Monday, December 18, 2006
Casket-Sleeping, Elf Costumes and my Granny Gown
OK so I went to this cute little shop in my neck of the woods called “So Cool” which is where my paintings are sold. Yes, I paint. Fun, whimsical art. And while I was there I ran into a neighbor who said she spent two hours reading my journal online b/c she thought it was so funny. And I’m like, well dang! If I had known I was that funny I would have been writing every day! So Mrs. Monk, this one’s for you…and by the way, your new hairdo is fabulous…
So do any of you have issues with getting your husband to do what you want him to do? I’ve been trying to figure out the gift of reverse psychology lately, wondering if I get a little twist on my basic manipulative strategies, maybe my daughter’s nursery will finally get finished. You see, we had the wild notion, don’t ask me why, that our child would stay in our room for the first year b/c she is breastfeeding and you know the whole attachment-parenting thing. Uh. BIG MISTAKE. Hello. Not gonna’. And I begged my husband to help me get the nursery done like my 2nd trimester and here we are, with a six month old, still working on that ding-donged dad-blamed flip-flarned room. Not to mention the fact that I kept the FULL BED for our master bedroom b/c I was so darn STUBBORN, HEAVEN-BENT on keeping this old, rickety 100-year-old antique iron bed, and you know, apparently nobody was FAT back then, because WHO CAN SLEEP IN A FULL BED NOWADAYS WITH A MAN THAT SNORES AND YOUR BABY THAT COMES TO NURSE EVERY TWO COTTON-PICKIN’ HOURS?? It’s like rollin’ over in a casket. Somebody HELP me. I don’t mean to lament, I mean I am seriously grateful for our sweet and humble abode. But come on people, what was I thinking?
In other news…my friend Sally came over this week and took pictures of the baby at our house. What a friend—she traipses down here with all her gear and this time showed up with a doggie-elf costume, and what do you know, it fit Miss Bebe just perfectly. Check her out. Is she not the cutest thing you have ever seen in your life or am I biased?
AND. I bought a granny-gown today. Yep. A granny-gown. I’m talking the full-blown flannel long funky gown with the cotton lace and the whole nine yards. OK, maybe not nine yards, I hope not nine yards. And I’m talkin’ Granny knew what she was doin’ cause I’m as warm as toast. They’re on sale at TJ right now for 16.99 so go on down there cause I’m startin’ a revolution. Before you know it, Granny gowns are going to be the rage and Miss Victoria will be out of business…
Other than that, I’m just enjoying my neighbor’s reindeers and trying to catch up on some housework and reading…. I hope you are all enjoying the traffic and all of the tinsel and the fifteen renditions of Here Comes Santa Claus. I’m thinking about decorating my pink flamengos with Santa hats. What do you think?
So do any of you have issues with getting your husband to do what you want him to do? I’ve been trying to figure out the gift of reverse psychology lately, wondering if I get a little twist on my basic manipulative strategies, maybe my daughter’s nursery will finally get finished. You see, we had the wild notion, don’t ask me why, that our child would stay in our room for the first year b/c she is breastfeeding and you know the whole attachment-parenting thing. Uh. BIG MISTAKE. Hello. Not gonna’. And I begged my husband to help me get the nursery done like my 2nd trimester and here we are, with a six month old, still working on that ding-donged dad-blamed flip-flarned room. Not to mention the fact that I kept the FULL BED for our master bedroom b/c I was so darn STUBBORN, HEAVEN-BENT on keeping this old, rickety 100-year-old antique iron bed, and you know, apparently nobody was FAT back then, because WHO CAN SLEEP IN A FULL BED NOWADAYS WITH A MAN THAT SNORES AND YOUR BABY THAT COMES TO NURSE EVERY TWO COTTON-PICKIN’ HOURS?? It’s like rollin’ over in a casket. Somebody HELP me. I don’t mean to lament, I mean I am seriously grateful for our sweet and humble abode. But come on people, what was I thinking?
