Crop rotation
In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve not been writing very much. It’s true in every aspect and outlet of my life—not just this blog. I haven’t journaled or even written in Natalie’s baby book. Neither have I freelanced as much as I assumed I would at this point in my life/career.
Until I e-mailed a friend about God revealing the seeds of a future direction in our lives, I had been having a difficult time understanding the nature of change in my life. How could I just stop writing? I’ve been writing for so many years. The seed analogy planted a seed of its own: Perhaps this stoppage of writing can best be explained as crop rotation of my talents.
At the time I wrote to my friend, I’d been wrestling with being in a place where my endeavors seemed rather insignificant—shallow, even—in comparison to what I had previously been employed to do and what I aspire to do one day. At the same time, I have to remember that I’m doing the most significant job anyone can hope to do: raising a child. I know there’s much more inspiration and aspiration growing inside me, and now is the season to give my writing a rest.
When that thought occurred to me a couple of months ago, I was intrigued and briefly researched the definition of crop rotation and fallow (when I searched Wikipedia for the latter, it directed me to the former).
From Wikipedia:
“Crop rotation or crop sequencing is the practice of growing a series of dissimilar types of crops in the same space in sequential seasons for various benefits such as to avoid the build up of pathogens and pests that often occurs when one species is continuously cropped. Crop rotation also seeks to balance the fertility demands of various crops to avoid excessive depletion of soil nutrients. ... Crop rotation can also improve soil structure and fertility by alternating deep-rooted and shallow-rooted plants.”
There we have it. Dissimilar types of crops (writing and crafting) in the same space (me/my time) in sequential seasons (four years of college education focused on journalism and six years as a journalist giving way to time at home raising Natalie and nurturing inspiration in a different way) ...
I’m not sure about the build up of pathogens and pests specifically—cynicism, ego, selfish ambition were certainly pesky weeds that I had to uproot often, but they can be found in just about any field.
Balance—I was happy to see that word in the Wikipedia entry. I feel balanced right now with regard to creative outlets, something I’ve always needed. I’m excited to express myself visually not only through making greeting cards and other craft projects, but through photographing Natalie and our adventures as parents. If a photo is really worth a thousand words, then I’ve actually been quite a prolific writer… But I digress.
Coming to the crop-rotation realization felt good—it makes sense and gives me hope and ultimately frees me to enjoy what I’m doing right now.
Reflections on a weird normal day
I felt kind of strange all day yesterday. I was physically exhausted from too many days without naps, but I was mentally energized and eager to go shopping.
I don’t love “shopping” in the normal female recreational sense of the word (meaning, I don’t like spending hours in clothing stores trying on expensive outfits and maxing out my credit cards).
I do, however, love shopping at Target. I’d been hoping to make my monthly pilgrimage to Target (there are two Target stores on the Central Coast: one is 30 miles north, and the other is 30 miles south, so a shopping trip takes a little planning ahead). I was mentally eager to get out of the house and surround myself with lovely things I can’t afford while filling my shopping cart with toilet-bowl cleaner and baby wipes.
But, like I said, I was exhausted to the point of not being able to make up my mind about getting in the car and heading south (I was also hoping to swing by my old office and see some former coworkers and grab lunch). At the height of my indecision, Sarah Miller called (she would have been in the lunching and Target-shopping party). I confessed my befuddlement, and she suggested that I stay home and rest and perhaps run an errand downtown if I remained eager to go shopping.
I stayed home and rested and did eventually run some errands downtown. Here’s what strikes me as odd about yesterday:
- Odd in a good way: If I had left the house as early as I’d wanted to, I would have missed two important phone calls.
- Odd in an unsettling way: Why do I love buying things? Why am I persistently charmed by all the vain things of this world? I can’t just run in and run out of a store focused on purchasing what I really need. I am consistently distracted (mostly by adorable outfits that I want for Natalie) to the point of coveting. I find myself trying to justify fudging our semblance of a budget just so I can get what I want.
