Continued from Part 1.
We survived our Amtrak ride. Actually, the remainder, after Mr. Drunk disembarked, was really nice. We relaxed. We talked. We didn't have to steer.

We got to Kansas City and my friend met us at the station to drive us to her apartment. I don't know my way around Kansas City at all, but I noticed that it was a good distance from the train station to her apartment complex. I noticed things like highways and interstates and lots of mile marker signs. Interesting... but not relevant. We don't care. We want to eat, sleep, walk around a bit, and have absolutely nothing else planned. Perfect.

The next day was really nice. There wasn't much to do around that particular area, but IHOP was right across the street, so we spent some time just relaxing in their coffee shop and then the worship room. It was refreshing. The following day we met my friend over at IHOP for a bite of lunch before we headed out. Her car was broken, but a friend of hers had offered to drive us back to the train station. We decided, on a whim, to call and make sure said friend was still on for the drive. Our train left at 4:30p.m., so we needed to leave at 3. It was around 1 then. So my friend called her friend as we listened to what didn't sound good. Her friend was stuck at work. Two other employees hadn't shown up. She couldn't leave. She had to work until 8 that evening.

Joe steps inside the coffee shop and finds the location of the nearest bus stop. We grab our bags and start walking.

Keep in mind that I am 7 months pregnant at this point. We don't have a lot of luggage, but we're each hauling a carry-on sized bag, plus we have our camera bag (it's a big camera) and Joe has his skateboard. We look kind of like urban hobos, trekking down the K.C. roads. It's a nice day, but kind of warm. The nearest bus stop is about two miles away.

When we finally reach it, we see from the time tables that we missed the last bus by ten minutes, so we have a 45 minute wait for the next one. It starts raining a bit, but we're under cover so we don't mind. Eventually the bus rolls in, we get on, and we start talking to the driver about the best route to the train station. And that's when we realize that it probably ain't gonna happen.

We take a couple more buses before we end up at a station that is actually in Kansas City proper, and the bus we need next, the one that might, just might, get us to the train station on time, is not due for another fifteen minutes. It will take another fifteen minutes actually on the bus to get us there, and it's 4:00. A nearby, off-duty driver hears us talking and offers to take us as far as he can on his way to the garage. We thank him and climb on. We're thinking we might just make it after all. And then he stops at a CVS. "I just have to run in here real quick," he says. What can we say? He's off-duty. He's not even supposed to have passengers right now. But that little CVS stop takes a long time.

Fifteen minutes later he drops us off as close as he can get to the train station, which puts us needing to cover, by foot, about ten city blocks in five minutes. We try. I can't run. I walk fast. I'm wearing flip flops. My toes are covered in dirt. Joe is hauling all the bags. We make it to the station, enter the cool, dim hall, and trudge to the ticket counter. The clerk shakes his head. "That train left ten minutes ago, folks."

There isn't another train until 4:25 p.m. the next day, and Joe is due at work at 8:00 am. The clerk suggests a bus. A nice lady at the information desk tries to answer our questions, and offers to give us a ride to the Greyhound station when she gets off. We thank her, but decide to go check the Super Bus line first.

We sit down in the atrium of a shopping center/hotel lobby next door. The shops are all closing up, which is weird because it's only about 5 p.m. at this point. Whatever, I think, Kansas City is weird. I'm hungry, I think. The last thing we ate was a coffee shop muffin around 11:30. We have covered a lot of ground since then. I look over at Joe. His face is getting that discouraged look on it. He doesn't get that look very much, but when he does it can take him low. I decide intervention is necessary. "Hey," I say. He looks up. I lean forward, very close, and then say to him slow and deliberate, "Quit yer b*tchin'."

His mouth opens, he stares at me, and then we both crack up laughing. Here we are, in the middle of Kansas City, sweaty, dirty, tired, a pile of bags at our feet, and no clue how we're going to get home. When it's a laugh-or-cry situation, laugh is almost always the best option. So we laugh, and then we call, reserve tickets on the 9:45p.m. bus, and go in search of food. Good food. Really good food.

