Sex, Lies, and Motherhood

By Bindu Adai-Mathew

The light, fresh smell of baby powder in the pastel-colored nusery…the sound of a sweet melodic lullaby playing while rocking my baby to sleep in a rocking chair while she gurgles and cooes…days spent gazing in wonder at my most perfect gift from God…

 (now imagine the sound of a record being scratched!)

 Yep, I was NOT one of those women! And I mean that with all respect! I was not one of those women who had sweet, ideal, but let’s face it, basically delusions in my head about what having and raising a baby would be like!  People like my friends who every time they saw a baby would respond “Oooh, I want one!” while I would just smile tremblingly and fearfully and shake my head while responding with “Yeah, they’re cute now, but they’re a lot of work!  A lot.” 

 I knew the truth. After all, I had a sister who was 12 years younger than me. A sister who made her sudden appearance just as I was about to enter wonderful puberty and adolescence. A sister who appeared just as I quit caring that I no longer had a built-in playmate at home…after spending years, 11 years in fact, begging for a younger sibling, my parents indulged me (or so they say…).

 No, I definitely knew the truth. The truth that babies don’t just coo and gurgle all day. That they cry. A lot. For no reason. Or for no reason that you can determine after trying everything under the sun from changing diapers to feeding them. I knew that every time you left with a baby, it was like going on an overseas trip. You had to think of every scenario and pack for every thing. Diapers. Wipes. Changing pad. Diaper Rash cream. Bottle. Spare bottle. Spare formula. Water for the formula. Pacifier. Clothes. Spare clothes. And sometimes even another set of spare clothes. Whew!  As they get older, it gets more complicated. In addition to everything I just mentioned, you also had to pack snacks and toys, and if they’re sick….oh, boy…the list can go on and on…

 No, I definitely knew that babies, as cute and as beautiful as they are…they are a lot of work. A lot. And I warned my friends who didn’t have the benefit of my experience. But did they listen to me? Of course not! Most of them still wanted one! And after they got married…a year or two later, they would each call me with the “wonderful news.” Can you believe that? After everything I told them! And then they would call me and tell me how hard it was. I, being the good friend, I am would listen patiently and encourage them that they could do it while in my head I would be thinking, “Tsk, tsk tsk, didn’t I warn you?”

 No, I knew.

 So eventually, I, too, went on to get married. (sigh). Evenings spent making dinner together and cleaning up together…then hours spent cuddled on the couch while watching a chick flick. Having hot romance novel kind of sex. Every day.

Yep, I was one of those women! Unfortunately, while I had no delusions about children, I definitely had many, many delusions about marriage and what that would be like. But that’s another blog.

 So after I got married and survived the first year of marriage, I started getting hounded by my parents, by my relatives about having kids. The first year it started happening, I would get exasperated and exclaim, “We just got married! Why are you always rushing me! I at least want to be married two years before I can think of kids!” 

 Then the second year came and left, and then I would smile and say, “We’re just not ready yet. Two years went by so fast…I just want to enjoy marriage.” 

 Then the third year came, and my twelve years younger sister started asking me about kids, and I would look at her incredulously and ask, “Do you have any idea how much work you were as a baby and a kid? Oh, you don’t, huh? Well I DO!  YOU are the reason I am waiting until my last egg can be fertilized before I can consider having a kid!” 

 Then my fourth year came and went, and while my parents remained silent and just give me their saddest, most forlorn puppy dog eyes, my relatives would not hold back: When are you going to have a kid? What are you waiting for? You’re getting old…who is going to take care of you when you’re old? I would look downcast and shrug my shoulders and say, “It’s not up to me…it’s up to God.” And then they would look uncomfortably at each other and then sympathetically at me and gently pat me on the shoulder, “Don’t worry, Bindu-mol…it will happen. We’ll pray for you.” 

 Hey, don’t judge me. It’s not my fault that they jumped to the conclusion that I was trying but nothing was happening! I did what I had to do to get them off my back! After all, I knew! Besides, for all of their well-meaning intentions, where would they be for those 3 am feedings? Yeah. Exactly. See…I knew.

 But the fifth year came…and finally I had to ask myself…why aren’t I having kids? Sure, it’ll be a lot of work. But heck, my parents did it. My friends are doing it. I can do it. It’ll be a lot of work, but at least I will not be surprised that it’ll be a lot of work. I will be prepared. After all, I know.

