Thanks in Thanksgiving

Like my friend Aubri over here, we Olsons had a nice, relaxed Thanksgiving. It sure is a gift to learn some things over time, like: this is only one day. If the meat and at least one side is done, we'll survive. Kids like to help with special days (even if sometimes it feels like anything but help, like when they're juggling the fine china). A clean kitchen is a great joy. And a perennial favorite: eating is fuuuuun.

I also greatly benefitted from advance planning (I won't talk at length about my Wednesday meltdown which primarily involved a cranky, overtired pregnant momma who spent too much time standing and insisting on unrealistic execution. But I digress). The bread dough and pie were finished yesterday, so the sugar-high cinnamon rolls this morning were a breeze and a hoot--the kids wanted to try using cookie cutters on the dough until I explained that the cinnamon had to have a roll to make it happy. Papa dressed the turkey--the boys debated whether it should get underwear, a ski hat, or PJs to wear--as usual, which is a huge relief for me. He also cleaned and prepped and boiled the white and sweet potatoes. He's a dream, I know!

Because he did that, I could make the Schnitzel Beans (bacon, onions, green beans and other top secret ingredients), the Scalloped Corn, prep the dinner rolls from the dough, and make eggs for a late brunch. I also did two loads of laundry and put away three weeks' worth of clean clothes in our room, which was completely tangential to the meal but made me feel fan-tad-tic (look! Our dresser has a top!). Taking a shower probably helped my state of mind, too. And washing dishes by hand and running the dishwasher twice. Then I made the (box) stuffing and creamy mashed potatoes (cream cheese, check) while Papa carved the bird and made the melt-in-your-mouth sweet potatoes. Oh, and I opened up the can of cranberry sauce that Jon and the kids love.

At four we six and a half sat down to a great meal. We talked about things and people we're thankful for, in between preventing spills, reminders to use utensils, and refilling plates (you never have to ask Small Dude twice if he wants more. He invariably says "Puh-puh," or "please!"). Then I laid on the couch for an hour while Papa cleaned up. Bliss.

Yeah, the kids watched the parade this morning (fun to converse with them about it. When asked about the Rockettes' kick line, the Little Professor said, "It looks like a combine." Why, yes, yes it does. There's a deeper social analysis in that comparison, but the literal one was enjoyable enough). They played spaceship and trucks and who knows what else for much of the day. And I find myself near sleep and realizing how few thanks I gave today, how much I took for granted.

I know better. I wrote about gratitude this very week. I said prayers and read psalms and thought about God's gifts, but these are such small tokens. Like a pastor friend wrote on Facebook today, maybe that's the point--that God is pleased to receive our tiny thanks is another indication of His unsurpassable generosity to His children. We deserve nothing and get everything, and He smiles upon us when we give thanks to Him. I can and should do better, yes, in rendering thanks and praise to my Savior. Yet He forgives even my selfishness and inward focus on this day. For His great mercy I give Him my gratitude, my whispered words. And He gives again, and will so tomorrow and until the end.

Mother of a Filler Post

I began this post over two months ago, if that tells anybody what kind of priority this blog has been. It's been so long since I blogged that those of you in cyberspace might be wondering what in the Sam Hill is going on at the Olson Homestead. Not that you've lost any sleep. But your theoretical concern piques my heart, nonetheless. So here's a beginner of a filler post on what we've been doing here.

• Learning. We're heading into Week 18 of homeschooling--yes, that means we started back up in July--so we've been hip deep in larnin'. Reading? Check-check-check. Writing? Check. 'Rithmatic? Check-check. Catechism and daily prayer and bits of ancient history and science too. And Latin and piano lessons (for the Little P). Then there's tunnel-making and ball-rolling and leaf-pile-design and all kinds of free play for the littles, and all sorts of random stuff (I'm hoping the recent fascination with arachnids passes soon, because wheesh). It sounds like a lot, but it isn't. Maybe I'll explain that more thoroughly someday.

• House-selling. Well, it's not sold yet, and maybe I should have filed this under "learning." But it's been an interesting few months in a very small market. "Why are you selling your house?" you're probably wondering. Well, the short version is we'd like to both get rid of some debt with our huge equity and possibly get a bigger house before this one gets way too small. And the good news is we don't have to rush (if we sell, we can move, but we don't have to move rightthissecond). The better news is we've had five positive showings--a solid showing for this area--and springtime is a better time to sell. So we're optimistic.

• House-moving. Internally, that is. After eight years of a series of remodels and getting used to everybody sleeping on the first floor, Papa and I finally moved up by moving down to the ensuite master bedroom in the basement. With a walk-in closet and our own bathroom, I feel like I've finally reached some point of adulthood I didn't know I was missing. And it's really quiet down there! Unless Small Dude is screaming into the monitor. Pearly Girl transitioned cleanly into a big girl bed and her own room, and Superman and the Little Professor enjoy their big boy room. Yes, Papa did a three-room furniture shuffle (and repainting one room). I was awesome at giving directions, pointing, and picking up random screws. 

• Exploring regular freelance writing. Since late August, I've been given an awesome opportunity to write a weekly column for our local paper, the Star. It's been great practice for me, and the editor is amazing--constructive, insightful, encouraging in pushing me to improve. You can look up my columns here, under "Thoughts in the Heartland." 

• Kid growing. The Little Prof (6) is seriously steaming ahead in lessons (again, possibly more on that later). Superman (4.5) is looking to follow in his tracks ("I'm crazy about history!" he announced the other day). Pearly Girl (almost, almost 3) wants to do everything the boys do, and more. And Small Dude is a year old--a YEAR OLD! No walking yet, but he's crawling everywhere and starting to pull himself up on his knees (and eating random Cheerios off of the kitchen floor. Score!). We're thinking he might, just might, decide to go bipedal by Christmas, but it's actually kind of great that he's not walking or running or climbing stairs and furniture yet. Because..

• Kid growing, part V.  Yes, we have been blessed again. Olson Child will arrive in mid- to late April 2015! I'm doing much, much better in terms of energy and appetite than for a few months there in early fall, but keeping up with four kids is, for some reason, kind of time-consuming. I keep wondering why I'm so surprised by this. Like getting used to this life somehow also should mean it gets easier. It does, in some ways--few things they do surprise me--but in other ways, it's just a dump-fest--laundry, books, toys, needs. Thank goodness Someone Else is ultimately their Caretaker! This season is just that--a season. That gives me both heartache and incredible relief.

Well, that's about all I can put down for now. My pillow is calling.

Fruitfulness, Round Four

Last week, post-yard-sale and some back labor excitement, Papa picked tomatoes from the garden. This is what the counter looked like after I'd cleaned half of the take from three five-gallon buckets.