- Odd in an even more unsettling way: I went to Victoria’s Secret to buy a bridal shower gift for a friend. I don’t like shopping in Victoria’s Secret, but I had a $10-off coupon. Everything is overpriced, and it’s one of the stores whose hordes of attractive young salespeople makes me feel frumpy and pimply and self-conscious no matter how hard I’ve tried to grow up since high school. (Other stores on that list include the Gap and any cosmetics store.) However, yesterday I felt pretty good about myself. I had Natalie strapped in the carrier like a beautiful human shield. I/she got lots of loving attention from the 10 saleswomen (no exaggeration), and I didn’t feel guilty for not purchasing the $45 tiny negligee. I walked out of the lace- and perfume-laden store relatively unscathed.
Get to know your friends
Flo posted this on her blog with an open invitation to answer the questions. I’ve got so many nebulous thoughts and unanswered questions percolating in my brain right now that an irresistibly fun questionnaire hit the spot. (I’ll share more about said thoughts and questions in an upcoming post — I’ll have more time (theoretically) after this week since it’s my last week of work!)
I invite anyone to copy/paste/answer it in the comments section here or on their own blog…
1. What is your occupation? proofreader (for two more days); mother; writer
2. What color are your socks right now? bright pink with gray birds on them
3. What are you listening to right now? chili cooking on the stove and Bret talking on the phone to a friend
4. What was the last thing that you ate? Gouda, cave-aged Gruyere, and whole-grain crackers
5. Can you drive a stick shift? maybe in an emergency (it’s been a long time)
6. What color would you be, if you were a color? Celery green
7. Last person you spoke to on the phone? Josh Burson (when he called for Bret); Sarah Miller before that
8. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Yes (I guess Flo ‘sent’ this to me)
9. How old are you today? 29
10. Favorite drink? iced tea and Grenache
11. What is your favorite sport to watch? baseball
12. Have you ever dyed your hair? yes, only a few times in college
13. Pets? none at the moment
14. Favorite food? shrimp — any way, any time
15. Last movie you watched? “Peter Pan” (Disney animated)
16. Favorite day of the year? My birthday tied with Christmas
17. What do you do to vent anger? cry and write in my journal
18. What was your favorite toy as a child? Barbies and Legos
19. What is your favorite, fall or spring? um, right now spring (because it’s almost spring)
20. Cherry or blueberry? cherries — neither as artificial flavors
21. Do you want your friends to e-mail you back? sure
22. Who is most likely to respond? hopefully everyone who reads this
23. Who is least likely to respond? Bret
24. What are your current living arrangements? husband, daughter, “detached condo” on a hillside with lovely views
25. When was the last time you cried? earlier today upon reading about the miraculous healing of a friend’s father
26. Who is the friend you’ve had the longest that you are sending this to? Gina (best friends for 15 years)
27. Favorite smell? fresh-cut grass; my baby’s milk breath; old books
28. Plain, cheese or spicy hamburgers? cheeseburger animal style (but I’d probably love a spicy burger if I were to come across one)
29. Favorite car? don’t really have one any more (favorite, that is); I used to be obsessed with Mustangs
30. Favorite cat breed? don’t have a fav
31. Number of keys on your key ring? one too many
32. How many years at your current job? almost six months as a proofreader; six and a half years before that as a writer/editor (for the same newspaper I’m proofreading for)
33. Favorite day of the week? Friday
34. How many states have you lived in? 2
35. What is your favorite hobby? rubber stamping/card making/scrapbooking; crocheting; cooking (basically anything that involves making something creative for someone else)
36. Last book you read: I’m currently reading “Heat” (not the DeNiro/Pacino movie — this nonfiction book is about cooking, and I recommend it)
I miss heaven ... and other scattered thoughts
We must be born with a taste of heaven in our mouths. How else do we know what we’re deeply missing and daily yearning for…
As I caught up on reading my friend Flo’s blog, I started crying and missing her and her family so much. They just moved to Tennessee for all the right reasons, but it still makes me ache with sadness. It feels like grade school all over again — you make wonderful friends, you play together and grow together, and then they move away. At least, that’s been the story of my life. I’m the stay-er. Others are the movers and shakers. I seem to stay put. I know without a doubt that I’m supposed to be here in San Luis Obispo right now (where I’ve been for 11 years), and I truly hope to remain here for a long time.