We find it right across the street when we push open the door to Morton's. The interior is paneled in dark wood, and carpet is thick and soft. I look at Joe. "Do you think they have a dress code?"
"Can't hurt to ask," he says, so we walk up to the hostess and ask.
"You're absolutely fine," she says. She is wearing a long black dress. I'm not convinced.
"Are you sure? I mean... no dress code at all?"
At this point the maitre'd approaches and pulls out two menus. "Ma'am, you're perfectly fine and we welcome you. Would you like to follow me?"
I nod. We follow. The maitre'd is wearing a tuxedo. Who are we to argue?

We have the best meal and the best service we've ever had at Morton's. Our bags are hidden under the long table cloth, as are my dirty, flip-flop clad feet and Joe's skate board. No one even looks at us sideways, and when the table next to us is seated with a newly married couple, we chat with them about honeymoons and anniversary trips for a few minutes. They laugh at our story and wish us luck. So does the maitre'd, who agrees that the Greyhound will be quite a change of atmosphere. I feel fortified. We leave for the bus station, fat and happy.

I will gloss over the remaining portion of our trip home, because I can't say anything very positive about it except that, eventually, it was over. If there's one thing a 7-months-pregnant woman shouldn't do, it is take a 5 hour bus ride in the middle of the night, with everyone packed in like unshelled peas and smelling overripe. I get restless legs during late pregnancy, and after our afternoon hike they were worse than usual. The only thing I could do was take the advice I'd given Joe earlier.

We made it home. Joe's dad picked us up at the downtown bus station at 2a.m., we gathered our little girl and drove home, and Joe got to sleep for about three hours in his own bed before he had to get up and leave for work. And he told our 3rd anniversary adventure story all day long, and so did I.

We specify 3rd, because we're not quite sure what we want to do for our 4th, this year. We think we might get our family to take care of the kids, and just go where the wind takes us for a couple of days... Maybe we'll find another Morton's somewhere. I'll only be three months pregnant this time, but I don't think I will ever again ride a Greyhound bus.

The Time Has Come

It's time. I just finished writing three articles and I'm munching a butterscotch oatmeal cookie from a batch that Mara 'helped' me make this afternoon. (Her newest favorite thing to do is "Help cook, please!" and it's really cute. I'll take pictures next time and post them. Washing dishes is the highlight.) So, the finished article and the yummy cookie (perfect as I felt my stomach start a warning rumble of "I'm hungry and if you don't feed me soon I will wreak vengeance upon you to the fourth generation") are results of going with the option I talked about a couple of days ago: Ignore the pain (irritation/annoyance/emotional hang-up/whatever the case may be) and get on with what you need to do.

A New Month, A New Challenge

And now I find myself at the beginning of a new month, which needs a new monthly challenge to go along with it. The basic idea is simple: choose Option IGNORE THE PAIN for the month of September. But I think I need to put that plan into something a little more specific so it will actually work, so that I'll know it's working (or not), so that I can brag (or cry in shame).

The Two Components: Schedule and Projects

I've still got a couple of days before September 1st proper to ponder this, but I think two components are needed here: 1) Sticking to my schedule (which would include actually making a schedule) and 2) Tackling a few projects.
Those two elements are the ones which go when I step into survival mode. I don't look at the clock, let alone a schedule. I meander along with no regard for silly things like "dinner time." I notice with mild surprise that the kids are whiny, and wonder why until Joe suggests that perhaps it could be because they are a) hungry or b) up past their bedtime or c) both.

And projects! In survival mode, I've completed a project if I get dressed by noon. Check off a major project if I actually cook something. Bonus points for cleaning it up.

The schedule keeps me on track with the basics, the requirements to maintain a functional household and keep me, Joe, and two little cuties fed, clothed, and reasonably clean. The schedule reminds me to pay bills, answer emails, write articles, and get some exercise.

The projects are, technically, "extra" work, but it's extra work that will result in continuing benefits. Cleaning up a few areas, splashing some paint around, taking care of some piles and setting up some systems will help me to enjoy my home and my work more and to be more efficient in it.