As they say up here: Uff-da.

Suffice it to say, we've had a bumper garden harvest this year. Since early August, I've been freezing green beans, sweet corn (not from our garden but from three different church members--sweet corn had a good year here, too), preparing eggplant and squash and cucumbers, and this month we've been tackling the pepper and tomato haul. Yes, it's been a lot of work. We're also very thankful the garden has borne such bounty, especially considering the late spring and the fact that we were gone for four weeks after Papa planted. So Nancy, if you're reading this and still at all concerned that your watering efforts in July went to waste, please, PLEASE fret no more. God used your efforts to great success. In fact, our tomato load last week was the fourth round of our tomato haul. The first resulted in twelve pints of hot salsa and seven quarts of tomatoes in their own juice. The second begat twelve pints of mild salsa and multiple quarts of peeled, frozen tomatoes. The third produced over twelve gallons of frozen tomatoes (see how my energy with each round diminished?). The fourth round, by sheer size alone, demanded extra effort.

So last week when I decided to make tomato sauce with all two-thirds of Papa's latest picking, I had a lot of time to think about garden harvests and familial blessings. Sitting in the kitchen, destemming and slicing up countless tomatoes for what turned out to be over ten quarts of sauce (which, if you've done this before, means roughly sixty pounds of tomatoes were involved), and wincing every time Baby decided to make his presence known (the guy's running out of room!), I pondered the mysteries of fruitfulness.

Papa's planted a garden every summer we've been here, and we've had some good years. He's rotated placement, Miracle-Gro-ed, swapped out different varieties of produce, tried different spacing. He's tried onions and radishes with little success. This year, he tweaked again, but not enough to account for the haul. Our backyard neighbors planted a few tomato plants scarcely twenty feet from our garden and didn't get a single tomato for their work. Yet we planted and basically left the little green squirts alone and now find ourselves inundated.

It's not fair, in the whole scheme of things. I'm ten months pregnant. Why all this work at this particular time? But what a silly response. I could dwell on the effort such bounty requires to preserve and sustain, but that seems beyond ungrateful. It doesn't even make sense. Gardens by their very nature are supposed to produce. And when they do, we give thanks. On the flip side, our bounty seems unfair to all the gardeners who spend this month wondering what went wrong. It would seem judicious if everyone got at least a little something for all of their gardening efforts, but sometimes it just doesn't happen. Sometimes the rabbits and birds wreak havoc. Sometimes the weather soaks or scorches. Sometimes seeds and seedlings just don't take due to soil or weeds or for causes we can never determine. Experts have spent and still spend countless hours attempting to explain why things grow and why they don't. But even finding reasons why things don't grow can't suddenly make them grow. Even having all kinds of scientific answers as to how and why life can happen can't actually create and sustain life itself.

Gardens are one thing; families and children quite another. I think of my friends and others whose arms and hearts ache with emptiness, from children desired and children taken to Jesus. Like agricultural scientists and researchers and farmers, doctors and specialists can only explain so much. This is not to diminish their God-given expertise and aid in any way. It is only to say that they are not God, and they cannot act as Life-creater. Sometimes we fool ourselves into thinking they can be, that technology or drugs or some combination of scientific theory and practice in the hands of certain people can do what only God can do. But we also see too much suffering and tragedy to believe such a lie. Seemingly healthy children die young. Healthy women are infertile. And children who should not statistically survive do. My sister and I are such exceptions. We were born over thirty years ago at  twenty-eight weeks gestation. We were given less than a ten percent chance of survival at birth, but we both did. And only God knows why. We can speculate, of course. But the truth is that we don't know. And we can only trust that God's ways are best, even when we don't know His reasons for life or for death, for fruitfulness or for barrenness.

Such may sound glib or callous, an easy write-off for unanswerable burdens that provides no comfort. Instead, it is a life-saving trust in a sea of loss and suffering. We pray a meal prayer sometimes that begins with verses from Psalm 145: The eyes of all look to You, O Lord, and You give them their food in due season. You open Your hand; You satisfy the desire of every living thing (14-15). We give thanks for the nutrients God provides us for our bodies. We acknowledge that only He can give us what we need, when we need it, be it food or health or children or any number of gifts. And ultimately, whether we like it or not, we bow to the inevitable scarcity or abundance that He provides, as He sees fit. We don't like this, because it means our efforts mean, well, nothing in the face of whether God withholds or blesses.

But we also know that His gifts are always good. His good gifts always satisfy our greatest need--that we need Him, that we are, in fact, completely helpless apart from Him. And He provides for us in multiple ways, too, just not always in the forms we desire or expect. Neighbors bring extra asparagus and apples (or get five-gallon buckets of tomatoes). Some years are corn-heavy and tomato-light. Some arms hold one child or two or many, biological or adopted, and others hold nieces or nephews or godchildren or congregational children. Regardless, we receive. And--this is a hard truth--if God ordains that we should bodily starve or bear the cross of barrenness or loss, we trust that His ways are not our ways, His care not ours. This is a terrible truth, but one on which our very lives depend. Abraham wielded a knife over his only son. Mary watched hers be pierced and nailed and suffocate and die. Both wept and ached and suffered. But none more so than He who made them to begin with, Who bore and bled and died and rose to give us life that would never end, that would never stop giving.

Our family waits and prays in these days for God to bless us with another child, who is our fourth living one. This baby has grown unseen and mostly unknown, though we cherish our time with his kicks and his hiccups, even his sunny-side up turn. God knows the days He has prepared for this little one, and we trust in His promises for us and for our child, that He will never leave us or foresake us, though we all will pass someday from this veil of tears. And so we give thanks for His mysterious bounty, in all of its forms. Bless us, O Lord, and these Your gifts, which we receive from Your bountiful goodness. Through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.

We are still here. Promise.

To the few of you who read this blog but don't see us everyday (or a few times a year, or are friends with us, particularly Papa, on Facebook), relief is finally yours: we are still here! No kidnappings, computer stealings, phone snafus, etc. Just plain old summer craziness.

In the midst of three summer trips since late May, two conferences in July, roughly three thousand miles of travel (I don't actually know how far we went, but with all of the flights and driving, that's probably pretty close), vacation recovery--including fixing an interior water leak from an exterior hose, which is almost almost ALMOST totally cleaned up!--hitting homeschooling hard (we're into Week Four), and my insane nesting drive of this month (rummage coming up in September! Oh, and six weeks out from Baby's due date!), we've been,er, busy. And, obviously, unplugged. But hopefully this is a sign that we're replugged. At least on this our blog. Thanks for hanging with us!

