on parenting and jury duty

When Kieran was almost 2 months old, I was summoned to jury duty. With a doctor's note, I managed to get a postponement, since I was exclusively breastfeeding. I asked to be reprieved until January or February, since I plan on breastfeeding Kieran for at least a year, like I did with Lyndon. We don't do many bottles around here, and Kieran has had a really hard time taking them. So, the government postponed my summons... until June. Bizarre, I know, but I figured I could ask for another postponement when the time came.

Well, I could ask, but I couldn't receive.

That's right; even with a note from the pediatrician, stating that Kieran is breastfed and has had trouble taking a bottle, I am expected to report to the courthouse bright and early on June 11th. I'm considering taking him with me. At the very least, I will be taking my breastpump and written proof that they have to give me a private place to use it. Of course, I'm annoyed at the inconvenience, but, beyond that, I'm pretty disappointed in the way our government is treating me, and moms in general, for that matter.

I'm sure you've heard about that Time Magazine article, entitled "The Mommy Wars". Quite a few people have seen this article as an attempt by mass media to encourage moms to fight amongst themselves, instead of fighting together for bigger causes. Like decent maternity leave. Or respect for motherhood in the workplace. Or . . . you know, our children's education.

It's easier to judge and bicker and backstab each other for our different parenting choices than to try to make some real difference in the world.

I read an article recently outlining the United States' provisions, or rather, lack of provisions, for paid maternity leave. It's pretty embarrassing. From the article:

"Did you know that the United States in one of the only industrialized nations that does not provide a mandatory maternity leave benefit?... 'According to USA Today, 'out of 168 nations in a Harvard University study last year, 163 had some form of paid maternity leave, leaving the United States in the company of Lesotho, Papua New Guinea and Swaziland'."

Yes, the Family Medical Leave Act provides some benefits, but only to those who "qualify" (which is kind of a short list), and nowhere near the kind of provisions necessary to raise a family. The article spells out the specifics, but let's just say it's pretty sad. Mothers are expected to be back at their desks before their babies are breastfeeding successfully or sleeping through the night. Parents are harassed for taking time off to care for sick children. And paternity leave? What's that?

Now, I'm not saying this is all, or even mostly, the government's fault. But when a state government ignores the pleas of a family and a pediatrician and refuses to postpone something like jury duty for more than 3 months so that an infant can be near his only source of food, it is helping to create a culture that devalues children. Raising a family is hard, and parents need as much support as they can get. Instead, we get jury duty and the "mommy wars".

Really, America?

hard

Having a second child is hard.

I know those of you with more than two children are shaking your heads, thinking about just how much harder it can get.

But for me, two has been hard.

It's getting easier, nearly four months in. I'm starting to be able to do some of the things I had set aside. You know, like cleaning bathrooms. Or cleaning... anything. I'm starting to get Kieran on some sort of routine, and I'm figuring out how to multitask enough to keep everyone fed, changed, dressed, and reasonably happy. Sleep deprivation is still a part of my life, but not in the mind-numbing way it once was. I'm starting to blog again. Slowly but surely, I am getting my life back.

But it's a different life.

A life of double strollers and not enough hands and nursing while walking.

I nursed Kieran in the powder room this afternoon, sitting on a little plastic stool, steadying Lyndon as he sat on his potty seat.

I know I'll be overjoyed when my little boys start playing together, when they whisper to each other from their beds at night, but right now, I'm just overwhelmed. I have an infant. And a toddler. I am a mother of two. And it's the hardest thing I've ever done.

why blog?

Every now and then, there is a long pause between posts on this blog. Sometimes (like last week), this is because we've been busy. Most often, though, it happens because I have lost my motivation for blogging.

When you are first learning how to write, you are told that you must "know your audience". Who are you writing for? What do they expect? Keeping them in mind helps to bring purpose and clarity to your writing. It gives you a reason to write.

Every now and then, I find myself wondering, "Who am I writing for? Why am I writing?"

. . . which, inevitably, spirals downward into, "Why should I even bother?" I don't have a regular, obvious audience that follows and comments and waits anxiously for the next post. There are no far-flung grandparents waiting for pictures, no loyal fans who think my recipes are awesome. This is just not that kind of blog. But there are times when I feel like it should be, I feel like it has to be, to give me a reason to keep writing.

But then I start thinking about why I started this blog in the first place: to write. That's it. I am a writer-- published or not-- it's the one thing I feel I must do every day. It's not just a passion; it's a necessity. It helps me process and keeps me sane. In busy seasons, even making a to-do list in anticipation of the next day's activities works to center me and give me a sense of stability. Of course I would love to penn a masterpiece, read by the masses, but for now,  I just need an outlet.