 So on October 14, 2009, beautiful Ava Marianna Mathew was born into the world! The first two nights, it was something unlike anything I had imagined! To my surprise, motherhood was just like the storybooks. The fresh, light smell of baby powder…the baby soft skin that I couldn’t stop touching. The unbelievable feeling of wonder every time I looked at this tiny, tiny baby whom I had talked to endlessly while she had been in my stomach for 9 months. It was perfect.

I found myself energetically getting up when she cried in the middle of the night. I found myself not feeling tired although I had just given birth hours before. I was amazed. This wasn’t as bad as I thought!  I had been wrong about motherhood!

My mom arrived my last day at the hospital, just in time to help us transition to home. She watched Ava at nights, so I could catch up on sleep. She bathed Ava. She completely took care of Ava.

So what was I doing, you ask?  Well, thank you for asking. I nursed. Or at least I tried to. I tried to nurse a crying baby who didn’t want my over-sized breasts. My oversized Triple XXX boobs that should have easily been overflowing with milk and honey. Ava would suckle for two seconds and didn’t get what she wanted and then screamed. Loudly. Very loudly. So I gave up trying to directly nurse her and went for the breast pump. I secluded myself in my master bedroom, attached these suction cups to my sore boobs and awkwardly waited for the tiniest drop of milk. And waited. And waited. I would glance around the room, looking for something to focus on while trying to ignore that awkward, uncomfortable tug of the suction cup around my nipple. Until I caught my reflection in my dresser mirror. My hair was a tangled mess, sticking out in every frizzy way possible. I was sitting in my pjs, still looking 5 months pregnant (which is only cute when you really are five months pregnant), with these futuristic gadgets attached to my boobs. I not only felt like a cow. I not only looked like a cow.  I was a cow. Not one of those metaphorical, low-self-esteem feelings of cow-dom. But an official, true-to-life cow. Being milked for every bit of nutrition that my body could officially produce. A cow. A real, real cow.

To be continued…

Reflecting on That Thing We Call “Luck”

By Bindu Adai-Mathew

Just like September 11, 2001 or the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated (November 22, 1963), most of us probably have a good idea of what we were doing on October 3, 1995. The exact date may not initially ring a bell, but most of us probably remember where we were when we heard the following announcement:

“…In the matter of People of the State of California versus Orenthal James Simpson, case number BA097211. We, the jury, in the above-entitled action, find the Defendant, Orenthal James Simpson, not guilty of the crime of murder in violation of penal code section 187(A)…”

 I was at work, my first real job fresh out of college, and the director of our corporate communications department had turned on the bulbous television set that was nestled in the corner ceiling of her office while the rest of her team gathered around under it, each of us holding our breath as we listened with bated anticipation.

 After the verdict was read, I blinked my eyes reflexively in disbelief at the television screen. Surely I hadn’t heard correctly. I jerked my head towards my co-workers, but the stunned expressions on each of my co-workers faces, combined with the gasping, the shaking of heads in dismay, confirmed what I still couldn’t seem to fathom: OJ had actually somehow managed to get away with murder even though everyone (except those in denial of course) knew he did it.

For years later, any time OJ’s name came up, someone would invariably shake their head in disappointment and mumble the words we had all at one point thought: “He got away with it…I can’t believe he got away with it…”

 If any of us were asked what we thought of OJ and his ability to be acquitted despite the mountain of DNA evidence against him, our response would probably be:  “He is the luckiest (add your own noun or expletive) I’ve ever seen!”

Flashforward to the year 2008. And OJ has been accused of burglary and kidnapping…and sentenced to 33 years in prison, 9 years of which he has to serve before he could be considered for parole.

 Irony?  Perhaps.

 Justice?  Maybe for us…but certainly not for Nicole’s family or to Ron Goldman’s.

 If asked, “Is he still ‘lucky?’” Most of us would reply with a snicker, “Not anymore!” Some might add, “His luck finally ran out on him…” 

 Christians may argue that luck is just another word for what we call grace (unmerited favor) or even God’s mercy….or perhaps just a form of deferred punishment.  It’s easy to think of that definition in terms of most of our lives…but what about that unrepentant soul who has, at least on the surface, no interest in God or anything spiritual? And what about those people who despite all their cheating, lying, bad behavior, who somehow manage to escape God’s swift Hand of Judgment and not only manage to do well, but dangit, they prosper!

