Bikinis and Burdens

Head to any local shopping mall.  If you’re feeling particularly wild, gaze through the magazines in the check-out isle at Wal-Mart. Watch television for ten minutes, and you’ll see it.  The world we live in despises modesty.  It makes sense, really.  In our “you can’t tell me what to do” culture, in a society where boundaries are broken and pleasure is found in the discomfort of those idly watching,  It’s no surprise that a call for constraint is met with varying levels of animosity. You don’t have to scroll very far to see some reminisce of the modesty discourse showing up on your news feed, and I have to say, I’m thrilled to see (in most cases), well-intentioned adults having a discussion, not an argument about a topic so acutely relevant to our current culture.  Upon reading both sides of the argument, from ‘do you expect us to wear “a giant ‘Jesus Saves’ T-shirt over our bathing suit?” to “can’t we find some balance here?”, it’s become apparent that some severe misunderstandings have come into play, not just between Jessica Rey and her opposers, but also between us, the people chewing it all over, trying to figure out just how to digest such a meaningful topic.  A conversation concerning swimsuits has really caused some weightier issues to float to the top.  Who is ultimately responsible for a person’s sin? How do we establish preventative measures without dis-empowering or oppressing those involved?  What does “modesty” really mean, and how are we to apply that definition to our lives? Clearly I’m no biblical scholar, and at the risk of talking the topic to death, I think there’s some issues that need to be addressed and mulled over.

The most prevalent, and, I think, probably the most important discussion point regarding the modesty discourse, is the allocation of fault for sin.  Jessica Rey, in her speech focusing on the invention and affects of the modern day bikini, reviewed the historical changes of the swim suit (basically, it got smaller…much smaller) and cited a few studies in which upon viewing a woman dressed immodestly, the male brain showed patterns of sexual arousal and emotional detachment (we needed a study to show this?).  Her suggestion that women should dress more conservatively in order to assist in the avoidance of such male thought patterns and to cause themselves to be seen as people, rather than objects, is, time and time again, being wrongfully distorted into the message that women are ultimately responsible for sinful male thought patterns.  One writer discusses the weight of this sense of responsibility, writing “And I remember trying desperately to cover up the shape of my breasts, which despite all my turtlenecks and layers and crossed arms insisted upon showing up early. When I caught a male classmate’s eye on them, a wave of guilt would rush over me—Oh no, he noticed me! I’ve made him stumble.” I sympathize with her.  Puberty is awkward, and i’m sure we all have our fair share of embarrassing, sometimes even hurtful, moments.  But that’s not what she’s talking about.  No, we don’t need to “hide” or be ashamed of our good and beautiful bodies, and I don’t think that Jessica is suggesting that.  Clearly, in the situation mentioned, the writer is not at all responsible for her classmate’s wandering eyes.  I think we can all agree that a woman, appropriately and even fashionably dressed, who receives negative male attention, is not at fault for those thoughts.  The Bible makes clear that when we stand for judgement, we can’t use the blame game as a cop out.  “The one who sins is the one who will die. The child will not share the guilt of the parent, nor will the parent share the guilt of the child. The righteousness of the righteous will be credited to them, and the wickedness of the wicked will be charged against them” Ezekial 18.  But we need to make clear the distinction between being responsible for a person’s sin and living in a way that encourages others to sin.  The bible is also clear about this: “Therefore, if what I eat causes my brother or sister to fall into sin, I will never eat meat again, so that I will not cause them to fall” 1 Corinthians 8:13.   So no, your neighbor’s sin is not your own, but if you knowingly behaved (or dressed) in a way that provoked this sin, then yes, you are held responsible for that action.  Men are visual creatures, usually to a much higher degree than women (this is, i think, a lot of the reason why the modesty discussion is focused on women).  We can’t and shouldn’t change that. But we should respect it by being aware of what we put in front of them.