If only I could slip a newborn baby pic in here somewhere...

Snips and Snails*

Other than my own suffocatingly slow reflexes when it comes to blogging lately (that's a really lame excuse for an apology for my absence here), we've been moving slower here generally in the Olson household. The temperature outside finally rose above freezing, so we've been lounging and soaking up the sun outside. We've also been sleeping like rocks at night due to all the fresh air time. Last Thursday, I sprained my ankle when I missed a step. I am very thankful that I sustained only a few scrapes, bruises, and a minor sprain, and I'm already moving much faster than I was a few days ago (does sitting on the couch for hours qualify as movement? Please say yes). Baby's complied by kicking me more since Thursday than I've felt yet in this pregnancy.

Anyway, beyond some physical snail-ness (excepting Baby), we've been waiting with patience for today's prenatal ultrasound. Because we found out today that Baby...is...a....

You didn't think I'd just spit it out like that, did you? Patience, patience!

All of us went for the appointment this morning. I asked the sonographer if she would only tell us the gender if she was really sure. I explained we know some recent instances of people finding out their child's gender, only to find out on birth-day that--oops!--Baby isn't a girl but a boy. Or vice-versa. She said she only shares what she's absolutely sure of (don't they all say that?). Then she said she knew what sex our Baby is. At that point I'd been lying on the table with the gel on my belly and Baby's picture up on the monitor for about five seconds. So Papa and I were a bit surprised that she said that. Then we both thought the same thing: that must mean...

Sorry for all these ellipses! At the same time the sonographer continued with her normal measurements and picture-taking (Brain! Heart! Stomach! A-maz-ing!), and we explained to the kids what we could see. "There's Baby's face! Do you see the heart beating? Look at Baby's kicks!" Superman said, "There's the eyes!" while we looked at the brain. We obviously haven't covered any biology yet. Then he said, "It's dark in here. Can we turn up the lights?" I was laughing at all of their comments so much Baby looked like an earthquake was happening. It was awesome.

So the boys were impressed to see Baby. Pearly Girl was impressed by the swivel stool in the room. After a few minutes, Little Professor abruptly told us that he thought Baby was a boy. He's been telling us for months--months!--that Baby was a girl. Surprised, Papa and I talked to him about it for a little bit, and then he or Superman asked the sonographer what she was doing now. She said, "I'm writing that your new baby is a boy." And she did. And he is!

Did you like how I snuck that in there?

Papa and I have been thinking for awhile that Baby is a boy. To have that hunch confirmed was still surprising--I suppose the difference between thinking about winning the lottery and actually winning it. I admit I felt a momentary let-down. We'd both hoped that Pearly Girl would get a sister. But then we both got really excited. A son! A son! Three sons! The sonographer then said, "And he's not shy at all." Boy, was she right. While Pearly Girl was modest to the point of us almost not finding out that she was girl until her birthday, Baby hid nothing in that all-important department. I'll refrain from including a tell-all picture here, but suffice it to say, we saw a little, er, "snip" that told all. :)

The little man was more shy when we saw him in the 3D. But we still got a peek at his face!

When we realized Baby is a boy, we celebrated. Little Professor said he was excited. Papa and I grinned at each other and expressed our joy. Pearly Girl smiled because we all were. But Superman got upset. "I don't want a boy," he kept saying. "I want a girl." He even put his head in his little hands and leaned against the table where I lay. We had to talk to him about how much fun a little brother will be, but he was still pretty despondent. I was surprised because he's never expressed a strong opinion on the subject (while LP stuck with his "sister" guess, Superman would change his mind every day), and his dejection was unexpected. He's a thoughtful one, our S. I don't know if he saw another brother as a competitor or really wanted a little sister so Pearly Girl would have a buddy. I suspect the latter. Superman is very aware of other people and shows an acute conscientiousness for his age (asking open ended questions to adults with no prompting, for example. Then again, he also yells at his brother and pushes his sister on a regular basis). My guess is that over time, Superman will come to love having a younger brother. And before he went to bed tonight, he told us, smiling, that he was excited about his little brother. So he's recovered somewhat.

And we have, too. Every life is a gift, as we've been reminded so clearly in the last day since the tornado in Moore, Oklahoma. Whether we expect what we get or not--and truly, who actually gets exactly what they expect?--God knows what is ultimately good. We give Him thanks for His gifts of life and salvation, comfort and steadfastness, and for our Baby Son.

*The phrase "snips and snails" is taken from an old nursery rhyme entitled "What are Little Boys Made of?" So no real sneaking going on here!

Broken Bones and Celestial Skydiving

What the last few months of our lives have contained.

Have mercy on me, O God,

according to your steadfast love;

according to your abundant mercy

blot out my transgressions.

² 

Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,

    and cleanse me from my sin!

Throughout Lenten services this year, a dear friend and I sang Kenneth Kosche's lovely setting of Psalm 51. The words have rattled about in my brain and in my heart; they have settled in my bones and in my stomach and even in my womb. Miracle of miracles, God's Word worked the way He says it will. It does what it says.

 

For I know my transgressions,

and my sin is ever before me.

Against you, you only, have I sinned

    and done what is evil in your sight,

so that you may be justified in your words

    and blameless in your judgment.

⁵ 

Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity,

    and in sin did my mother conceive me.

⁶ 

Behold, you delight in truth in the inward being,

    and you teach me wisdom in the secret heart.

During one of the last pre-Lenten weeks, I suspected that we were pregnant. Ecstatic and apprehensive, I took the test, mostly because Papa told me I should (I think my unknowing, near-constant speculation might have motivated, however slightly, his insistence er, encouragement). Filling the dishwasher as I waited on the results, my hope for a child suddenly vanished, literally struck with worry--worry about costs, worry about the baby's health, worry about our family's adjustment, worry about my varicose veins in pregnancy. Yes, even that. And I felt terribly guilty. I was, too. Here my sinful heart had already rejected even the possibility of a good gift because it turned selfishly, twistedly inward. In my terrible blindness, I could not even accept a gift without suspicion or grudging.

And then the test was positive. As I fought my conflicted feelings, Papa's face lit up and the boys squealed with excitement, especially our eldest, the Little Professor. When we told him the pregnancy test was positive, we asked him if he knew what that meant. "Yes," he said without hesitation. "It means Mommy can go skydiving."

After we laughed in surprise and perplexity, he explained that Mrs. Duggar had been pregnant, and she had gone skydiving, so naturally one was connected to the other. Actually, in that old episode of 19 Kids and Counting he'd just happened to watch a few days before, she hadn't gone skydiving because she suspected she might be pregnant. But no matter. Little Professor was more right than he knew.

