrayed him in the worst possible way.
But then an angel of God came to him and told him who this child really was. What that child’s destiny was. He instructed Joseph to marry the woman he loved, keep her and protect her and her child, and to name the baby she would bear Jesus.
So Joseph did. Even though it would look like he’d gotten her pregnant before they were married. Even though it meant he would carry a burden of shame that had no grounds in truth for the rest of his life. Joseph followed God’s direction, without question.
His backbone was tempered steel.
When I look at Joseph, I see so much of what I’m not. So much of what I wish I could be. Someone who loves, even when it costs something. Someone who has fears, but doesn’t give those feelings enough credit to hinder doing the right thing. Someone who’s willing to believe that what I see in this moment – all the things that don’t make sense, all the loose ties that could never be wrapped neatly around any sort of package – that all that stuff doesn’t matter.
Because, when it comes down to it, two simple things are the bedrock of life, so well put by Joseph’s first-born son:
“‘Love the Lord your God with all your passion and prayer and intelligence.’ This is the most important, the first on any list. But there is a second to set alongside it: ‘Love others as well as you love yourself.’ These two commands are pegs; everything in God’s Law and the Prophets hangs from them.”
I think Joseph understood this very well. In fact, if it weren’t for the strength of his conviction, and his willingness to love – even through pain – the Christmas I celebrate would be very, very different.
Merry Christmas, dear readers.