Is this a burden? Yes! Welcome to the Christian life.   Somehow, somewhere along the lines, we’ve been indoctrinated with this idea that if something is burdensome, if it involves putting other people before ourselves, then it’s oppressive and not required of us.  “It’s exhausting, really,” the writer says, “dressing for other people.”  But isn’t that what we’re all called to do?  Put everyone else, even the sinful, visual, emotionally detached male mind, before ourselves and our wants and our desires?  In Mark, Jesus plainly states this concept to his disciples “and he sat down and called the twelve. And he said to them, “If anyone would be first, he must be last of all and servant of all.” Surely, we won’t do a perfect job.  Most of us are pretty crappy servants. We mess up.  All the time.  But that doesn’t mean that we’re free to live (and dress) as we like, having no thought about how our actions, thoughts, and appearance will affect or tempt those around us.  No, we’re called to be different, to dress in a way that is both visually and monetarily modest, and to send the message that this body is valuable and it is beautiful, and it is fun to dress, but it is not for everyone’s visual pleasure.

The whole modesty conversation is about so much more than a bathing suit.  It’s about switching our focus from “how does this impact me?” to “how will this impact my peers?”  It’s not an easy switch to make, but it is a necessary one. Besides, running into those waves with abandonment and body surfing back to the shore is so much easier when it’s not itsy-bitsy;)

The White Whale

Long time no see, friends! Once again, life has taken precedence over writing, and,as usual, I have disappeared from the blogging world. Here’s a quick update:  My baby is no longer a baby, my marriage is still awesome, and i still haven’t figured out this whole mom ordeal:) Work in progress, right?

There we were, moments after rocking, singing to, shushing, and finally laying down a sick child- side by side, blankets over our heads, one eye open, holding our breath in anticipation of that one sound no parent wants to hear at 12:30 AM – crying.  It’s rare these days, really.  In general, our boy sleeps like a champ now that he’s approaching the toddler years. The nights of waking every two hours, listening to the creaking of the floor boards as I bounce and bounce..and bounce are almost a distant memory.  Almost. But let’s be honest, here. Whether your child is one week or one year old, the moment you hear it, that pitiful whimper, it all comes rushing back.  And as I laid there in bed, half asleep, half listening for my on-call mommy pager to go off, I thought to myself,

 Is this really my calling?  I’m so bad at this.  My child is sick and I’m frustrated with him.  What the hell is wrong with me? Who thought I was the person for this job? 

I’ve always struggled with calling.  Throughout my life, i’ve never truly felt that sense of being where i’m supposed to be.  It’s drilled into us.  Even at a young age, one of the first questions adults ask a child is, for all intents and purposes, about calling.  “What do you want to be when you grow up?” You make it to high school, and once again, you’re asked a similar question.  “What are you going to major in?”  Then in college, it becomes more explicit;  “what is your calling?”  We take quizzes about it, we write essays on it, we pray about it. We spend a good chunk of our lives in search of it.  It’s the white whale.

Our world is so obsessed with calling that it has, in effect, morphed it into something it was never intended to be. If a person is unhappy in his or her career (parenthood included), or even if one’s life, at the moment, is just plain hard, others start to question, “maybe this just isn’t your calling…”  as if finding one’s calling is synonymous with abundant happiness and ease.  We’ve bought into the belief that toil, self-doubt, and defeat are sure road signs indicative of a dead end.  We’ve come to accept that if only we were walking in God’s ordained path, our lives would be rid of tribulation.  Calling has become a destination,  a fixed state of being that once reached, requires no work.

There’s an article making its way around the web that is the fruit of this ideology.  A mother from the UK states fairly bluntly that she regrets having children, and that “like parasites” they stole some of the best years of her life.  She raised them, and even expresses love for them, but she has no qualms about stating her annoyance with their existence.  She “wasn’t wired for mothering.”  It wasn’t her calling.  Because it was was hard, because it was all give and no take, she concludes that she was unfit for the job.  The exact same conclusion that I arrived at in bed that night.

The problem with this outlook, though, is that we’re failing to realize that calling, despite what we have been taught, is not about arriving at some place of nirvana where the effects of sin are null and void.  No, calling is riddled with sin, and you can bet that you’ll battle it every day.  You’ll see it in others, and you’ll see it in yourself, lying in bed, resentful towards a one year old.  It’s hard, selfless, work, and to be honest, none of us fit the bill.  But if we keep searching for a calling that meets society’s standards, if we keep chasing the white whale, we’ll miss the fact that maybe we’re already there.  Maybe the struggle is the sign that, yep, your calling is here, and by the way, it’s crying for you on the baby monitor.