 

Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;

wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

Let me hear joy and gladness;

    let the bones that you have broken rejoice.

A week or so later, on Sunday, February 10, during a snowy storm day, Papa and the snow blower belt tussled, and the belt won. Papa had to have emergency surgery on two broken, mangled fingers of his left hand that night, which went well. The anesthesia won that round, too. But thankfully, we expect him to make a full (if somewhat ugly and scarred for a time) recovery.

I teased Papa after surgery that he'd have a great topic for an Ash Wednesday sermon: that we all return to dust, sometimes one little piece at a time. He smiled (what a nice guy to take my pathetic humor at such a time).  But then said, "No, I think it'll be about pride."

And, of course, he was right. We all fear our physical death, our bodily decomposition as every hour and year passes. But we also fear our spiritual death--that we mean nothing, that we will disappear into a dark, endless, terrible void when our earthly lives are over. Dust is bad in all forms, from mangled fingers to decomposed flesh to meaningless lives. Snow can appear so clean--that day, I had marveled at its cleansing power on a dead, wintry landscape. But snow only magnified spilt blood. It highlighted brokenness. Papa needed far more than snow to cover his injury. And so we need far more than a surface covering to heal our spiritual death.

As we stumbled, narcotics-laden, pain-filled, nausea-and-fatigue burdened, in the first weeks of Lent, the Psalmist's words kept coming back to me. "Let the bones that You have broken rejoice." Who would? Well, we did. We were so thankful for the excellent medical care Papa received, for the surgeon's knowledge and skill, for all the friends and relatives who supported and cared for us. In our weakness we were reminded of our complete helplessness. Christ sent people to care for us physically and emotionally. He blessed the prayers of those who prayed for us. Yet only One could bear our spiritual helplessness. It was a difficult experience for me to see my husband suffer. I know he will not live on this earth forever, and neither will I. Neither will our children. We cannot prevent their suffering or ours. But even so, joy and gladness exist. We hear it and anticipate it. And this is a mystery.

 

Hide your face from my sins,

and blot out all my iniquities.

Create in me a clean heart, O God,

    and renew a right spirit within me.

¹¹ 

Cast me not away from your presence,

    and take not your Holy Spirit from me.

¹² 

Restore to me the joy of your salvation,

    and uphold me with a willing spirit.

Then I will teach transgressors your ways,
    and sinners will return to you.

Through Lent, our circumstances kept reminding us of our true state. I could not force away the debilitating fog of early pregnancy, its physical or spiritual manifestations. My condition was light compared to many others--including Papa's!--but often I could only think of my own burdens. At one point, I naively thought, "Okay. If Jesus could fast in the desert for forty days and endure direct temptation from the devil, then I can handle another day of this." But I couldn't. I realized, again and again, my complete and utter helplessness and my utter worthlessness in the sight of God.

Thank God in His Son, Christ Jesus, Who suffered physical pain and spiritual torture for our sakes, and Who knows exactly what our sufferings are like. While we can feel chagrined or silly or downright dumb for mistakes or choices we make, feel guilty and damned for rejecting good gifts and even hating them, our fatal flaws that no doctor or midwife can ever fix plague us still more. Despair and guilt bury us, for we know we are ill with an illness that ends in the grave. But we do not suffer without any hope. For we can rest in the knowledge that Christ heals all things--from fingers to selfishness to pride to sinners--through His suffering, death, and resurrection.

Why do people skydive? For exhilaration, for excitement, I suppose. But people who do it implicitly communicate trust--trust that they will be safe, that the parachute or diver to which they're affixed will keep them from harm. And Christ, in rising from the dead, has affixed us not to a descending fate but to an ascending one. We will all suffer in this life and die, unless He first comes again. But we trust that He will uphold us, that He will not cast us away. He who has made Himself our Brother and His Father our Father names us in baptism and cleanses us. He has already won all things--for Papa (and even unto his fingers), for me, for every one of our children, even the littlest. And even as we live in uncertain, unknown worldly days, in his scarred, resurrected hands we leap, and we rest. Happy Easter.

On Marriage: Why 'Clarity and Mindfulness' Is Not Enough

So I just watched "The 20-Something Marriage Divide" on WSJ.com. The brief summary of the interview was this: "Kay Hymowitz of the Manhattan Institute asserts that women in their 20s should seek stability in marriage before childbirth. WSJ's Wendy Bounds asks why." (You can watch the entire video here.)

The fascinating study "Knot Yet: The Benefits and Costs of Delayed Marriage in America" that Hymowitz and three others co-authored came upon a startling, problematic pattern: while fewer teens are bearing children out of wedlock (a good thing), more twenty-something women are bearing children out of wedlock. And many of these women lack a college education and thus the opportunities to pursue middle- or higher-income positions. The typical pattern, as Hymowitz puts it, is that these women have a child, usually while they're cohabiting with the father, two years prior to the parents' marriage (if that even happens). Two-fifths of these relationships end in the first five years of the child's life. Then the parents typically move on to other relationships, involving the child in the myriad confusion of step-parents and step-relatives, including half-siblings, sinking the already low-income child into a hard-to-escape life of upheaval and usually poverty. Hymowitz explains that long, long, long studies of children's social, emotional, and educational development have shown that children benefit from stability, namely the stability of one father and one mother who are married to each other.

Bounds pounces on Hymowitz with series of anecdotal comment-leading-questions, from the extreme conclusion "So you're saying women should get married young and have children young, even if they don't really know the man they're marrying?" to the weirdly defensive "I have many twenty-something friends who have no desire to be married" (I'm paraphrasing quotes here). And Hymowitz has to respond with comments like, "No one would want women to get married just for the sake of getting married" and "Well, eighty percent of twenty-something women we interviewed said they'd like to be married someday." Bounds throws in a few comments about how families now are varied and ultimately makes a common, relativistic statement about American families, insinuating that no one can judge any non-one married father and mother family as problematic in any way. Hymowitz didn't get to respond to Bounds' last comment.

While all of this speaks indirectly to the topics so prevalent at the moment (SCOTUS, anyone?), I was first riveted by how intent Bounds seemed upon criticizing the Knot Yet conclusions. She didn't realize that so many of her anecdotal comments inherently excluded the very population that the study authors noticed, namely, the non-college-educated "Middle America" woman.  Bounds' responses weren't unique, I don't think; she seemed to be saying what any successful, educated, urban American woman would have said in response to Hymowitz's comments. I sensed that Bounds chafed at the criticism inherent in the study's conclusions, mostly because they showed how when people choose to have sex out of wedlock and a child results, the child inevitably suffers from the parents' choices. Even though the study stayed pretty far away from criticizing well-educated, middle- to upper-income women and parents--even going so far as to saying the later marriage age for college grads has helped women--the sting hits close. No woman wants to think that her choices, particularly her sexual choices, can be negative in any way. Even if the consequences of her choices, like children, are hypothetical. She knows, deep down, that children are a natural result of sex, and any criticism of her non-marital coitus is ultimately a judgment on her.