I think this is a good plan. I think I'll stick to it. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

As part of my effort to choose Option B) IGNORE THE PAIN as my plan for life, I am making myself list out all those things I want to fix. These are the things I ignore in survival mode. They don't cease to bother me, I just cease to entertain the idea of actually doing something about them. I think of them as insurmountable, things that must be endured because they cannot be changed. Talk about a pessimistic outlook. Time to get over that one.

And in the "Minor Annoyances" Category...

• No garbage can in the master bedroom.
• Stuff on top of my refrigerator.
• The nail that holds my broom keeps disappearing into the plaster.
• No broom on the back patio.
• Two (growing) piles of papers in the dining room.
• No good place upstairs to work on my laptop.
• A box of clothes to give away sitting in my bedroom. For a month.
• Wire hangers from Joe's uniforms cluttering up the closet.
• Closet full of clothes that I don't like/that don't fit.
• Box full of books that need to go somewhere (like in a bookcase) sitting in the dining room.
• Nowhere sufficiently big enough for all the stuff that comes out of Joe's pockets at the end of the day.
• Need some outdoor storage something for Mara's bubbles and sidewalk chalk and balls.
• Toys! Everywhere! Do they procreate?

And in the "Bigger Projects" Category...

• Redo bathroom upstairs (paint walls and cabinets, do something with the floor, put up new shower curtain and rug, get shelves for over the toilet, rehang towel hooks, replace hardware and vent cover).
• Redo master bedroom (paint walls, hang new curtains, get new bedding and rugs, rearrange before April 6th so bassinet will fit).
• Finish up the kids' room (clean out closet, get/hang something on the walls, make curtains and covers from that roll of material in the closet).
• Redo kitchen cabinets (paint, replace hardware).
• Set up work/play area for Mara upstairs (somewhere?) so I can get some work done in the morning.
• Landscape the front yard. (This should probably go in the "Things That I Cannot Do Myself" category...)
• Put some mulch/pebbles/something down in the back by the patio so we don't get weed-infested there again.
• Clean up the patio.

And in the "Things That I Cannot Do Myself" Category...

• Put a sump pump in the basement.
• Buy and install a water softener so my glasses don't look opaque!
• Um...new car? Mini van with two automatic side doors! YES. (Why not?)
• Finish the bathroom in the basement...
• Finish the laundry room, bedroom, storage room in the basement.
• Clean up the pile of lumber in the backyard.

I think I'd better stop now...

Confession time. I've gotten a lot of pats on the back and looks of awe for having two babies at home, all natural. People say things like, "You must have a really high pain tolerance," and "You're so brave," and "You're like Superwoman. I could never do that." I kind of laugh it off and move on. I'm not too good with those kind of conversations. And I know the truth. The truth is that I am a wimp.

Yes, you read it right. A total wimp. I honestly don't know how I endured two drug-free home births. But for the grace of God and the total hatred of all things hospital-ish, I would not have. And here in the beginnings of my third pregnancy, as I begin preparing myself mentally for another at-home childbirth, I am seeing the total wimpiness that is me.

Examples? You want 'em?

I get a headache and I cease to function. Literally. I don't read, I don't write, I don't cook, I don't clean, I lay around on the couch and do what is absolutely necessary to keep my children safe and happy. I take ibuprofen and whine until my headache is gone. And we're not talking about migraines. Oh, no. If I got migraines, I would probably have killed myself long ago, except that I would never kill myself because I think it must hurt at some point, no matter how you do it.

My pregnancies have been really easy. I have friends who vomited multiple times a day for their entire pregnancies and lived through it. Me, I have a little morning sickness in the first trimester. It's been that way with the first two, and so far I'm sticking to that pattern with the next. Granted, the mild morning sickness often extends all day, and it goes along with that fatigued first-trimester feeling. Still, it's not really that bad. But when I am nauseated, however mildly (I hardly ever actually throw up), I cease to function. Same as above. I do what I must and complain about it while I'm moving.