I write for myself. I always have. Just not on this blog. Here, I have been guilty of catering to the whims of my imaginary "audience," posting cute pictures because they get the most comments, trying desperately to shape my experiences into something "other people" would want to read.

But no more. (Gosh, that feels good.) From now on, this is my outlet, my chance to process the world. It will continue to be public and (hopefully) mostly inoffensive, because I do have a few lovely grandparent readers out there, ;-) but from now on, I write for me. You casual readers may not even notice much of a difference. There will still be cute pictures. And baby bump updates. But they will be there because they are important to me, not because I think they might be important to you.

I may end up offending some of you, as my 24 year-old Christian self tries to make sense of life in my suburban, post-Christian world. I will try, really try, not to be divisive or mean. But I will probably not be cool or particularly mainstream. I will do my best not to be whiney or depressing, but neither will I be all sunshine and rainbows. I applaud mothers who can just talk about how much fun they have and how wonderful their kids are, but I'm not one of them. If Lyndon decides that he would rather scream than nap, you are going to hear about it. That being said, most of my days are tons of fun. I love my job and wouldn't rather be doing anything else with my life. Seriously. My outlook has never been sunnier. I really do love my life; I want to make that clear. But I'm a pessimist by nature, and I refuse to put my posts on Prozac because that's what I think the people want.

There. A full confession and a promise to do better. Not for you, however lovely you may be, but for me. Writing for writing's sake. I can hardly wait!

What's for dinner? salmon and black bean "burgers"

So, I'm posting my second dinner recipe, and hopefully, I won't end up in the ER like last time. (I did wait until I had actually served dinner this time to post; maybe that will help.)

Anyway, here we go. My recipe is based on this one from allrecipes.com. I've made it as written a few times now, but the other day I had some fun tweaking it, since I needed to feed a few more people and wasn't about to add more salmon.

12 oz. canned salmon (that's 2 cans if you get it from Costco)
1/3 cup finely chopped onion (I've made it with both fresh and about 1 T. of dried-- good either way)
1 egg
5 saltines, crushed
1/2 t. Worcestershire sauce
1/4 t. salt
1/8 t. pepper
15 oz. can black beans ( I used about 3/4 of the can, but my husband is a beanophobe. You could probably use the whole thing if you wanted.)
1/4-1 cup water
1/4 cup flour


1. In a bowl, combine first 7 ingredients. Mix well.
2. Mash beans with a fork and add to salmon mixture.
3. Add water 1 T. at a time until mixture will hold together. Form into 8 patties.
4. Coat patties lightly in flour.

You can either pan fry these or bake them in the oven. I've done both. Obviously, the oven option is healthier (and more hands-off for those of you chasing little ones around), while pan frying gives a better, browner crust.

To pan fry: Heat 3-4 t. oil in skillet over medium heat. Fry 4-5 mins. on each side or until lightly browned and heated through.

To bake: Preheat oven to 375. Arrange patties in single layer on greased baking sheet. Spray patties lightly with cooking spray. Bake 10-12 mins. or until lightly browned and heated through, turning once.

We love to dip these in cocktail sauce, ketchup, or chili-garlic sauce (from the Asian section of the grocery store), depending on how much spice we're feeling that night.

Enjoy, and let me know if you try these!

The Danger of Complimenting Someone's Writing

alternately titled: poetry from 4 years ago

That's right. The few compliments on my writing that I've received have made me bold (or crazy) enough to regale you with poetry from freshman year. Here we go! (Feel free to laugh.)

Fall

Crunch.
Shuffling along, I glance down
To see the leaf I squashed.
Poor dead leaf,
Skin brittle and brown,
Spirit already broken.

Laying on the hard brick,
Exposed to the world,
To the elements,
To people like me
Who stomp on it willingly.

A girl slowly plods by,
Head lowered, shoulders bent
As if carrying something
Much heavier than herself.

She’s the one
Who brushes her teeth too violently,
Who jumps into conversations
Not her own.

Her clothes a little too out of place,
Hair tangled and dry,
But carefully tied with a ribbon.
Trying too hard.

“She’s the weird one,” whispers my friend.
“Oh yeah?,” I reply. “She looks like it.”
The girl cringes, turns to me
With suffering red eyes.

Crunch.

Love at First Sight

Two awkward strangers shyly raise their eyes
And gaze into a world not yet their own.
Their pulses quicken, hearts jump with surprise
To find their bodies, face, and eyes at home.

He knows that small, coy smile from his dreams.
She recognizes kindness in his gaze.
Both see the other’s thoughts and fears and schemes
As if their souls met in another age.