In other news…my friend Sally came over this week and took pictures of the baby at our house. What a friend—she traipses down here with all her gear and this time showed up with a doggie-elf costume, and what do you know, it fit Miss Bebe just perfectly. Check her out. Is she not the cutest thing you have ever seen in your life or am I biased?
AND. I bought a granny-gown today. Yep. A granny-gown. I’m talking the full-blown flannel long funky gown with the cotton lace and the whole nine yards. OK, maybe not nine yards, I hope not nine yards. And I’m talkin’ Granny knew what she was doin’ cause I’m as warm as toast. They’re on sale at TJ right now for 16.99 so go on down there cause I’m startin’ a revolution. Before you know it, Granny gowns are going to be the rage and Miss Victoria will be out of business…
Other than that, I’m just enjoying my neighbor’s reindeers and trying to catch up on some housework and reading…. I hope you are all enjoying the traffic and all of the tinsel and the fifteen renditions of Here Comes Santa Claus. I’m thinking about decorating my pink flamengos with Santa hats. What do you think?
Big Girl
I’m a big girl now. All my life I have kind of thought of myself as the “little sister”, the “Oh, would she please grow up” type, but now I am officially a grown-up, and I think I like my new mom shoes. Speaking of shoes, I wore my favorite worn-out garage sale cork sandals to the opening of “How To Eat Fried Worms”, starring Luke Benward, the son of my roommate from college oh-too-many-years ago. He was fantastic, please go see it. My husband took it upon himself to give the boy a standing ovation, the only one to stand up at the end of the movie, he kept clapping incessantly until everybody got the hint. He says because a little voice told him to because he regrets not doing it the last time he heard that little voice at a low budget wedding he attended by some aquaintences of his and he has regret it ever since because nobody stood up for the bride and he wishes now he had and here was his chance to remedy the situation and of course I was thinking, “Ok, so now you decide to lead.”
Bebe is wonderful, except right now she looks like scarface because she keeps scratching herself in the night. I finally got some of those pitiful mittens that make her look like her hands are missing, but it is helping, hopefully, and we are enjoying her coos and goos and her poopy diapers that have changed from pumpkin spice to scary green. This past Sunday she was dedicated at my sweet little church, my little unglamorous 40-person meetin’ house in the middle of entertainmentville. It is such an anomaly because it is the most unprofessional church on the block and I Love It. Grandma Barbara and two other ladies sang “The Old Rugged Cross” beautifully out of tune and I cried with tears of joy. It was almost like I was in Dirtville, Idaho. Praise to whom all blessings flow. Other than that, I am just the passy slave and I have officially lost the battle to Fisher-Price. It seems I spend half my day saying “Where’s the passy? Where’s the passy?” and tripping over bright-colored plastic things I swore I would never let in my house. Well, those days are over.
I’m off to speak/sing for a womens’ retreat this weekend. We’re starting to book me for womens’ retreats and concerts so please spread the word of love and I’ll come out and be a blessing, and be on my best behavior, I promise.
Thank you all for supporting me. I am really glad to be doing this kind of work. It seems it is what I am made for.
Bebe is wonderful, except right now she looks like scarface because she keeps scratching herself in the night. I finally got some of those pitiful mittens that make her look like her hands are missing, but it is helping, hopefully, and we are enjoying her coos and goos and her poopy diapers that have changed from pumpkin spice to scary green. This past Sunday she was dedicated at my sweet little church, my little unglamorous 40-person meetin’ house in the middle of entertainmentville. It is such an anomaly because it is the most unprofessional church on the block and I Love It. Grandma Barbara and two other ladies sang “The Old Rugged Cross” beautifully out of tune and I cried with tears of joy. It was almost like I was in Dirtville, Idaho. Praise to whom all blessings flow. Other than that, I am just the passy slave and I have officially lost the battle to Fisher-Price. It seems I spend half my day saying “Where’s the passy? Where’s the passy?” and tripping over bright-colored plastic things I swore I would never let in my house. Well, those days are over.
I’m off to speak/sing for a womens’ retreat this weekend. We’re starting to book me for womens’ retreats and concerts so please spread the word of love and I’ll come out and be a blessing, and be on my best behavior, I promise.