Aside from pregnancy symptoms and the occasional headache, the only recurring physical ailment I have is muscle tension in my neck and shoulders. It usually comes from sitting in a non-ergonomic way while writing on my laptop, but sometimes I'll wake up with a painfully tight neck and shoulder for no reason I can figure. When that happens, I cease to function. I can't concentrate. I survive. I do nothing productive. I whine until Joe gives me neck rubs and shoulder rubs. And I wait until the ibuprofen works or until I can sleep it off before I start thinking about any sort of normal activity.

Yep, that's me. Superwoman.

I don't like my method of dealing with this little annoying physical pains and whatnot. I like being productive and having a clean house, a good-smelling kitchen, a weeded garden, folded laundry, bathed and fed babies, and a couple of clever articles written at the end of the day. Like it? I love it. I live for it. I strive for it. I tweak my life continually to try to get to the point where I can reach those goals regularly.

And then I get a headache...

Now, being pregnant again, I am staring at a choice I don't want to examine. I can treat this entire pregnancy as a mild sickness and drag myself through it, unproductive, unhappy, and on survival mode. Baby #3 can be welcomed into a home that has the same unfinished projects and unwritten books that welcomed Baby #2. And I know that the world won't end if that's what I do. Baby #2 is doing just fine, and so am I and Baby #1, and Husband, for that matter. We can make it on survival mode; we just miss out on some peace and sanity and simplicity that I crave. Survival mode ends up complicating things, because I do nothing beyond the absolute necessity of keeping soul in body and body in house. Piles get bigger. Projects get more intimidating. Book proposals get fuzzier in the waiting.

My other option, the one I know I should take but that my whole fleshy self shudders to think of, is the IGNORE THE PAIN option. I can treat the unpleasant symptoms of this pregnancy as the mild irritants they are and put them in their proper place: deal with them as is wise, and then continue on with my normal routine. I can make choices, set priorities, even take naps when I need to, but I can do so while being self-disciplined and being in control rather than in survival mode. I can remove the piles and find places for things. I can finish some projects before I get to the Beached Whale portion of this pregnancy. I can write instead of laying around on the couch wishing I felt better.

Oh, humbug. I already know what I'm going for. I just don't want to do it.

On our first anniversary, we were broke. We had a very simple celebration. We didn't care. On our second anniversary, we were slightly less broke. We did dinner out. We were happy. On our third anniversary, feeling rather affluent as compared to the state of our first-year finances, we decided to take a little trip. We set up babysitting with our family, and we planned a train ride to Kansas City, a couple of nights away. I was 7 months pregnant with our second. It sounded like a perfect, relaxing little get away.

The first bumpy spot in our ideal plan occurred when I called to reserve a hotel room. Our trip happened to be the same weekend as the Royal Arabian Horse Show, which is a big deal for Kansas City. Everything was booked, except for the most expensive hotel in the city. We weren't feeling that affluent. I had already paid for the non-refundable train tickets. We were bound for a city with nowhere to stay. The very next day, though, a friend of mine called. She lived in Kansas City and would be gone for the weekend. Would we like to stay in her apartment? Would we? Oh, yes. We were set.

We got to the train station with plenty of time and walked inside to turn in our internet order code for the actual tickets. Problem. No ticket agent. No self-serve kiosk. Nothing but a bench and a few pictures on the walls. Frequent train travelers would have known, I guess, that some stations are very, er, functionally limited. As was this one. I started panicking. We called the 1-800-HELPMEAMTRAK number.

Me: Hi, listen, I'm at the Washington, MO, station, I have my internet purchase number, but there's no kiosk, there's no ticket agent, there's no one here! What do I do? Where do I go? What's wrong with this place?

Amtrak Employee: Oh, yes, let's see, um, the Washington Station is a board-only pick-up point; you can't redeem online purchases there.

Me: Uhhhhhhh........okay. This is my first Amtrak experience, (and quite likely to be my last, judging from how things are going), so I really don't know what to do here. Is there anything we can do?

Amtrak Employee: Well, let's see. Okay. I'll wire to the train conductor that you are pre-purchased, and he can let you on and then you can pick up the actual tickets at the other end of the line.

Me: Oh, thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.