 It’s times like that when there seems to be no other word to describe a person or situation that we just can’t help but label them “lucky,” and it’s also then when I’m typically also a little green with envy as I look at my own life and wonder what I lack that I don’t seem to have the same good fortune.

Some people just seem to be born with luck…sometimes it seems they have an invisible magnet that attracts attention, success, and/or money.  It’s a quality that seems to help them prevail despite all odds and despite all their bad choices. Even in their downward spiral, they still manage to garner some weird sort of triumph.

 Case in point…Charlie Sheen.

Yeah. Exactly!

He’s all in the headlines, and you cannot watch one television station without his name coming up. Since he was in his 20s, Charlie’s behavior has been deemed extreme by even the most liberal in Hollywood and he has endured many shaking of heads in disapproval. Yet, despite it all, he somehow continually manages, time and time again, to land on his feet and not only do well, but dangit, prosper

 He’s the highest paid actor for a sitcom in which he, in my opinion, doesn’t even have to really act. I saw a recent episode of Two and a Half Men to see what all the fuss was about. The show featured his character as a playboy and in that episode, his character was sleeping with prostitutes and had a ménage a trios…all in one episode. I felt like I was watching a biography of his life on E!’s True Hollywood Story. So basically he was getting $2+ million an episode on Two and a Half Men for being himself…

Granted, in Charlie’s case, I am talking about “luck” in terms of money.  But he does seem “lucky” in that sense, especially in comparison to the rest of us who often spend up to 10 hours a day, working at a job that we’re half-hearted about, as we try to make ends meet. Somehow even in his manic/drug-induced/whatever-you-think-it-is state of mind, he has garnered so much attention for himself…he is talking and people are listening. In 24 hours of opening a twitter account, he managed to set a record amount of approximately 1 million followers.

Undoubtedly, Charlie has some serious problems (mental, emotional, and no doubt spiritual), but on the surface, he does seem to be…as he himself proclaims…WINNING!  (Sorry, I couldn’t resist!)

But it’s not just the Charlies and OJs of the world that seem to have varying degrees of luck. We all have known or observed people, who, like them, seem to have the ever inexplicable qualities of “luck.”

For the rest of us who struggle daily in life and can’t help but wonder where our dose of luck is, I point you to the scriptures, where even thousands of years ago, people, too, struggled with how undeserving/evil/wicked people seemed to just prosper in the wake of their evil deeds:

Psalm 73

A psalm of Asaph.

1Surely God is good to Israel,

to those who are pure in heart.

2But as for me, my feet had almost slipped;

I had nearly lost my foothold.

3For I envied the arrogant

when I saw the prosperity of the wicked.

4They have no struggles;

their bodies are healthy and strong.a

5They are free from the burdens common to man;

they are not plagued by human ills.

6Therefore pride is their necklace;

they clothe themselves with violence.

7From their callous hearts comes iniquityb;

the evil conceits of their minds know no limits.

8They scoff, and speak with malice;

in their arrogance they threaten oppression.

9Their mouths lay claim to heaven,

and their tongues take possession of the earth.

10Therefore their people turn to them

and drink up waters in abundance.c

11They say, “How can God know?

Does the Most High have knowledge?”

12This is what the wicked are like—

always carefree, they increase in wealth.

13Surely in vain have I kept my heart pure;

in vain have I washed my hands in innocence.

14All day long I have been plagued;

I have been punished every morning.

15If I had said, “I will speak thus,”

I would have betrayed your children.

16When I tried to understand all this,

it was oppressive to me

17till I entered the sanctuary of God;

then I understood their final destiny.

18Surely you place them on slippery ground;

you cast them down to ruin.

19How suddenly are they destroyed,

completely swept away by terrors!

20As a dream when one awakes,

so when you arise, O Lord,

you will despise them as fantasies.

21When my heart was grieved

and my spirit embittered,

22I was senseless and ignorant;

I was a brute beast before you.

23Yet I am always with you;

you hold me by my right hand.

24You guide me with your counsel,

and afterward you will take me into glory.

25Whom have I in heaven but you?

And earth has nothing I desire besides you.

26My flesh and my heart may fail,

but God is the strength of my heart

and my portion forever.

27Those who are far from you will perish;

you destroy all who are unfaithful to you.

28But as for me, it is good to be near God.

I have made the Sovereign Lord my refuge;

I will tell of all your deeds.