After I wiped the tears away, I started to get sad in a different way. I miss heaven. I crave the tastes of the eternal that we Earth-dwellers are allowed to have every now and again. I long for absolute comfort and stability and love from friends. I hate having to try to protect myself from inevitable change and loss. I’m ever so thankful I have God’s love and ultimate comfort, or else I’d be a total mess.
I want this year to be a year of personal change and growth. I don’t want to protect myself anymore. I’m turning 30 in August, and I am beginning to realize that it’s true what everyone says about completing your third decade — you start to gain wisdom, perspective, and a little fear. What does it all mean? Who am I? How can I give love and comfort and stability to my daughter, my husband, my friends?
With the remnants of tears in my eyes, I am resolving myself to love as if no one will ever leave me.
My prayer for Bret
I pray that God will bless you with His peace and contentment as you work overtime. I pray that you’ll feel His presence and purpose as you sit in your cubicle, calculating other people’s plans. I pray that you’ll know God’s joy as you sacrifice your time for your duty. I pray that you will rest in the knowledge that I support you fully and that I love you deeply.
To Gina Erickson, on her wedding day
One of my closest and dearest friends, Gina Erickson, is getting married on Aug. 18. I am excited to be her matron of honor and faithfulness and celebrate her marriage to Casey Eslinger (I’m excited to finally meet him, too…).
As part of the traditional matron-of-honor duties, I get to give a toast. Since I’m more comfortable writing than trusting myself to come up with a decent speech on the spot, I drafted this toast, complete with embarrassing tidbits from our past…
Gina and I met in Mr. Miller’s eighth-grade art class at Herbert Slater Jr. High in Santa Rosa. We sat next to each other, and I thought she was weird because she was allowed to take an extra art class instead of PE. You see, she was a ballerina—apparently her ballet classes outside of school counted toward PE or something. Truthfully, I think I was jealous—I would have loved to have had an extra art class rather than PE!
We gradually got closer in friendship, and by our junior year in high school, we were writing poetry together. Our souls connected in the angst and dejection of high school love. I remember hiking with Gina down to the creek behind my house and tying some particularly angst-ridden poetry to a rock and chucking it into the rushing waters in the hopes that we’d no longer be burdened by unrequited love. If only it was that simple!
Our senior year, Gina was my editor on the high school paper—the “Montgomery Outlook.” I have her to thank for my six-year career in journalism.
When we weren’t writing poetry, we were watching “When Harry Met Sally” or “Much Ado About Nothing,” two of our very favorite movies to this day. We’d get dreamy eyed when Harry and Sally finally kissed at the end, and we’d recite Shakespeare’s words along with Emma Thompson:
“Sigh no more ladies. Sigh no more. Men were deceivers ever. One foot on sea, and one on shore. To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so. But let them go. And be you blithe and bonny. Converting all your sounds of woe into hey nonny nonny!”
Our soul connection strengthened though we’ve never lived in the same town since I left for Cal Poly in June of 1996. Time and geographical distance never seemed to matter—somehow we’ve managed to grow closer. Gina has the gift of candid curiosity when it comes to just about everything in life—but especially in matters concerning the heart. We’d talk on the phone for hours, and she’d ask all kinds of questions about everything—even s-e-x.
I thought I’d give you a glimpse into the collective soul of Gina and Andrea—a once dark and brooding entity preserved in our own words. I still have a journal that Gina and I shared—she’d take it for a while and write her thoughts and yearnings in verse, then I’d take the journal and pen my own poetry. It speaks for itself.
Here’s one that I wrote—it kind of summarizes what we were all about
Bright fiction trickles from the tongue of her pen
Patiently, patiently she awaits the inspiration of passion burning
Silently, silently she whispers to her restless heart
she knows ever so well the pain of love ever afire
yet she knows it will never leave completely
Gone and happily is her pain from before
yet lonely are her thoughts in terms of love
So until the moment of passion is achieved
bright fiction and hope will continue to flow
That was written on Aug. 9, 1996
Here’s one of Gina’s poems. It’s titled: “Lost Little Girl”
Do you know what I want?