The S Word

A husband folds himself into the recliner, tired, demanding, remote glued to his potato chip-greased fingers.  A worn down wife, probably pregnant, cooks over a barely functioning stove top, head down, silently serving her abrasive, absent husband.  She’s passive.  She’s  selfless.  Clearly oppressed.

While a tad exaggerated (but not much),  this is what comes to mind when many, both believers and non-believers, hear the S word.  It holds, I would argue, one of the most negative connotations in Christian vocabulary.  Slavery, prejudice, oppression;  these are just a few of the weighted words that are often mentioned in coordination with the stigmatized word of submission.

The word is most often cited in the book of Ephesians, when Paul writes:

²² Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord. ²³ For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he is the Savior. ²⁴ Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything.

Unfortunately, the citation is often cut off at this point, consequently leaving the listener with a warped view of the beauty of Christian marriage.  The verses continue:

⁵ Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her²⁶ to make her holy, cleansing^[a] her by the washing with water through the word, ²⁷ and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless. ²⁸ In this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself.

Believers are terrified by these verses.  Non-believers are incredulous.  How, they ask, can a loving, all-knowing God view men and women as unequal?  As a new believer, I too struggled with this passage.  I found it dated.  Tyrannical, even.  In our “I am woman, hear me roar” culture, it’s understandable why so many cringe at the passage.

The truth is, however, that God does not view men and women, wives and husbands as unequal in dignity.  There are countless times in the Word where women are trusted with particularly challenging and important tasks.  The book of Esther is probably one of the most well known examples, not to mention the vital role of Mary, the mother of Jesus.  Rather, God views husbands and wives differently.  Though woman comes from man, they are two separate entities with separate abilities and faults.   Men, in general, are often better leaders than women.  Women, most often, are better caretakers and organizers.  It makes sense then, that God orders each to his or her own appropriate role within the home.  One commentator adds, “authority in vocation is not just a matter of who gets to boss whom. Authority in vocation must be exercised in love and service to the neighbor (see Matt. 20:26–27). The ruler is described as “God’s servant” (Rom. 13:4). Masters are reminded that they too have a master (Eph. 6:9).”

The second half of the quoted text works to shed much light on the first half.  It makes clear that the absent, controlling, recliner-hogging husband is acting in stark opposition to the God designed instructions for husbands.  A godly husband is so selfless, so confident, so loving that his wife cannot help but want to be lead by him.  She desires his council and trusts that he wants nothing more than to lead his family to a satisfying, righteous way of life.  He will sacrifice everything, even his own life, to protect his wife and children.   He will work long, stressful hours to provide for them.  He will study and reflect on scripture, teaching and guiding those he loves.

The big question then, is whether or not his word is challengeable.  Can a wife tell her husband he is wrong?  As with most “big questions” regarding the Christian life, the answer is yes and no.  A wife does have the right to discuss topics with her husband; she is, after all, his helper.  She may bring up ideas or suggestions that cause her husband to view things in a different light or perhaps even change his mind.  The husband, acting in accordance with God’s command, will surely consider his wife’s preferences and is expected to hold her concerns in high esteem.  The tendency, however, is for a wife to slip into critic mode, demeaning her husband and challenging his ability to lead effectively.  It’s no coincidence that we, as believers, find ourselves in similar situations with the ultimate Leader (a la the Isrealites in Exodus).  When times get tough, doubt stumbles on in, and we become certain that if we were in charge, things would run much more smoothly. In all actuality, these thoughts are, at the least, insulting to the leader and unhelpful in accomplishing anything.  To quote one pastor, “anything with more than one head is a monster . . . . That is true in the movies, and that is true in marriage.” A husband and wife may discuss an issue.  They may disagree; but the truth is that the final word comes from the husband, and his word is to be respected.  Is it easy? Nope.  We’re fallen, often selfish, and  sometimes throw little tantrums when we don’t get our way (guilty).  But it’s what we’re called to do.  Plain and simple.