At last he speaks with halting, unsure words
Designed to demonstrate his wit and skill.
She listens well, but how much has she heard?
Or is her judgement tainted by this thrill?

When feelings new and strange invade our sight,
They block out judgement calls and keep us blind.

Cafeteria Haiku

Why do you insist
On naming it from high school...
“Cafeteria.”

Much more dignity
For those who go every day
To say “Dining Hall.”

Cafeterias
Are marked by milk cartons and
Standardized lunches,

Hyperactive kids,
Screaming, spreading chicken pox,
Flailing limbs and lungs.

“Dining Hall” implies
A sense of culture and taste,
Adult preferences.

“Please say ‘Dining Hall’,”
I tell my new acquaintance,
Who gladly complies.

Armed with my new name,
I read the daily menu........

Cafeteria food.

Lancaster, PA

The sun slips behind the horizon,
Pulling the daylight with it,
It’s the time of day

When electricity takes over,
People flipping switches,
Creating light.

I wait in silence for this moment,
And I keep waiting.
But nothing happens.

Humble little farms stay dark.
People inside content
To let Someone else do the creating.

The only noise is the rumble of our truck
And the distant rhythm of hooves,
Soon not so distant.

We pass the proud horse, the little buggy.
I strain to see faces
But they are hidden from me.
They are hidden from the world.

Content in their simplicity,
Not wanting anything more
Than to be left alone,

To blend in,
To wear simple black,
To till the earth.

Instead, they have become
Tourist attractions
For a flashy world
Who wants to believe
That simplicity still exists.

Son of Man

A tiny baby, in a stable born.
To save mankind from sin is why He came.
The Heavens open up to praise His name,
His purpose known before the earth was formed.
This child soon grows up to be a man
Like other men, but perfect, right, and good.
He heals the sick and gives the hungry food,
And dies and rises to fulfill God’s plan.

How do you tell the story of this life?
How can you tell someone his sins are gone?
God penned the letters of His son through men;
We added them to ancient texts of scribes.
The prophesies all pointed toward the One.
A Book was made, unlike the world had seen.

The Process

The old carpenter picks up a log,
Brushes it off, examines it.
He feels the rough bark,
Notices the knots, the imperfections,
Turns it over in his hands
And gingerly sets it down on his workbench.

He pulls out a saw,
A great, shining, terrifying thing,
Designed to cut through hearts,
To remove any trace of rot.
And he joins the two,
And the wood groans as he slices it away
Bit by agonizing bit.
It cries sawdust where he breaks it.
The remnants of its other life.

Once he has broken it,
The master begins putting pieces together,
Driving tiny nails through resistant wood.
Reshaping, correcting, measuring, lining up.
Something begins to take shape.

The carpenter grips his creation,
And it splinters him.
So he selects the right paper,
And begins to sand,
Slowly wearing off the roughness,
Scraping, rasping, hours of work around the edges.
More sawdust falls.

One thing more it needs, the master knows
To protect it, preserve it,
Allow it to be useful.
He coats it with layers of paintbrushed liquid,
His own special mix,
Ages old. He saturates the wood until
It can hold no more.
Until it will soak up none of the world around it.

The master carpenter lifts this creation,
This plain wooden cup.
He examines once more, then pours.
The liquid holds.
His own wine
Held in this simple cup.

Varied Responses to a Historic Day

Yesterday, America's first African-American president was sworn into office. This represented an historic moment for people of all races, creeds, and nationalities, especially those who have been oppressed.

But you knew that already.

What you might not know is how those here in town reacted to this historic day. I spent a good portion of my day interacting with various people of all different *ahem* shall we say, opinions?

The day began at a local Episcopal school. I volunteered in the library, assisting the librarian with a special "Inauguration Day" schedule of activities. In between classes, she and another volunteer (a mother) began discussing the presidential election. Their conversation went something like this:

"I didn't think we could do it, but we really did!"
"I know; that moment when almost all the polls were in, and he was leading, didn't you just feel this great satisfaction. I mean, we did it! I just turned the tv off and went to bed, satisfied and happy."
"Oh yeah, when the last of the California polls reported and they announced the winner, I was like, 'Yes!'"

These two women seem to feel a kind of kinship with President Obama. They kept saying "we", as if they personally were responsible for the outcome of the election, as if they themselves had campaigned for him. And maybe they did; I don't know. I do know they were ecstatic. Slightly less ecstatic was a little girl who came in moments later, from a kindergarten class. She and her classmates were coloring pictures of Obama, and she began jamming her crayon down on his face as hard as she could, while muttering, "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!" The librarian, who had not heard her diatribe, told her to "be careful with that crayon," so the girl put the crayon down and began using her fist, pounding our President's face as hard as she could, her little face contorted with rage.