I want to feel,
if only in my dreams
him
I want his kiss
I feel the need to feel him
to put my hand atop his head,
to encircle him in my arms
close my eyes
and just stay
to lay there
arms about his waist
in quiet stillness
head on his shoulder
Yes, this is ludicrous
wanting
but it is still true
That was written on July 16, 1996
I am ever so blessed by you, Gina—your love and faithfulness to me, your interest in my life, your soft heart for the Lord. You know the whole me.
I am excited for you, and I am excited for Casey. He is your treasured prince, your best friend. I am confident that your love is true and will continue to grow in the passion you’ve always sought.
I hope and pray that you will rest your soul in the Lord as you grow in love with your husband.
“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” I Peter 4:8
To the bride and groom!
Cheers!
Taste of heaven
This weekend, our dear friends Jim and Amanda (and Natalie’s unborn betrothed) visited San Luis Obispo as they’re making their way up to Seattle. They’d been in Italy for the past three years living la dolce vita. Before that, they left the SLO life for Seattle.
On Friday, it was as if they’d walked into a time warp rather than my living room — three and a half years suddenly disappeared as we chatted and hugged. They looked and smiled wonderfully the same — Mandy slightly more radiant than I remembered, thanks to her lovely pregnant belly…
I could fill a many a blog entry with how we know the Richardses. Suffice it to say that we were all at Cal Poly and in InterVarsity Christian Fellowship together back in the day. Jim was one of our groomsmen, and the Richardses were our role models in marriage.
Life did its thing over the past three-plus years, and we awaited word on when Jim and Mandy would return to the states. I guess you never really know how much you miss someone until they visit for just a few days. As Jim, Bret, and Ryan Miller played music together in our living room Saturday night, my eyes welled up with tears. It was so good to hear them harmonize again.
Sunday morning was another tearful treat as the trio led worship at church. It was a beautiful, albeit brief, homecoming and a real taste of heaven.
Natalie's birth story: part five
While in the birth tub, I remember Brenda admonishing me to breath from deep in my diaphragm with each push and to control my breathing between contractions. “Breathe for your baby,” she said, explaining that the baby needed good oxygen from me to keep its heart rate down. I think those were the only words that could possibly have gotten through to me while I was pushing. I felt like I was in a different world, completely focused on working with my body.
At one point, I reached down with my hands and was able to feel the baby’s head between contractions—it was finally sinking in that I wasn’t just being tortured. I was having a baby.
When Bret, who was leaning against the tank, saw the baby’s head, he very enthusiastically cheered me on. He later told me that he purposely overdid the enthusiasm so that his words would get through.
I remember not being able to stop pushing once her head was out. She just continued coming out quite fast—too fast for anyone to catch her, and too fast for Brenda to check if the cord was around her neck. Fortunately, there weren’t any such complications.
The transition from painful pushes to sheer euphoria was instantaneous. I remember opening my eyes and seeing a baby in the water—my baby! I think I blubbered and stammered and expressed a general disbelief. In the elated blur of the next few minutes, Brenda scooped the screaming baby out of the water to check the breathing and color and asked Bret what we had. The new daddy sounded overwhelmed with happiness as he pronounced that we had a girl.
Brenda then put Natalie back in the warm water and showed me and Bret how to support her head and let her float around. I was still in shock as I let the joy and love overtake me. Euphoria is the best way to describe it—and I felt high like that for the next three days.
It felt both awkward and natural to hold Natalie for the first time. I’d only held a new baby once (Amelie Oakes), and she was six days old. This brand-new little human seemed so foreign yet so familiar. She was so full of life yet so dependent. I eventually brought her closer to my body and stared at her in wonder.
All appeared healthy and normal, so I was helped out of the tub and led to the couch where I held Natalie and tried to nurse her with Sarah’s help. It was a little tricky at first—Natalie and I were both fumbling around. Somehow between that first attempt on the futon and our first hours in bed, she and I figured it out.
The memories from those early hours are quite a haze of happiness and exhaustion, but I know that Bret and I started calling family right away to let them know about Natalie’s entrance into the world.