Our culture is idiotic when it comes to children. We hold up children as possessions, thinking we can trash them when they don't fit our lives or that we can manufacture them the way we manufacture toothbrushes when we want them. And any reminders that children result from a very basic, yet very mysterious biological union apart from our controlled circumstances--from faulty contraception to even perfectly-executed but failed fertility treatments--just remind us all the more powerfully that children are a gift. But we don't want to believe that. We want to believe that we can decide and choose in what instances children can be borne and raised, and then we believe that we can decide and choose that whatever instances in which children result we can deem good and successful (and immune from criticism). We have distanced sex and marriage so far from childbearing that we honestly get really confused and riled up when real people connect the three. And it's particularly difficult when the real people are children, stuck in real, chaotic, hybrid family situations. We typically ignore marriage altogether in those situations. Even Hymowitz, specifically studying marriage, could only retreat to a hollow definition of how a young woman should approach marriage if she's "serious" about having children: she should use "clarity and mindfulness" when considering and entering into marriage and think of her future child's best interests first. And who knows what a young man should be thinking.

And isn't that the problem? People cohabit for many reasons, and I'd venture a guess that precious few of them have "seriousness about my future child" or "my future child's best interest" as one or either of them, let alone words like "clarity and mindfulness" as they apply to potential children. People want sex. They want lower rent or mortgages. They want companionship without legal hurdles. They want to do what they want to do without getting "serious," which is a lazy way of saying they want to have a relationship their way, without sacrifice. Of course children in these situations would get the raw end; they're unwelcome, uninvited intruders to inherently selfish lifestyles. Parenting and sacrifice go hand in hand, and if parents of a child have never committed to sacrifice to, for, and with each other in the life-long bond of marriage, itself an institution about sacrifice and submission, their child will certainly be the one that does the sacrificing--socially, emotionally, educationally, you name it.

Where does a child fit in this picture?

The original descriptor of the interview, "20-somethings should seek stability in marriage before childbirth," only begs the question "why?" when we think marriage is ultimately and only about two people. Otherwise, the study's conclusion seem so obvious as to be ridiculous: one plus one equals three, not two. Even most of the conversations about same-sex marriage seem to miss this point. People get that marriage is important, perhaps even sacred (whatever that means to you). People even get that marriage as an ideal concept is a relationship to be desired, notwithstanding Bounds' friends. But marriage is about two people, a man and a woman, bonded together in the only relationship known in human history to be the most consistent, healthy way for children to live. Once people pretend that marriage is wholly separated from childbearing (and homosexual couples by default contend this), child-rearing, and child-maturing (even adult children of recently married septuagenarian parents are affected, after all), then of course marriage can mean whatever two emotional people want to make it. 

Any close reading of my comments here obviously indicts heterosexual couples who are married but who adopt the me-centered view of marriage. Even a couple biologically designed to enter into marriage can and--news flash!--does mess it up. So where does that leave us?  

Marriage requires philia and eros. Even more, it requires agape, the kind of love that foregoes self and unconditionally forgives. Of all groups, Christians best understand marriage because we see and confess how Christ loved us first. By recognizing our sin and our need for forgiveness, and by repenting and receiving Christ's forgiveness, we can connect Christ's love for His church to marriage. He loves us and forgives us, and then we can love and forgive each other, particularly our spouse and any children we receive. Vague, even well-intentioned clarity and mindfulness about marriage, and pragmatic choices and emotional decisions, aren't enough to make or define or sustain marriage. Sacrifice and forgiveness between husband and wife, and Christ received by both over and over and over again, are.  

Jobs and Labor

I've been dying to write a post with this title. It's stuffed with multiple meanings, which I'll get to, of course! But I just had to have my little post-title-party first. Thanks for your patience.

So right after our dear daughter C appeared last month, my husband's requested copy of Walter Issacson's new bio on Steve Jobs arrived at our local library. Being the good wife that I am, I immediately confiscated it for breastfeeding company. It might seem like weird reading for an immediately postpartum mama, but then again, practically all texts are, other than psalms of thanksgiving (in my humble opinion).

Here's what I learned from Issacson's portrait of Jobs:

1) Software is the stuff that goes INSIDE computers; hardware is the stuff on the OUTSIDE. (Try not to choke from laughing too hard, dear readers.)
2) The existential battle between closed and open theories of computer design is fascinating with all of its concomitant connections with art, business, and even religion.
3) Control freakiness can produce mixed-bag leadership that leads to freakishly successful products; it also can illuminate deeply rooted insecurity, resulting in constant, ongoing quests for perfection (physical and spiritual).

In sum: Steve Jobs was an extremely interesting, intimidating, often downright cruel man who knew how to win people brilliantly when he needed them and who did not know how to turn outside himself for any Truth.

All this is to say two things. First, I'd recommend the book -- it's a great insight into our culture, and particularly into the prevailing mindset of the Baby Boom generation, all loped around the person of Jobs (who, if you didn't already know, was raised a Lutheran. Once he hit teenage skepticism, he jettisoned whatever he'd learned about the church in favor of generally Buddhist mysticism, coupled with LSD usage.). Second, what I learned about Steve Jobs made me hope that I never, ever forget what laboring a child into the world is like.

Let me explain, with this caveat to women who haven't been through natural labor: I'm being honest here, which might otherwise just sound like I'm trying to scare you. I'm not. I believe in natural labor and hope all moms get the chance to experience it, if only for the great effects on your child (and because most natural labors mean Baby and Mom are blessedly healthy).

Just a little ways in--because we're both still smiling. Seven hours after this I was assuredly NOT smiling.

Anyway, unlike many mamas, I experienced a very smooth, relatively easy induced labor with P, our firstborn -- that's to say that he and I both experienced zero complications (other than he didn't have much amniotic fluid cushion, hence the induction) and, more significantly here, I generally felt that I was in control all the way through labor. I had one breakthrough moment of anguish, in which I thought, "I can't do this!" and the Holy Spirit instantly reminded me that I didn't have to. Jesus already completed all thing for me on the cross. And as glib as that sounds here, that gave me enough comfort to know that He would take care of me even all the way through labor and delivery, which He did.