A husband walks in the back door, tired, but excited to greet his family.  His wife has joyfully prepared one of his favorite meals.  She knows he would eat anything she gave him (even a crumbled birthday cake that fell out of the pan), but she works hard to make home a comforting place for him.  Are they perfect? Not even close.  But they’re trying.  Every day they’re trying to think a little less about themselves and a little more about each other, working and exploring their God given roles as husband and wife, each sharpening the other.  This is not Leave it to Beaver, folks.  This, my friends, is marriage.  This is submission.

 

The crumbled birthday cake that fell out of the pan;)

 

Quotes from:
http://www.genderbias.net/docs/resources/guideline/Anything%20With%20Two%20Heads.pdf
http://www.ligonier.org/learn/articles/authority-vocation/

Moroccan Inspired Meatloaf

While I was pregnant and diagnosed with gestational diabetes, I probably ate healthier than I have in my entire life.  Funny how your diet affecting the life of your child puts a new spin on things.  I stumbled upon an amazing website called gestationaldiabetesrecipes.com.  original, i know;)  It’s packed with recipes that I’m still using despite no longer having diabetes.  The one i’m featuring is one of my favorites, but nothing that I’ve made from her site has been bad.

I kept pretty much everything the same except for eliminating the currants (is it bad that i’m writing a food blog and I don’t even know what they are?) I encourage you to try out the cumin carrots as well.  They were super easy, and even my indifferent-to-vegetables husband liked them.  This meat loaf is so tasty (yes, mom, I said “tasty”) that no condiments are required; even you, mr. ketchup lover.  Mangiare!

Ingredients

• 750g / 1 ½ pounds lean mince beef
• 90g / 1 cup /2 ¾ ounces breadcrumbs
• 1 brown onion, finely chopped
• 1 large zucchini, grated
• 2 tablespoons fresh parsley, finely chopped
• 2 teaspoons ground cumin
• 2 tablespoons worcestershire sauce
• 2 tablespoons tomato paste
• 1 egg, beaten
• 5 tablespoons currants (60g / 2 ounces), soaked for 5 minutes in hot water, drained slightly before adding
• Cumin Carrots to serve
• Green vegetables, steamed or blanched, to serve

Basting sauce (Thoroughly combine the following ingredients and set aside ready for basting.)

• 1 tablespoon worcesterchire sauce
• 1 tablespoon tomato paste
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• ¼ cup of water

Preheat oven to 220ºC / 180ºC fan-forced / 400ºF .

Lightly oil a 9cm x 19cm (4″ x 8″) loaf pan or bread tin (if you don’t have one line a large roasting pan with baking paper) and set aside.

Combine all ingredients in a large bowl and mix thoroughly with your hands. Tip into prepared loaf pan or shape into a loaf and place on prepared roasting pan.

Bake for 45 minutes, basting (spoon over basting sauce) every 15 minutes.

(NB. If you are cooking this on a roasting pan, when you finally remove the meatloaf from the oven, drain away any excess juice into a bowl or gravy jug and serve with the meal.)

Remove from oven. Cut into thick slices and serve with Cumin Carrots and green vegetables.

 

http://gestationaldiabetesrecipes.com/

 

Birth Story

Disclaimer:) This is the story of Dmitri’s birth.  I was told by many, even before his delivery, that I needed to write it down. It has taken me this long to finally feel as though I can revisit those memories.  (It amazes me how God seems to slowly ease you back into ever possibly going through it all over again). It is lengthy and fairly detailed, so if you’re not into babies, or dilation or placentas (ick i’m still not into them) then beware:) Otherwise, grab some tea and settle in.

 

There are few things in life that are less predictable than having a child. Of course, we know what the end result will be – a red faced, gooey, beautiful baby; but the journey to that one life altering moment is no more easy to foretell than weather in western Pennsylvania (raining is usually your best bet). They tell you to expect a long labor, 24 hours for most, and to prepare for the worst pain you have ever felt in your life. You place all your bets on the chance that at the end of the rigorous road of labor, it will all, somehow be worth it.  It is. Every single time.