So we made it on the train. I didn't breathe easy until the Conductor approved us. We were good. I leaned back against my seat and settled in for a good five hour bonding time alone with my husband. As I turned my head to smile at him, I noticed the other passenger boarding. The only other passenger boarding from the same station, entering the train car that contained about five people scattered over its 15 rows of seats. And he walked straight up the aisle and sat directly across from my husband. And started talking. Incessantly.

I groaned. For those of you who know Joe, you know he's way too friendly to just give a good cold shoulder, which is what I was fervently wishing he would do. I took a deep breath and thought, okay, fine, I can share for a few minutes. They can chat, and then he'll chill out and Joe and I can talk. Alone. Together.

Instead, Mr. Friendly Passenger opens up his suitcase and pulls out a Pepsi, a cup, and a half gallon of rum. He offered to share. We declined. He drank enough for all three of us. He kept talking. He drank more. He talked louder. He drank more. He started cursing, colorfully, while he kept talking, even louder. Three rows up, a young Mom just a bit older than me popped her head over the seat. "I've got my five-year-old little girl with me, sir. Could you keep it down?" Oh, sure, he says, slightly dazed. Joe informs him for the tenth time that we are going to take a nap now, so bye bye, no more talkie-talkie. He finally decides to make his way down to the snack bar.

We have an hour or so of peace. We take a little nap, we talk. We see Mr. Friendly Drunk heading back toward his seat. This time he offers to share his liquid wealth with another passenger, who accepts, so they get all chummy a row further up from us. We can still hear the entire conversation quite well, including the increasingly rude racial slurs Mr. Friendly Drunk is throwing around. His current seat mate is African American. Things are getting tense.

Young Mom from three rows up pops her head up again, and tells him to keep it down or else. We're not sure what "or else" means. Will she throw him from the train? The assistant conductor has been absent from our little train car for a while now. Mr. Friendly Drunk does not keep it down. Young Mom exits her seat, marches up to Mr. Friendly Drunk, and informs him that if he does not shut his mouth then he will experience dire consequences. I am thinking that she might actually attempt throwing him from the train. I am thinking that I will help her.

Mr. Friendly Drunk is turning into Mr. Not-So-Friendly Drunk, and his seat mate is getting angrier. They start threatening each other. Joe sits up straighter. I can see he is ready to interfere, if needed. I am praying. The conductor comes over the intercom to announce the next stop, and Mr. Drunk shakes his head as if waking up. "Oh, that's me," he says.

"Thank you, Lord, thank you, Lord, thank you, Lord," I say.

His seat mate is getting off at the same stop. We watch them exit and try to catch a glimpse of them on the platform. Are they going to fight it out now? The seat mate walks away quickly. It looks like Mr. Drunk will live another day.

As the train picks up speed, the assistant conductor walks into our train car. "Was he getting bad?" she asks. We look at her. Someone responds, "Yeah, it was getting pretty ugly."
"Yeah," she says, "He rides through four or five times a week, always half-drunk or worse. He's a pain." I am staring at her. She has left us alone to the mercy of a frequently drunk passenger on OUR ONE AND ONLY THIRD ANNIVERSARY TRIP? Isn't it illegal to even bring alcohol onto the train? Why do they let him get on? She moves on to the next train car, and we settle back in the silence. I guess Amtrak's policy is every passenger for himself. Now I know, and next time I'll bring Mace.

So a couple of nights ago we went grocery shopping, all four of us. On our way to the store (which shall remain unnamed because I don't like supporting it even though I still shop there sometimes...okay okay it was Wal-Mart! I went there! Aaaargh.). Anyway. On our way to the store, we got a great view of the full moon rising over the horizon as the sun was going down. The moon was beautiful, low and a rosy pink color. Joe pointed it out to Mara: "Look, Mara, the moon is pink. It's a pink moon."
Mara: "Hello, pi-nk mooon!"

When we left Wal-Mart the evil shopping enemy of small-town business, the sun was long gone (we had to buy a lot of groceries) and the moon was high and back to its normal pale white self.

Joe: "Look, Mara, the moon is white again."