In contrast, S was a roller-coaster ride: multiple trips to the hospital and midwife in the week prior to his delivery, lots of go-no-go, culminating in a 45-minute ride through dark, rain, and construction to the hospital, where S was born less than an hour later. I screamed in agony quite a bit during the last bit, and a nurse at some point leaned over and said, "Try to stop yelling. You're going to lose your voice." Which is an awesome thing to say to a woman who's nine centimeters dilated. The first concern she's going to have is the state of her vocal cords. But I digress. Anyway, that experience shook me, mainly because I realized that I couldn't control my reaction, I couldn't control the pain, and I couldn't control the fear that overtook me. This was very humbling.

And all this played into how I approached C's birth. Thank God in all of His mercy that He answered my prayer not to have a repeat wannabe-Nascar-race experience and we spent almost my entire labor and delivery in the comfort of the hospital--with our unbelievably wonderful midwife on call! These two facts sustained me heartily through the first hours of labor. (That and, erm, the humongous hamburger and french fries I inhaled five hours into labor.)

"Yeah... Room 0521 here. I'll take a hamburger--extra grease, please."

But the last two hours were, like with S, difficult. Labor is funny. No, not that kind of funny; funny in that it progresses, and you reach a point where you think, "Wow, that really hurt." And some small part of you is yelling, "You can't do this! You can't DOOOOOOOOOOO this!" But the voice is from far off, like through a tunnel; you visualize the bike riding up the hill or whatever and breathe and count through the contraction; the contraction ends, and you go from feeling like you've been kicked to feeling like a Rock Star. I made it through that contraction! Take that, Whoever It Is I'm Talking To In My Head. And then, the contractions get stronger and they get harder and the pain gets worse. Repeat cycle. Until you can't really think anymore, let alone congratulate yourself. The crux is whether you get to that point late enough in the game where you can see the finish line or you can't.

This is what I mean: I had the benefit during C's coming into the world of my terrific, terrific husband's presence and encouragement and Midwife's wonderfulness. But labor progressed the way it does, and for me that meant that for the last hour or so, I felt like I was running a marathon that would never end. Literally never end. Good thoughts would flit through: All pain is temporary! Remember what you get at the end! All pain is temporary! Remember what you get at the end! "When a woman is giving birth, she has sorrow because her hour has come, but when she has delivered the baby, she no longer remembers the anguish, for joy that a human being has been born into the world!" (John 16:21, exclamation point mine).

This was before the really, really hard part. This was the hard part that precedes it. Because otherwise I wouldn't have given Papa permission to take this picture.

But every time a good thought would appear, I would instantly reject it. I would deny it. Truly, I found myself thinking--no, actually praying--that God would end it. That He would actually cause a complication so I'd have to be surgically split open so it would all be over. That He would end my life so I didn't have to suffer anymore. And even as I prayed this, I was horrified--horrified that I actually desired my daughter to have a problem just so I could not be in pain, horrified that I wanted to die and I was asking God to grant my prayer.

This experience, more than anything else in my life thus far, showed me that I am dust, and to dust I shall return. My horrible thoughts during labor only proved what I supposedly already knew: that I'm a sinner. I AM sin. I'm sick all the way to the core. And though this is the truth, I trick myself every day into thinking that I basically have it together. With one thought I "know" my wretched sinfulness and with the next I'm congratulating myself on my supreme humility in acknowledging that sinfulness. In fact, that happened during my first labor. But with C, all I could see and feel was the black pit of suffering and my complete--absolutely complete--inability to handle it. I was at the bottom, and I could do nothing to save myself.

And, incredibly, Christ saved me--again. He bore with me just as He bore all of my sins on the cross. He felt every kick (for C kicked hard all the way through labor), winced at every beginning contraction, gasped and sputtered for air with every grunt and push. He placed Himself upon me, my husband, my midwife, and even beautiful C. And He still does. This is what I never want to forget, now that I'm way past those few--because they are actually few--moments. This is what Steve Jobs never acknowledged, at least in time for the book's publication: that our incarnate God died for us because we could never do what He required--perfection.

So Jesus did the job for me in labor. He does it every day, every minute, every second. Which is beyond great--because this life involves a lot more than labor.

And He gave us a daughter, too. Richness on top of pricelessness.

So. Long. Yet So Short.

We're entering the final turn of pregnancy with Baby Girl. I can honestly say we've prepared the nursery (pink sheet and all), though all of our Christmas decorations are stacked neatly in it just now because the plan is to decorate the house come Friday. I say "the plan" because, of course, all that could change in the next few days, tomorrow, even in a few hours.

It's a weirdly unsettling feeling, knowing that our lives are about to change momentously as we move through our daily schedules. We get up in the morning, I work a few hours, Papa takes care of breakfast with the boys and dresses them--yes, he is priceless!--he heads off to church/visits/Bible Study, we do whatever is on The List for the day, mixed with reading stories, doing puzzles, listening to music (St. Paul's Children's Choir, The Civil War soundtrack, any number of Wee Sing albums), making a tent house out of the kitchen chairs because I need to clean the floor and this is a great way to keep the boys corralled.  Voluntarily, of course. We eat lunch (lately, peanut butter on whole grain, pretzels, pick your fruit, and milk. And maybe Halloween candy for dessert). We nap. We play/work again until Papa comes home. We eat supper, do baths, read stories, do a shortened version of "Close of the Day" from LSB (I almost wrote TLH... old habits. :)), the little boys go to sleep and Papa and I finish projects and/or take a bath to relieve our my aching back. We sleep.

It's remarkably simple, even mundane. But no day is alike, and I never know when P is going to look over at me suddenly and say, "Ya know, Mama...I like ya." Or S is going to tell me in his half-jabber, half-articulate wording that he's got "Duncan on choo-choo tacks." Or they're going to make up a game involving their fold-out Thomas the Tank Engine, climbing in and out of its doors, all the while laughing hysterically and saying "Stinky fish!" I really, really can't make this up.

And while all of this is going on, the unpredictable predictability, the bags are packed (finally), just sitting and waiting; the kind people who have volunteered to step in when The Big Time Comes have (mostly) all been called; the must-have-dones feel mostly done. And I'm feeling pitch and roll, pitch and roll. Occasional muscle spasms, breathlessness, even some Braxton-Hicks that sure don't feel fake. P's been saying the last few days, evidently when I get a certain look on my face, "Mommy, it's hard for you to bend over, isn't it?" I told him that once, about a week ago. And he knows.