Thank you all for supporting me. I am really glad to be doing this kind of work. It seems it is what I am made for.
The Valvoline
OK so I got my first public breastfeeding experience at the Valvoline. Yeah, the Valvoline. It was way time to get an oil change, like ten thousand miles, yeah I know it’s better for the engine to do it every three but I honestly hadn’t looked at that little sticker in the upper left hand corner of the windshield in months, not sure how many months, obviously because ten thousand miles went by. Anyways, so it was a million degrees last week here in Tennessee and I was sweating bullets, and my daughter who is now all of four weeks old, was also sweating bullets. She was starting to give me that look like, “I’m getting ready to blow. Feed me now, or I am going to blow.” And God knows I didn’t want her blowing at the Valvoline, plus I’m a pretty nice person and I generally do not condone the starving of children, so I decided to take her inside the little lobby inside the Valvoline, you know with the linoleum flooring, the ugly black and chrome chairs, the funky car magazines and Ellen Degeneres on T.V. So I sit down, and I get out this really handy thingamajig called a BeBeAuLait which is basically a glorified apron that you hang around your neck and it has this underwire contraption at the top so that you can look down and see your child, but no one else can see you. So I get her all comfy and ready to go and this burly, non-shaved, 60-some-odd year old construction worker of a dude decides to start telling me every joke he has ever heard on the planet. And then he decided to rant on about how much he loves children and how I should really enjoy these years because man do they fly by and all about his oldest daughter who is living in South America as a missionary and how she’s not planning on settling down anytime soon, no sir, because she wants to see the world.
And all I could think of was, “Okay, I’m sitting in the Valvoline, my child is slurping like a banshee, and this old guy is trying to pretend he isn’t totally uncomfortable with the fact that there is a small child breastfeeding in his presence, although I am completely covered (to the pride of my Mennonite-at-heart husband) and that he has taken it upon himself at this very moment to pass down all of his various bits and sundries of knowledge and wisdom on this new mother who gives a crap. And at that very moment, on the Ellen Degeneres show appears the something dolls, the voo-doo dolls, the pussy-cat dolls, something vile like that, and out they storm with their thighs and their leather and their pursed lips doin’ the MilliVanilli while they seduce every man in America and about that time the Valvoline boy tells me where the remote is if I would like to change it and I said yes I would and thank God Mr. Rogers Neighborhood was on and the little train was just getting ready to come around the corner. Whoo, saved by the train.
All that to say, motherhood is wonderful. I am fully embracing it and I am taking care of myself in the process, which is nice to admit. My husband is awful helpful and he just got me a double barrel electric on top of all that.
So. I’m not sure where June went. I don’t remember June. June doesn’t remember me. But I’m planning on writing June and asking June how June was because it’s all a blur to me. Other that that, I’m just trying to figure out what day it is, where the passy went, the “passafrasser” my husband calls it, and how to take a bath once a day.
So how are you? Please write and tell me because I am home most days wondering.
Good morning July…
And all I could think of was, “Okay, I’m sitting in the Valvoline, my child is slurping like a banshee, and this old guy is trying to pretend he isn’t totally uncomfortable with the fact that there is a small child breastfeeding in his presence, although I am completely covered (to the pride of my Mennonite-at-heart husband) and that he has taken it upon himself at this very moment to pass down all of his various bits and sundries of knowledge and wisdom on this new mother who gives a crap. And at that very moment, on the Ellen Degeneres show appears the something dolls, the voo-doo dolls, the pussy-cat dolls, something vile like that, and out they storm with their thighs and their leather and their pursed lips doin’ the MilliVanilli while they seduce every man in America and about that time the Valvoline boy tells me where the remote is if I would like to change it and I said yes I would and thank God Mr. Rogers Neighborhood was on and the little train was just getting ready to come around the corner. Whoo, saved by the train.
All that to say, motherhood is wonderful. I am fully embracing it and I am taking care of myself in the process, which is nice to admit. My husband is awful helpful and he just got me a double barrel electric on top of all that.