Now, I don't know about you, but I didn't know what hate was when I was in kindergarten. I certainly didn't know this kind of hate, this blinding anger at someone I had never met. Dare I say that this kind of hate has to be "carefully taught" in order to exist in someone this young?

Then I went across town to a daycare that I used to work for and ran into the owner. When asked if his establishment was going to watch the inauguration, he said, "How?" (He had a good point; they don't get tv reception there.) He then said, "And why?" My jaw dropped as a thousand reasons why jostled in my head. "Because it's historic, because it's patriotic, because he's our President, for crying out loud . . ." Sadly, I was brave enough to say none of these. I merely smiled weakly as he continued, "I mean, I don't hate him; I just don't think he's our savior either." Well, neither do I. I have a Savior, and it's not President Obama. But I still found reasons to watch the inauguration of our first African-American President.

Whatever you think about our 44th President, his views, his skin color, his speeches, he is our President. God tells us to respect our leaders and our governments as long as they don't make us abandon our faith, and even then, He never tells us to hate them. I will be praying for you, little kindergarten girl, and for myself, that I would forgive and love my enemies the way Christ taught us to.

Happy Inauguration Day.

A Dangerous Admission

*The proceeding post is designed to be tongue-in-cheek. Please don't take any of it too seriously. I love my friends who love football, and I'm not in therapy for my childhood experiences of it.*

In the past weekend, my husband and our friends have watched 4 football games together. . . and I was there, my nose buried firmly in a book. Now, I will be the first to acknowledge that football parties are a great chance to build friendships and maybe even fellowship a little, but the whole actually watching the game part kind of bums me out. I always knew that I didn't like football; what I've realized recently is that I actively dislike it. I actually find it difficult to watch.

Now, I know that this is a dangerous admission in the Delmarva area. This is a region where half of our church's leadership team shows up on Sunday morning wearing Eagles' paraphernalia, where our pastor's benediction once was, "Go Eagles!", where high school football games take precedence over anything else on a Friday night, and where the advertisement for the local news station declares that "we" in Delmarva "have a passion for sports". More than once at the daycare, I've heard children (and adults) say incredulously, "You don't own a jersey?!?" "You don't know who won last night?!" "You don't even like football?!?". Hello, my name is Meredith, and I dislike football.

Of course, I have a perfectly legitimate excuse for being this way. I was raised in the DC Metro area as a Redskins fan. The Redskins were a decent team for the first 7 or 8 years of my life. Then they went downhill . . . fast. My dad still held to the old alliance, but I grew tired of hearing, "You like the Redskins? Don't you know they're terrible?!" Some of my friends have held fast to their allegiances under pressure like this (Go Orioles!), and I admire them for that, but I just couldn't do it. I just backed out of the whole football scene, resentfully, my true allegiance still lying with the Redskins and my heart slowly growing bitter at having to watch them lose again . . . and again . . . and again. By the time they made their comeback, (can we call it a comeback?), I was too far gone even to appreciate that.

Let it be known: I will watch other sports with the best of 'em. I love going to baseball games, I adore televised soccer, and I am enamored with the Olympics. But I can't watch football. Sorry, Delmarva.

words of peace and comfort

When one takes a leap of faith in a certain direction and doesn't see the bridge, or even a parachute yet, it's easy to regret every leap one has ever taken, especially if one finds oneself with a large amount of free time in which to think and worry.

So here I am, being haunted by the ghosts of jobs past: jobs that I was offered but turned down for one reason or another, jobs that could have led me where I want to be, jobs that I was so perfect for but didn't get.

And as I'm fighting the self-pity and regret that comes with these thoughts, a song starts playing. It goes something like this:

"King of glory, I know you love me
So I will trust you
Yes I will trust you
God almighty, you have saved me
So I will trust you
Yes I will trust in you."

But the bridge was the kicker:

"How can I not trust my King?
The one who has formed me and shaped me
I will rejoice and will sing
For the one who has made me has saved me."

God has a plan for my life, and it's GOOD! He formed me and shaped me; He gave me these talents and abilities, and He has a plan to use them for HIS glory, but it's for MY good too! How can I not trust someone who holds the universe in the palm of His hand, yet chose to suffer and die to save a wretch like me? My God is infinitely powerful, all-knowing and wise, yet infinitely good, kind and merciful. Praise be to God!

*Song quotes are taken from "So I Will Trust You", from the album "Come Weary Saints" by Sovereign Grace Ministries