Mara: "Hello, whi-te moooon!"

We turn toward home, away from the moon. Mara: "Bye bye, whi-te moooon."

We turn again and the moon comes into view. Mara: "Hello, whi-te mooon."

All the way home. And for the last two days she randomly stops, looks out the window, and says, "Whi-te moon?" I'm not sure how to explain the whole orbiting day/night rotation of the earth concept to her, so I just say, "Hmmm, no white moon yet!" as if I'm just as shocked as she is.

Today I saw this linked from another blog and couldn't resist. Here are my results:

You Are From the Moon

You can vibe with the steady rhythms of the Moon. You're in touch with your emotions and intuition. You possess a great, unmatched imagination - and an infinite memory. Ultra-sensitive, you feel at home anywhere (or with anyone). A total healer, you light the way in the dark for many.

Image Credit: joiseyshowaa.

Because we need to start believing we can be what we strive to be.

I am worth more than precious jewels.

My husbands trusts in me with good reason. I do not cause him to lack that trust. I am good to him.

I gather the supplies I need and do my work willingly. I bring in the best value for my household.

I get up early; while it is still dark outside, I am planning for my household.

I make wise business investments and use the profit for further investment.

I strengthen myself physically, so that I have energy and ability to do my work.

I give appropriate value to what I produce. I don't sell myself short. I finish what I start, and even in my sleep I'm thinking of new ideas. I acquire the skills and tools I need.

I find those in need and give to them; I bring them into my life.

I don't fear difficult or lean times, because I am prudent. I prepare what we need before we need it.

I clothe myself attractively. I'm no frump. I know how to be appropriate for the occasion.

Because I show such respect for my husband's leadership, other people notice and respect him, too.

I have high standards and I do not accept less than excellence in what I do, for my household, for my business, and for myself personally.

I am strong and clothed in honor. The future looks good to me. I am not overwhelmed by changes, even when they are unexpected. I rejoice at the richness of my life.

I choose my words with wisdom and I use a tone of kindness.

I work hard and faithfully to manage my household. I am not idle. I am aware of the importance of my position.

I receive the praise and blessing of my family graciously. I do not boast of my successes. I fear the Lord.

Image Credit: Printables for Scrapbooking.

I have come to a great and earth-shattering conclusion about parenting philosophies. But before I tell you about that, let me just run over a few that have influenced my thinking.

• No Greater Joy is a ministry of the Michael and Debi Pearl family. I first read some of their child-training ideas back when I was in high school. Mom bought a 2 copies of their book To Train Up a Child; one for me and one for Mileah. For future reference, of course. It was a thin book, lots of examples, an easy read. I loved it. I loved the concept of pro-actively training your children, of deliberately setting up situations in which to teach them boundaries and new skills. It made so much more sense than just waiting until a crisis occurred (inevitably in public) and then having to deal with the behavior. I get their magazine now (go sign up if you don't have it; it's free) and continue to be challenged by their simple, sincere, and common sense ideas.  They talk about the issues of parenting, home educating, living as Christians in a sinful world, and maintaining your marriage. And they discuss them without shirking from what might be unpleasant truths. I especially appreciate the way they call "typical homeschoolers" to task. For example, an article in their Sep/Oct magazine talks about the "cloistered homeschool syndrome," in which "[parents] sacrifice the individual identities of their children on the altar of their own emotional needs, making them nurse when they should be killing and dressing their own food, making them obey when they should be learning to command. They seem to think that grown children are God’s gift to them rather than their gift to God." Of course, whenever you address "delicate" issues with direct truth (often as a challenge), you will become the center of controversy. Such has happened to the Pearls; sadly, the controversy is often produced by those of the church/home school circle making generalized, unsupported statements. Go to their website and read for yourself. Even if you don't agree with what they say, you have to respect the fact that they make more sense than most of the child training/marriage/family/Christianity/home education gurus in the market.
• Growing Families International is a ministry of Gary and Anne Marie Ezzo. I was in high school the first time I encountered their material, as well. My parents, my sister, and I took their Reaching the Heart of Your Teen with several other families. Although Mileah and I had a pretty good relationship with Mom and Dad, some of the concepts we learned in that study helped us break through in several areas. For example, they talk about the concept of the appeal. Basically, when Mom or Dad makes a decision, the child can appeal the decision if she has new information to present "in favor of her case." She does this by asking, respectfully, "May I make an appeal?" If Mom or Dad says No, she has to abide by that. She respects their authority. But they most often say Yes (at least ours did), and she is given the chance to present the new information and ask for a new decision. They respect her influence and intelligence as a growing adult by allowing her to appeal. They may hold to the former decision or change it. The point is that the appeal process allows the teen a way to explain something that might not have been understood without arguing or whining. And it allows the parents a way to recapitulate without seeming to be indecisive. GFI also teaches scheduling for infants, and this is what has brought upon them the wrath of many an attachment-parenting advocate. Again, when you address controversial issues with clean, simple, challenging responses, you incur repercussions of people who don't like being challenged. I used the GFI parent-directed feeding with great success with our first. I've been more flexible with our second, but I still use the basic principles of the GFI concept, which is that you should not create a "child-centered home" for your baby, but instead love, nurture, and bring up the baby as an important part of an already established family. Family life doesn't revolve around baby, it includes baby as a welcome participant.