So. I’m not sure where June went. I don’t remember June. June doesn’t remember me. But I’m planning on writing June and asking June how June was because it’s all a blur to me. Other that that, I’m just trying to figure out what day it is, where the passy went, the “passafrasser” my husband calls it, and how to take a bath once a day.
So how are you? Please write and tell me because I am home most days wondering.
Good morning July…
54 Hour Labor and Not Even an Aspirin People
“I have a whole new appreciation for the cross”…were the first words that came out of my mouth after birthing the most beautiful child in the world, in my eyes of course. My first thoughts as she was lovingly placed on my breast were “Now how did I end up with an African-American child?” That was before my midwife explained to me that her dark purple color and smooshed nose would soon turn pink and perk up in a matter of minutes.
Fifty-four hours is a long time to be in labor. I mean for cryin’ out loud isn’t that like two marathons? I think of Jesus because on his way down Calvary he never asked for an epidural, or valium, or even a shot of tequila for that matter. I’m not sure why I decided to go totally natural, and a home birth at that, other than I really hate hospitals. They need to open those windows and let some of that sick air out and some fresh air in. And come on people can’t we decorate a little? So drab. And I really don’t like being told what to do, like ever, so the thought of having strangers in charge of how I birth my child was kind of out of the question. I guess I’m a little right of center. Or is that left of center.
They say I’ll forget all the pain. I say I don’t forget that easy but man it was worth it. Even if my cankles still haven’t gone away and I feel frumpy and granny-like, kind of like Mama on that show back in the 80’s, what was that show called? You know the one with Carol Burnett and whats-her-name…
This birth has been such a time of healing between my mother and I. We have had more quality time together the past five days than in years combined. Not to mention there’s something pretty intimate about attending someone’s birth, especially the birth of your very own grandchild.
So Rebekah in the Bible was the grandmother of the twelve tribes of Israel. I love that. Well I just love grandmothers in general. I miss mine. She would have loved to sit and rock this wee one.
I have officially “entered the sisterhood” my friend Evangeline tells me. The motherhood tribe of women who can just look at each other a certain way and there is a certain knowing, a bond, an unspoken thing. Glad to have so many sisters.
My husband looks at me different, and he cries when he thinks about what I went through to get this small child here in this world. Thank God we breathed together through the whole thing, and now I have a charm bracelet with a heart that says May 31st, 2006 with Rebekah Lee “BeBe” on the other side, a gift from my better half. Good man. A real good man.
My heart is a bigger container today. So is my cervix but that is a whole other story. For those of you who prayed for me, thank you from the bottom of my heart. In the meantime, I have a little miracle to tend to.
Fifty-four hours is a long time to be in labor. I mean for cryin’ out loud isn’t that like two marathons? I think of Jesus because on his way down Calvary he never asked for an epidural, or valium, or even a shot of tequila for that matter. I’m not sure why I decided to go totally natural, and a home birth at that, other than I really hate hospitals. They need to open those windows and let some of that sick air out and some fresh air in. And come on people can’t we decorate a little? So drab. And I really don’t like being told what to do, like ever, so the thought of having strangers in charge of how I birth my child was kind of out of the question. I guess I’m a little right of center. Or is that left of center.
They say I’ll forget all the pain. I say I don’t forget that easy but man it was worth it. Even if my cankles still haven’t gone away and I feel frumpy and granny-like, kind of like Mama on that show back in the 80’s, what was that show called? You know the one with Carol Burnett and whats-her-name…
This birth has been such a time of healing between my mother and I. We have had more quality time together the past five days than in years combined. Not to mention there’s something pretty intimate about attending someone’s birth, especially the birth of your very own grandchild.
So Rebekah in the Bible was the grandmother of the twelve tribes of Israel. I love that. Well I just love grandmothers in general. I miss mine. She would have loved to sit and rock this wee one.
I have officially “entered the sisterhood” my friend Evangeline tells me. The motherhood tribe of women who can just look at each other a certain way and there is a certain knowing, a bond, an unspoken thing. Glad to have so many sisters.