Before i had even missed a period or entered the hibernation that is the first trimester, i knew i was pregnant and i knew i was having a boy (the feeling, right?). So when I repeatedly had thoughts that my boy was coming early, I figured there was a fairly good chance, despite having odds against me, that this little one would be a preemie.  All we asked (begged) of him (and Him) was that he wait until December 8th, 37 weeks, so that I could deliver in the homey, relaxed, atmosphere of the birthing center. Obedient even in  the womb, my water broke at 4:00 in the morning on December 8, 2011, nearly sending niagra falls directly on top of my spazzing feline (tmi?).  Thinking back, our reactions were pretty hysterical. What do we do?  How does one simply wait at a time like this? Roman quickly got me on track – a towel, we need a towel.  make that many towels. I began implementing my very well thought out plan. We labor at home for a few hours as to not increase the chances of unnecessary intervention, particularly pitocin and then begin the 40 minute drive to…the hospital. the hospital? why? i’m 37 weeks! Turns out we had been counting two days off for months and I was only 36 weeks and five days; two days short of the requirement to deliver at The Midwife Center. and thus begins the unpredictability.

We waited at home for about three hours, got a quick bite to eat, and headed off to Mercy hospital. as we left the house, car seat in hand, we just couldn’t get over the fact that we would be returning with one more member to our family.  if you’re keeping track of time, you’ll notice that we were on the road to Pittsburgh, mama in labor, at 7:00 am. Yep – rush hour.  It was on this car ride that I realized, every six minutes, how silly it was of me to worry that I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between Braxton Hicks and the real deal. When we arrived, I was 3 cm dilated and 90% effaced – great news! The contractions were more annoying than painful, and at this point, some deep breathing did the trick. We made our way back to the labor and delivery room. It was both strange and exciting to see the small, clear, bed on which my little boy would soon be lying.  Part two of the well laid plans continued – no wired monitors, no bed restriction, no epidural. What’s that annoyingly true quote about best laid plans? Oh, Robert Burns couldn’t have said it better – they “often go awry.”  As I made my way to the restroom at the request of the nurse, my wireless monitor began calling beeps of danger.  Before i could even ask “what’s wrong” a team of nurses barged into the restroom (there is no modesty in labor), flinging me on the bed and strapping oxygen to my face.  Still beeping.  They rolled me every which way in attempt to avoid that one sound that no one wants to hear, a steady beep.  By the grace of God, the baby’s heart rate increased and I was put on bed rest for the remainder of labor; so much for mobility.

At some point between 4-5 centimeters, around 1230 pm, I began to panic.  I’m talking all out, illogical fear, panic. I had never been in this type of pain before, and I knew that at 4 cm, the finish line was no where in sight and the pain level was only going to increase. If this is active labor, I thought, how in the hell am i going to get through transition?! How am i going to continue through this for TWENTY-FOUR HOURS? The midwife checked me in hopes of being able top tell me that I was making progress – almost 5 cm.  i actually remember exclaiming “ugh, REALLY?!” Don’t shoot the messenger, girl. The wheels started turning, quickly looking for an escape root.  Maybe a c-section wouldn’t be so bad, I silently debated. An epidural isn’t the end of the world. Plans-Shmans. Both Roman and my mother were supportive either way. Roman and I decided that the best route would be Nubane, a drug meant to relax the mind and body – similar to a couple of drinks.  The effects only last 1-2 hours, but I didn’t care if it lasted two minutes. Relief is relief.  After a few minutes, I slipped into a drowsy, relaxed state.  The pain was still there, but the panic was gone.  I requested another dose when the medication wore off, but the Midwife refused due to the baby’s unstable heartrate. I was frustrated with her, but able to logically understand her decision.

Labor post-Nubane is both clear as day and a  complete blur. I had no sense of time or self-awareness.  I just remember grunting and groaning through waves of affliction (oh the melodrama). I didn’t care about birth balls, or positions, or cold cloths.  I couldn’t care less about birth plans or natural child birth.  I just wanted it to be done. Give me the epidural, give me the c-section, just get this thing over with. There was a glimmer of  light at the end of the tunnel of labor – being numbed from the waist down never sounded so euphoric. We waited for the anesthesiologist in shining armor to show. and waited. and waited. at around 6 cm and close to 2:30 pm (a good 40 minutes after my request) the nurse arrived to deliver the news that the only anesthesiologist in labor and delivery was in a c-section and wouldn’t be back for a while.  Would i like a cool cloth? A cool cloth?! HA! I’m still surprised at my ability to bite my tongue in that moment. Pain, as my husband will tell you, does not bring out the most gracious side of me.