Now, all that said, I come to my great and earth-shattering concept. A dear friend and I were talking the other day and she casually said, "I guess we're kind of doing attachment parenting." Their little girl is content, developing, playful, calm. I'm sure, as every 9 month old does, she has her crying moments. My sister-in-law and I have talked a lot about the GFI methods; their little girl had acid reflux as well as having to have surgery to remove a tumor in her head during the first few months of her life. She tried to the scheduling thing but it just didn't work for them. She struggled with feeling very guilty over not doing things "by the book." (We had taken a GFI course together before our first babies were born.)The guilt is, of course, not the fault of the GFI concept. I dealt with feeling guilty and fearful myself, with Mara, when I couldn't get us on schedule for the day (or week, or what have you). Not so much with Robbie, because I'd come to this conclusion:

If you have common sense, self-discipline, and love for your baby, you're doing it right.

First-time moms struggle with that so much: not with the love or common sense or even necessarily with the self-discipline, but with the confidence that we can do this. We can raise this child in a way that works for our family, though it may not be outlined by any book or ministry, and we can be doing it right. My friend with the "attachment parenting" style is doing a great job. My sister-in-law who gave up on scheduling for the sake of family peace is doing  a great job. When I stuck to that scheduling with Mara, I did a fine job. As I've been more flexible with Robbie, I have been doing a fine job. I'm not trying to pass around unnecessary pats on the back - especially not on my own - I'm just trying to get us Moms to take those parenting philosophies for what they're worth. Help. Wise counsel. Information. Ideas. But not the inerrant, unarguable be-all and end-all of parenting.

Love. Common sense. Self-discipline. Most of all love.

We have what it takes as Moms to raise happy, healthy, well-behaved, intelligent children. We don't have perfect days. We don't have perfect methods. Love covers a multitude of faults, my own as well as my children's. Love brings me back to enjoying them even on the off days. Love helps me ask my husband for help. Love lets me take an afternoon off without feeling guilty. Love allows me to feed them fast food without worrying that they'll die. Love gives me the ability to say No to too much anything, no matter how much they want it. Love brings me back to the first Father, the best Father, the only inerrant, unchanging, completely all-knowing and all-wise Father.

I'm trying to...

Feeling overwhelmed by too many plans, too little productivity. I'm slumped and feeling the "I'm pregnant" excuses weigh me down. No no no. Continual falling short discourages me. I need to get my house in order, start managing thise household like I mean it. Physical order and cleanliness. Dealing with the piles and piles of random stuff. Routines. Order. Places for everything.

Except I know I can't plan everything, can't systemetize life. But this daily stuff (that is life) needs a Strategy Master. Me. I love what I get to be and do too much to give it up for unimportant, unnecessary, unenjoyable stuff. Mediocre is out. I want the best.

Stand in the Rain by Superchick