My husband looks at me different, and he cries when he thinks about what I went through to get this small child here in this world. Thank God we breathed together through the whole thing, and now I have a charm bracelet with a heart that says May 31st, 2006 with Rebekah Lee “BeBe” on the other side, a gift from my better half. Good man. A real good man.
My heart is a bigger container today. So is my cervix but that is a whole other story. For those of you who prayed for me, thank you from the bottom of my heart. In the meantime, I have a little miracle to tend to.
Keeping It Positive
My back hurts. Really bad. I’m due in four weeks. It’s getting’ kinda hard. I made a permanent indention on my side of the bed and when we turned over the mattress, I made another indention. We’re havin’ the baby at home. Yep with a midwife. Ron’s freaking out. He says he’s not, but he is. I know, I’m his wife. We went garage saling and well actually Ron went garage saling when I was out of town and called me to tell me that he found some onesies. I bet the ladies there thought that was hilarious, my husband going through boxes of baby clothes to find the onesies. My father in law is in town. He’s helping around the house. I’m a cleaning fool. Not sure what has come over me but I have completely cleaned out my pantries, laundry room, drawers, desk, under the beds, organized closets, the whole nine yards. I planted a garden with my mom and niece on Tuesday. That was fun. I dug the holes and Mallory planted the plants and when we got tired Mom took over. She’s good at that. I have successfully, so far, prevented Fisher Price from taking over my house. But I will be updating you on that fact, b/c I have a feeling that you become a mom and you just don’t care anymore. I have a baby shower at my house Saturday. My sweet friends are in charge, I’m just hosting the location so I don’t have to haul it all home…I will already be home. You know the whole home thing. That’s where I am most of the time these days, home. Kind of funny because I never wanted to be home much as a kid, but now I have my own house and my own husband and my own car and life and pregnant body and now I want to be home a whole, whole lot. I am eating ice like my life is dependent on it. Midwife says my iron is low. That’s not all that’s low. We won’t go there. My garden makes me happy. We had maids come and clean my house b/c my back can’t take it, and that makes me REAL happy. Thinkin’ about getting one last pregnancy massage before the big day and that makes me happy too. The Japanese people really like my music, they’re buying CD’s left and right, and that makes me happy. We got a new puppy, he’s a golden retriever and he makes me happy too. So we won’t talk about swollen feet and ankles and cankles and butt pain and insomnia and breakouts and moods swings today ok? Let’s just keep it positive. Amen.
Jesus Feet
Today I received a quote from a precious woman who speaks at women’s’ retreats and conferences whom I had the privilege of meeting a month or so ago at an event. I’m putting together promotional materials for my booking person to send out for me to do women’s’ events and she was so kind to send me this.
“Stacy Jagger led me to the feet of Jesus with her own transparent worshipping heart. From the beginning to the end of our retreat it was apparent that Stacy's artistry was intended only to lead us to the true Song of our hearts.”
--Sharon Hersh, speaker, author, counselor
So I started thinking about the feet of Jesus, and just wondering what his feet might have looked like. Were they good feet? Funky feet? Pretty feet? Dirty feet? Did he go barefoot a lot? How many pairs of sandals did he go through while he was here? Did he make his own sandals or did someone make them for him? Did they resemble Berkenstocks in any way? Did any of his toes twist and turn like mine do? Did he ever, ever consider the possibility of a pedicure? Did hair grow on the tops of his feet or just his toes? How many miles a day did he walk? Did he ever have a bunion? Or a wart? Or really bad calluses that peel off after they get all dead and big and yucca? How did he clip his toenails? Did they have clippers back then or did they just rip ‘em off? Any ingrown toenails? Did anybody ever give him a foot massage? Reflexology? Did he sleep with socks? Or did he prefer to sleep with his feet hangin’ out the bottom of the covers? Were his toenails thick? Or thin?