But he really doesn't know, and neither do we. Nothing--not even going through this twice before--can prepare us for the change, for suddenly holding a new life in the midst of ours, for adapting to the sleeplessness and the chaos that comes with such upheaval. If it sounds intimidating, it is; if it sounds impossible and something to be avoided, it isn't at all. Everything right now just feels so... normal. Except we look at the clock, and rewrite the to-do list, and wait.

Quite timely, then, that the reading on Sunday, the last Sunday of the church year, was from Matthew 25. The parable of the ten virgins used to strike me as an incomprehensible lesson in selfishness condoned; that was when I was about ten and didn't get that parables, like allegories, represent something other than what they tell. I just thought those wise five virgins were really stingy. But it's kind of like being pregnant and waiting for labor; no one else can take on that experience. I couldn't at the last moment say, "Hey, BF, got a little extra physical strength and fortitude you can spare?" Encouragement, yes; actual bearing, no. It just doesn't work that way. And there's Jesus: "Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour." So true. SO true.

And in the meantime, as we wait--for Baby Girl, and for Christ--life can feel so long. So incredibly, painfully long. And yet so short. We blink, and the time is here. We turn, and it's over. And I try to remember this, as I one minute wish This Could All Be Over and the next wish for a Little Bit More Time. I guess that's what this is. And, come to think of it, it's a good thing He knows when all this will happen and I don't. That way our waiting is a blessing, as we live, and sometimes groan, and sometimes relish, all that is immediately before us.

Slowly Joining the Weird

Ha.

 Birth control: these words provoke instant controversy. With yesterday's news about the Duggar family's twentieth pregnancy swimming around in my head, and with Baby Three's birth fast approaching, this CSPP throwback caught my attention:


Concordian Sisters of Perpetual Parturition: Probing the Sulvan brain


{I know: the blog is linked to the right and you could always browse its awesome archives yourselves. But sometimes its little gems are so very timely (recent news, conversation, thoughts, etcetera) that I just can't resist posting them here. So, to those who have the time to read about the weirdness that has to do with birth control, here you go.}


Rebekah provides some background about her own pre-marital thoughts about birth control which I found interesting, not least because so much of her thinking reflected how I thought and behaved pre- and early-marriage. We've learned so much even in the last years about what birth control does, specifically what it can do to early conceived children. In fact, it's not so recent: I remember a relative telling me she stopped taking birth control in the early 80s because she found out that birth control pills are abortifacents; that is, they can potentially cause early, early after-conception abortions.

Even knowing this, I used birth control in the form of the Patch the first months after our marriage. For, like Rebekah, I wanted to go to school forever and have some kind of career and just enjoy marriage for "awhile" before kids. But both Papa and I realized pretty quickly that artificially preventing the possibility of children--especially when side affects such as those mentioned above were involved--wasn't what marriage was intended for. I can't even say that we had this realization due to some great theological or intellectual break-through. I truly think God blessed us with the mutual knowledge, over time, that "be fruitful and multiply" is a blessing, not something to be avoided like the mumps. 

And even now, I want to emphasize that we're not Quiverfull followers, believing unequivocally that "the more, the better" should be every family's philosophy when it comes to children. There's far too many people we know who can't conceive and who also have been blessed with overwhelming numbers to make us fall into that ditch. Plus, we're just too Lutheran: Papa always says that if someone tells you you HAVE to do something to please God, do the opposite. He says it much more lovingly and better-theologically worded than that, but it applies here. We're not Mormons, believing that we've got some heavenly obligation to procreate (and, honestly, I wouldn't want my own planet after death that's populated with just my family. Love all you folks dearly, but... :)). Nor are we Pietists, believing that by our works--even begetting children--we are saved. And frankly, it just seems stupid to me that any of us--and that includes me and Papa at times, still--make the mistake so frequently, as Rebekah so aptly put it, of thinking that "wanting is the only language of reproduction." People say, "Do you want more kids?" like they're talking about buying apples. But that's our culture and how we think. Children are consumer-friendly objects, not gifts. And people can't help talking and thinking that way, because we've been surrounded with this kind of objectification of sex and choices and, thus, family size for at least fifty years.

So that's my long way of saying that we're slowly embracing the weirdness. I won't--and honestly can't--say what our family will look like in five years, because (see above!) ultimately only God decides whether or not to gift people with children. We're just eternally thankful that whether or not He does, He's already given all of us--the many-peopled families, the barren couples, the singles--Himself. And that gift is the weirdest one of all.

Insomnia. Conquered?

Ah, the sweet bliss of baby sleep. P at nine weeks here.

So I woke up this morning at three. This is a regular occurrence for me in the last month. I'm not sure what the nocturnal significance of three bells past midnight is (I shudder to think of Scrooge's third visitor, who comes "in his own good time," but who has to--chronologically thinking--show up after two but before dawn, right?), but, for whatever reason, that's what it is. Most times I visit a man about a horse (thanks to Papa for that line), return to my wonderful pillows, and zonk out for a few more Z's. But not today.

So I just worked my Saturday flex hours, and I feel--accomplished. At least if I go back to sleep now I won't worry about how to cram in two hours of tutoring later in the day, which is already full of plans (clean the house for the Open House, clean the house for the Open House, clean the house for the Open House. Oh, and clothe, feed, and take care of the boys while doing that. Okay, NOW you know why I couldn't go back to sleep).

I've made the mistake too often in wee hour sleeplessness to twaddle away time. Bible reading doesn't count; that's never a waste. But surfing blogs for hours? Reading anything but the Word (weeeeell, the intro to The Book of Concord was okay, I think)? I always uneasily succumbed to slumber after such activities, wondering if I could have been doing something useful. And knowing that later I'd be so exhausted that my insomnia would inflict double-pain: I'd lose precious daylight hours to accomplish anything, especially following a normal routine for P and S. (Amazing how Mommy's sleep patterns affect kids!)

So now I'm blogging and thinking I should return to bed before the magic hour of six, when--I suspect--little boys will be rising. Because toddlers (or infants, or newborns, or even teenagers, given the circumstances) know no rising-hours difference between weekday and weekend, Friday or Sunday, vacation or at home. And this is good. At least their sleep patterns are predictable. Mostly.

Giving Thanks for Life.

I've been struggling for a few weeks to deal with some thrice-removed stresses--that is, things that bother me that 97% of the time don't directly affect me or my family's daily life but which still matter to me because they deal with people that matter to me. I know worrying is wrong. Yet I've spent far too much time turning thoughts and comments and incidents over and over in my head, trying to understand them and, in a weirdly existential-cum-physical way, fix them by understanding them.

Then God smacked me with reality and perspective.