Transitions
A couple weeks ago, I was finally able to put away the multiple piles of clothes of all sizes I’ve accumulated for Natalie. Said piles had been sitting unattended in the baby/craft room for far too long—I was craving organization.
As I folded her small rompers and dresses, I realized that this was the first of many a graduation for me and my daughter. Natalie had graduated from the 3-month size to the 6-month size of clothes, and I graduated from the mother of a newborn to the mother of a sizable infant.
I surprised myself by shedding a few tears as I carefully packed away Natalie’s special onesies and pajamas, which I plan to use again if Natalie has a little sister. I wasn’t regretting any lost moments, neither was I wishing Natalie was still that small. I was simply feeling overwhelmed with love for my daughter (and possibly the adorable clothes she’d outgrown).
It felt good to cry, though I briefly lamented the many, many, many such transitions we have ahead—I guess I’ll be the subject of unending eye-rolls on Natalie’s part (“Oh mom, not again!).
What I still can’t explain, however, is why I almost cried the other day while finally tackling the 4-foot weeds in front of our house. I couldn’t stop myself from nostalgically recalling how Bret and I worked so hard to plant daisy bushes and ground cover along our driveway. I’m not that type of person—I rarely indulge in a cry about the past. And dead daisies? What’s up with that?
Natalie's birth story: Part four
Mercifully, I was able to fall asleep between a couple of the contractions—I remember having some strange dreams and waking up to the beginnings of the next wave of pain. It was around this time—between midnight and 3 a.m., I think—that we called our midwife again. She talked me through a few contractions over the phone, but wasn’t convinced that she needed to be there yet.
I continued on with Bret and Sarah’s help in the peace of my living room and bathroom. I can’t remember exactly when, but Bret called Brenda again and said that we thought she should come and at least check me to see how much progress was being made. My biggest fear at that point was that Brenda would arrive and find that I was only three centimeters dilated. I was just barely able to stop myself from thinking over and over, “I can’t do this for much longer.”
At that point, around 3 a.m., we called my mom and told her that she should start driving if she wanted to get here in time to see her grandbaby being born.
Bret got off the phone with Brenda, and, to my relief, he said that she’d be there in an hour. That’s when the contractions started getting more intense. I took a shower, and I remember Brenda being in the house when I got out. She checked me, and I was seven centimeters dilated! I was surprised and relieved and almost in too much pain to be truly happy.
I remember laboring on the bed for most of transition, vaguely aware of the hubbub in the rest of the house as Brenda’s team scrambled to get the birth tub filled with warm water. I cried out several times in anticipation of that blissful tub. I relished the idea of sinking into water and relaxing (as much as possible) and having some of the pain relieved.
It was at this point that I felt like I couldn’t go on. The contractions were irregular, often two came right on top of each other, and increasing in intensity. I felt like I was out of control, and I even apologized for being so loud. I know I said more than once that I didn’t think I could keep doing it. Actually, I must have said it several times, because Bret later said that he had a hard time seeing me begin to despair. In response, he prayed for me while holding my hand, a loving gesture that I only vaguely remember.
Then I began feeling like I couldn’t stop from pushing—there was tremendous pressure in my rectum and each contraction forced my body to push with it. It was then that my water broke.
Looking back, I’m glad that my mom didn’t make it in time to watch me go through labor. It was so intense for me, and I can only imagine how tough that might have been for my mom to witness.
A little less than an hour after she arrived, Brenda checked me again and said that I was just about completely dilated and could go in the tub. Just hearing that news gave me some relief from the overwhelming pain and fury of the contractions in transition.
I vaguely remember being helped up between contractions. I don’t remember seeing anyone or anything except for that glorious tank of water in my dining room. Stepping into that tub was just as blissful as I’d hoped it would be. I didn’t have much time to enjoy it, however.
At 6:13 a.m. Sunday, Jan. 14, Natalie Ila was born after less than 15 minutes and a total of five pushes. (It was at that very moment, when Natalie cried her first cry, that Sarah—who was about four months pregnant—felt her baby move for the first time.)