Amongst all the insane coverage on Sheen, I saw an old clip from an interview with him almost 10 years ago. In it, he’s lucid and talking about how early success, fame, and money, although it was what he craved and what all Hollywood celebrities strive for, are ultimately what led to his addictions and bad behavior.

As I listened to the interview, I realized that I, too, was lucky, but just completely in the opposite way of Charlie.

I’m lucky to have had old fashion, overbearing, unhip, uncool parents who didn’t given into my every whim and expected nothing less from me than the best…

I’m lucky to have had to struggle and work hard for each one of my successes so I don’t take them for granted and waste them away as if they were my inherent right rather than the unmistakable sign of God’s goodness…

I’m lucky that I have a husband whom I occasionally want to strangle because he frustrates and challenges me, inevitably forcing me to become a better wife, mother, and person.

 And most of all, I’m lucky to have a God who hasn’t given me so much “luck” in life that I have to discover a life here on this earth or an eternity without knowing Him…

 So when the green-eyed monster rears its ugly head and you find yourself envying someone who is undeservedly “lucky,” remember, that maybe you’re not as lucky in the same exact way…but you are loved by a God who keeps you 100% dependent on Him…and in the end, maybe that’s what makes you truly “lucky” after all…

 

. . . Until I See Him Again

By AbbyA

Loss. We lose days as time passes. We lose time as days pass. Sometimes we lose our children from our view in the park – – even if just for a minute. Sometimes we lose our minds – – even if just for a minute. We lose pocket books and wallets. We lose keys and credit cards. Socks in the dryer. We lose innocence in maturity. Idealism in reality. Sometimes we lose sight. Sometimes we lose our way. But we never lose our faith.

I lost my dad in the cold of winter last year. My sweet dad with grey-blue eyes. He walked right into eternity before my eyes. The stepping into eternity was not a surprise to me. It was the sickness and dying that was not part of my understanding. I walked the hospital halls. I pet the big white horse of dog that came to comfort those on my dad’s floor. I listened to my dad talk for a while and then go back to rest. I watched my dad acknowledge doctors and visitors and drink juice and ice. Not knowing it at the time, I watched my dad see my children for the last time. I understood that my dad was coming home from the hospital for the last time. It is by His grace that we are saved and by His grace that our spirits enter into His presence. But it was very hard for me to find His grace in the physical act of dying.

My dad did not find it hard to find His grace in his sickness and dying. He believed – for real – that his God would never leave or forsake him. He believed in things like communion with God, honoring His commandments and sharing truths with love. He didn’t change in his dying. He simply became stronger in the spirit until eternal home and ultimate healing called him. And because of faith, my dad walked out of our earthly exit door and into His grace. Most assuredly, the painful experience of dying was erased as he walked through God’s front entrance and into the foyer of His joy.

Unlike the worthwhile pain of childbirth, death leaves you without a new life to distract you. Looking into sunsets and bright stars in the night resonate unreachable loss. The beating of the heart on the inside begs for just a little more time, a rewind. A go back. Inconsolable prayers asking God for the impossible. For a time, there is no room for healing. The pouring out of pain has to reach its end.

Our loving God gives us room to grieve. He whispers in places that were not complete even before the loss. He writes in fullness where there were pieces missing. He sings in perfection where there was lack. His handling of our humanness is a grand marker of His Godliness.

As He gently points me toward His plan, I find gratitude for the loss. Not for the loss of my dad. For God’s divine wisdom to allow temporary loss. It is in loss that we grow exponentially. Somehow the earthly losses cause us to gain in the spirit. Somehow the spiritual gain covers over the earthly loss. The covering does not extinguish the pain. It opens up the door to light in darkness. The covering is a shadow of the promise of eternity.

Through loss, God deepens our spiritual perception so that we can see what is just beyond the sunsets and bright stars in the night. He makes us aware that the beating of the heart on the inside is also beating for what is to come on the other side. I see my dad experiencing heaven. It is beautiful enough for me to receive God’s plan that brought him home too early and too young. My view gives me almost enough of my dad to settle my wish that he was here with me. I ponder that God planned it that way.

If I can grasp His wisdom, I may see that He pours Himself into my heart so that I desire to see Him in His fullness. The pouring out is a sort of introduction for seeing Him face to face. The pouring out sustains me and overflows me, but it doesn’t quench the cry in my heart for eternity. Isn’t it the same with our losses? His love sustains the loss, but His eternal promises sing us home. Until I see my dad again. Until I see my Heavenly Father face to face. I can be confident that anything lost will be found.