A dear, dear friend called last Wednesday. This friend and I have shared countless joys together--college achievements, engagements, marriages, the births of our children. One particularly poignant joy we have had is to share pregnancies--we've been pregnant at the same time with our kids. She just shared with me about a month ago that they were expecting again, so we'd be pregnant together again for the third time. We've joked that perhaps we'll actually hit the same due date someday.

My friend called to tell me that she and her husband lost their third child to miscarriage.

She told me she thought about waiting a day to tell me since we were planning a visit for Thursday. Our visit turned out to be vastly different than what both of us had anticipated--shared joy at being together, shared sorrow at the loss they suffer. And in the midst of our friends' incredible grief, they showed us how to give thanks for life.


Thursday night, my friend's husband led us in prayer. He began by reading Psalm 51. When he reached "in sin did my mother conceive me," his voice broke. Then he prayed with thanks for what God has given us and what He has taken away. And his simple petition reminded me that we are so thankful for all of life, from the long and full-lived to the short and not-yet-visibly lived. We do not see how God will use our friends' precious child's life to His glory. But He loves that child more than we can ever comprehend. And He loves our friends, and their broken spirits, more than we can ever comprehend.

My friend has been blessed with a vocation outside the home in which she serves others. And in the midst of her shock and wordless tears, she was able to see and articulate how God will use their loss for others' gain in her vocation--that she will now be able to better understand and empathize with women she sees and visits with who have also lost children to miscarriage. She essentially was giving thanks for her child's all-too-brief life, for that life will bless her with deeply insightful care for others that she otherwise wouldn't be able to provide.

God is mysterious. His ways are not our ways; His work in our broken world is hidden from us. And we can't even begin to understand or fix our brokenness. So the greatest mystery of all is that He gave His Son's life for ours so that none of us--our spouses, our children both born and unborn--would die. He has numbered the hairs of our heads and all of our days. He loves us with an everlasting love.

Have mercy on me, O God,
   according to your steadfast love;
according to your abundant mercy
   blot out my transgressions.
² Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,
   and cleanse me from my sin!
 ³ For I know my transgressions,
   and my sin is ever before me.
⁴ Against you, you only, have I sinned
   and done what is evil in your sight,
so that you may be justified in your words
   and blameless in your judgment.
⁵ Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity,
   and in sin did my mother conceive me.
⁶ Behold, you delight in truth in the inward being,
   and you teach me wisdom in the secret heart.
 ⁷ Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
   wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
⁸ Let me hear joy and gladness;
   let the bones that you have broken rejoice.
⁹ Hide your face from my sins,
   and blot out all my iniquities.
¹⁰ Create in me a clean heart, O God,
   and renew a right spirit within me.
¹¹ Cast me not away from your presence,
   and take not your Holy Spirit from me.
¹² Restore to me the joy of your salvation,
   and uphold me with a willing spirit.
 ¹³ Then I will teach transgressors your ways,
   and sinners will return to you.
¹⁴ Deliver me from bloodguiltiness, O God,
   O God of my salvation,
   and my tongue will sing aloud of your righteousness.
¹⁵ O Lord, open my lips,
   and my mouth will declare your praise.
¹⁶ For you will not delight in sacrifice, or I would give it;
   you will not be pleased with a burnt offering.
¹⁷ The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit;
   a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.
 ¹⁸ Do good to Zion in your good pleasure;
    build up the walls of Jerusalem;
¹⁹ then will you delight in right sacrifices,
   in burnt offerings and whole burnt offerings;
   then bulls will be offered on your altar.

                                                                        ~Psalm 51

HOW many kids did you say?

Thanks to Rebekah for her post "Six" on a blog I read frequently (see CSPPon the right). It's short, so I'm shamelessly reprinting the entire thing here.

Here is how I understand family size (with the caveat that among Christians who have given no indication to the contrary, I am so mired in my own reality as to consider non-contraception to be the default practice. Terribly naive of me, I know, though I mean for it to be charitable):

1=small (may indicate fertility problems)

2=Normal! Way to go!

3=trying for a boy or girl, or a "mistake"

4-5=bigger than normal (indicates mild or moderate parental zaniness, or twins)

But six is where it gets serious. Six kids doesn't happen by accident. Six kids is beyond zany. Six is full-on crazy. Six kids very likely means a weird vehicle. Six is Big.

Six is also where some people (not all) seem to begin considering themselves major parenting experts and get real annoying. I promise I'll try not to do that. (It would be hard to come off as a parenting expert when my oldest kid is eight, anyway--lots of critical stages still not even touched.)

I think six will have some advantages, though. No odd box of raisins left to fossilize in the cabinet. That's been a huge problem with five.

I don't know about you, but fossilized raisins are definitely my motivation for having more kids.  :)

C'mon! What more reason--raisin?--do you need?

I've been ruminating lately on the differing attitudes between people on "appropriate" numbers of children. It never ceases to surprise me when I hear people ask about non-relatives' reproductive intentions. Pregnancy just seems to bring out the tell-all in people, doesn't it?

That aside, I think most people probably accept the norms they're surrounded with. My great-grandparents were in the "crazy" category; several of them had ten and twelve siblings. My grandparents were in much smaller families, either from family disruption or fertility problems or the Depression or any number of things, even a combination. My paternal grandparents were only children. My maternal grandparents had two other siblings (three total). That being said, my dad has three siblings, my mom has four; my father-in-law was an only child, and my mother-in-law has two sisters. Maybe the slightly higher numbers of kids in my small example reflect the post-WWII boom. Who knows?

My parents had three (twins first--that's me and my sister) and then my brother; my in-laws had two (Papa and his sister). In my very unofficial opinion, I think these numbers probably reflect the norm for the times. Of all the hundreds of kids I knew growing up, I only knew a handful who came from families with more than three kids. I was always fascinated by families with four kids or more. As I've gotten older, I've noticed that most of those families that have more kids are mixed; that is, the parents were married before and their children aren't biologically related. Maybe that phenomenon partly fuels the fascination of families with more than three biological children. One mom! One dad! Many babies! (+ a little reproductive technology) = Perfect Recipe for Reality Show Success!  

In our rural area, people in my generation seem to be having, on average, three or four biological kids. In fact, I read in a recent novel that "four is the new two" with kids. I don't know if this is true, but it seems to be, at least with those younger-ish people I know who are old enough to have been married and procreated quatro times. At any rate, there's several people in our congregation who came from or have had families of six, eight, nine, twelve children. When there's a lot of examples of "big" families around, it doesn't seem so weird to have more than three.

No one's asked us--yet--if we're "planning" on having more kids. I'm thinking that day is coming...soon. Especially because now we know we're expecting a girl.

But doesn't a girl need a sister? :)