When they say we are now the feet of Jesus and we get to do the things he would have liked to have done had he stayed here on earth for 2000 years, does that mean that all of our funky, pretty, callused feet get to go where He would like us to? Like the prisons? The orphanages? The old folks home? How about our neighbors’ house to mow their lawn when they didn’t ask, or the grocery store to encourage a clerk who is pregnant and tired on her poor little Jesus feet.
When I look at my feet I don’t think of Jesus. But I am starting to wonder if I should. Instead of thinking of what color toenail polish would go well with my sandals this spring, I wonder if I could just forgo the pedicure and take my Jesus feet down to the orphanage that is less than a mile from my house, a house full of young women forgotten, right in my back yard. I wonder if they would like me and if they like to sing. And I wonder by writing this if I am getting myself some accountability of taking my Jesus feet somewhere important, somewhere that will matter, other than under my sheets. Not to put myself under a guilt trip or anything, but I am keenly aware in my 8th month of pregnancy of how self-centered my little Jesus feet have been. Me, me, me I exclaim. But wasn’t it Jesus that said if we lose our life we will find it? Truth is the me me life is boring and unfulfilling and ridiculous. I’m ready to experience something other than my four walls and the paved ditch I drive each day to do the same thing over and over and over again, like a rat in a cage, not realizing all the while that the cage door is open and I am free to peek around the corner and see what else is out there in this great big world. And my sweet little non-pedicured Jesus feet will take me there, if only I will listen and ask for the next right step, and take it.
“Stacy Jagger led me to the feet of Jesus with her own transparent worshipping heart. From the beginning to the end of our retreat it was apparent that Stacy's artistry was intended only to lead us to the true Song of our hearts.”
--Sharon Hersh, speaker, author, counselor
So I started thinking about the feet of Jesus, and just wondering what his feet might have looked like. Were they good feet? Funky feet? Pretty feet? Dirty feet? Did he go barefoot a lot? How many pairs of sandals did he go through while he was here? Did he make his own sandals or did someone make them for him? Did they resemble Berkenstocks in any way? Did any of his toes twist and turn like mine do? Did he ever, ever consider the possibility of a pedicure? Did hair grow on the tops of his feet or just his toes? How many miles a day did he walk? Did he ever have a bunion? Or a wart? Or really bad calluses that peel off after they get all dead and big and yucca? How did he clip his toenails? Did they have clippers back then or did they just rip ‘em off? Any ingrown toenails? Did anybody ever give him a foot massage? Reflexology? Did he sleep with socks? Or did he prefer to sleep with his feet hangin’ out the bottom of the covers? Were his toenails thick? Or thin?
When they say we are now the feet of Jesus and we get to do the things he would have liked to have done had he stayed here on earth for 2000 years, does that mean that all of our funky, pretty, callused feet get to go where He would like us to? Like the prisons? The orphanages? The old folks home? How about our neighbors’ house to mow their lawn when they didn’t ask, or the grocery store to encourage a clerk who is pregnant and tired on her poor little Jesus feet.
When I look at my feet I don’t think of Jesus. But I am starting to wonder if I should. Instead of thinking of what color toenail polish would go well with my sandals this spring, I wonder if I could just forgo the pedicure and take my Jesus feet down to the orphanage that is less than a mile from my house, a house full of young women forgotten, right in my back yard. I wonder if they would like me and if they like to sing. And I wonder by writing this if I am getting myself some accountability of taking my Jesus feet somewhere important, somewhere that will matter, other than under my sheets. Not to put myself under a guilt trip or anything, but I am keenly aware in my 8th month of pregnancy of how self-centered my little Jesus feet have been. Me, me, me I exclaim. But wasn’t it Jesus that said if we lose our life we will find it? Truth is the me me life is boring and unfulfilling and ridiculous. I’m ready to experience something other than my four walls and the paved ditch I drive each day to do the same thing over and over and over again, like a rat in a cage, not realizing all the while that the cage door is open and I am free to peek around the corner and see what else is out there in this great big world. And my sweet little non-pedicured Jesus feet will take me there, if only I will listen and ask for the next right step, and take it.
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