Love to the Mama

By AbbyA

Love to the Mama

Her children’s names, God, Friends

Music to the Mama’s Ears

Je t’ aime maman, Good Food, Nice Mom

Mama’s Worst Moments

No time to take care of the way I look and knowing that I need to lose 20 pounds but can’t stop stuffing my face with food.

Not doing something the right way when you knew when you did it the wrong way that you were taking a short cut.

Screaming for no good reason.

Advice for the Mama

Be Filled by What Lifts You Up.

Listen When the Good Music Plays.

Forgive Yourself for Something.

Choose a Book about Someone You Admire and Read it.

Think About What You Have Been Given to Do and Do That.

Love Never Fails.

Loving Yourself When You Don’t Feel Beautiful

image

By JMathis

Ecclesiastes 3:11 (New Living Translation ©2007)

“Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end.”

I don’t feel beautiful when I have my period.

In fact, I find myself feeling downright unlovable during this time. Plus, I’m not exuding that much love towards others during my “ladies’ days”, as all this self-loathing makes me grouchy and surly towards anyone who crosses my path that week (yeah, I admit—not my greatest WWJD moments). Every cycle just seems doomed to present itself to me in exactly the same way:

1)      “Huh??? My period is here?” (This is despite the fact that I am as regular and consistent as the rising and setting of the sun each day.)

2)      “What is on my face, and why is it growing a pair of eyes?”

3)      “To heck with my diet. Find Ben and Jerry and get them here—STAT!”

It is at this point that I feverishly calculate on my abacus-like fingers if my weekend plans to drink Bloody Marys will be ruined by the arrival of, well, Bloody Mary, herself.   

While New Agers would love to see menses as a time of cleansing, rejuvenation and meditation, it’s very hard for me to focus on all of that hooey when my jeans won’t zip up that week. Frankly, loving myself is just not on the menu during my period, especially when my face is covered in acne-fighting gunk and chocolate syrup goop (cut to pity-party scene from Bridget Jones’s Diary, where Renée Zelwegger is singing “All By Myself”…Don’t Want to be…All by Myyyy…Self…Anyyyy…morrrre!!!”)

Yet, without fail, the day after my period is done, there is an extra spring in my step (translation: doing the Running Man in front of my bathroom mirror) and a special song in my heart (“Oh yeah, Destiny’s Child!! Gimme some of that Independent Women!!”). The cramps and road rage from three days before are just a distant memory. I find that I’m in love again…with myself. (“Hey, baby, you come here often? Why yes, I live here–remember??”)

Bring on the weekend!! I feel beautiful once more! The birds are chirping, the sun is shining and I’m ready to embrace the world with open arms!



Now, why can’t I just feel this way all the time?

I guess I’m just one of those ingrates who will never fully appreciate menstruation as an expression of God’s brilliance in masterfully crafting a woman’s body for the role of procreation. In fact, I will always have some choice words for Eve around the same time every month (suffice it to say, *love* is not one of those four-letter words I scream at her).

However, when life starts beating me down, when my love for all of my quirkiness turns into disappointment over all of my failures, and when everyday starts feeling like another day “on the rag”, it is then that I must remember that God loves me madly and passionately, and that I am fearfully and wonderfully made in His image. According to Psalms 139:14, everything that God makes is breathtaking. So, guess what? That makes me beautiful, even when I don’t feel beautiful and no one else thinks I’m beautiful. That makes me lovely, even when I don’t feel loved and no one else thinks I’m loveable.

This year, I have to learn to love myself—without criticism, without judgment. This is the year that I choose to see myself the way God sees me, and to love myself the way God loves me. I just have to trust that God’s redeeming love makes all things beautiful in their time. Even me.

Prayer: Lord, I have no idea what you’re about to do in my life this year, but I trust You and I love You beyond measure. Help me not to second-guess Your ways when my world starts falling apart all around me. I know that You are transforming me into something beautiful, even when I don’t feel loveable. Make me beautiful and help me to accept Your all-encompassing love for me. Make my words beautiful so that I can love others around me; make my paths beautiful and let my steps be adorned with Your love; make my life beautiful so that Your love shines through me and brightens the darkness that surrounds me. Make me beautiful like You, Lord. Make me lovely like You.