The waves continued, and at one point, I remember whining to my mother “it feels like they’re not stopping! i’m not getting a break!” “That’s because they’re not,” she empathetically replied. The mountains on the monitor now looked more like plateaus. At about 3:15 pm, the anesthesiologist arrived, grumpy as ever, and ordered me to move myself to the end of the bed and sit still. I had received a spinal tap in the early months of pregnancy, so I knew what to expect.  “In about ten minutes or so you should start feeling relief.” I received the opposite.  In addition to contractions, I was now experiencing what felt like a convulsion of my abdomen followed by an intense sharp pain. I felt so ridiculous, but I couldn’t help repeatedly yelling involuntary, short bursts of “OW!!…. OW!!…. OW!!” After about ten minutes of the outbursts, the midwife decided to check me in suspicion that the sharp pain I was feeling was the baby moving through the birth canal.  She was correct.

“Time to push!” she excitedly exclaimed.  I smiled for the first time in hours. I knew pushing would be hard, painful, work, but it was the last stride of the journey.  My son would be here within hours.  To this day, I still believe that pushing was the absolute worst part of labor.  I’m amazed at how many women claim that pushing is their favorite part.  The epidural had no effect on me; it was either too late, or ineffective. I felt every single nudge of the baby’s body.  It felt wrong – like pouring salt in an open wound.  The harder I pushed, the more pain I felt.  I used to laugh as I watched women on television, baby crowning, mother panting “I can’t do it anymore.” “I’m done.” No way out now, honey. Ironically, I mumbled those same words.  Roman was there encouraging me and giving me updates on my progress.  My mom was to my left, my #1 cheerleader, as always.

After only 20-30 minutes of pushing, at 4:31 pm, Dmitri Alexander Kozak was born into this world.  He was 6 lbs 12 oz, much smaller than they had anticipated, and healthy as ever. Roman went with him as they conducted all of the post-delivery procedures and I laid reflecting on the past eight hours, thrilled to introduce myself to this new little person,     truly relieved that his birth was over.  Since that day, this little, helpless child has changed me more than anyone in this world. He reveals attributes about myself, both good and bad, that I never knew existed. He reminds me every day, no words needed, that i’m doing just fine, and that every painful step from pregnancy, to delivery, to the first sleepless night at home, is all worth it.

You know..the feeling!

Every stage of life is accompanied by the feeling.  You fall in love – how do you know?  The feeling.  You browse numerous stores looking for that ONE special white gown.  It’s the one!  How do you know?  The feeling.  Life continues and you THINK you might be pregnant – but how do you know? The feeling (along with the confirmation of two little pink lines).  After nine long months and eight even longer hours, you give birth to a beautiful, squirmy, screaming little boy.  You are in love – how do you know? ….

It’s hard to find any two words that fully describe the over flow of thoughts I had immediately following the birth of my son.  The first word that comes to mind is relief. I had waited nine months to meet this person, and all that I kept thinking was never have I ever in my life been so relieved that something was over.  I was emotionally, physically, and mentally drained. And through it all, I kept finding myself searching.  Where was the feeling?  Where were the tears?  I love my child… why don’t I have the feeling?!  The days continued and so did the search.  I began to feel guilty over the lack of emotion I was feeling toward my son.  I had heard hundreds of women talk about the immediate bond they felt with their baby the minute they saw the little red squished face – I have to admit, I didn’t feel it.  I started to wonder about postpartum depression.  Having experienced depression in the past, I was familiar with the warning signs – sleepiness, lethargy, lack of enthusiasm, frequent crying.  This was not depression.

When we arrived home, I was hopeful that settling into our comfort zone would kindle some type of gushy mother feelings. Nothing. After the first night home and on 15 minutes of total sleep, I finally broke down to my husband.  The filter was off. I wanted to go back.  I wanted to have conversations that didn’t revolve around meconium and engorgement.  I wanted to lie in bed with my husband without one of us jumping up at the sound of a wimper.  “I love my baby,” I whined through the tears, “but I feel like I don’t like him very much.”  Later that day, I secretly began googling awkward, embarrassing phrases.  “I feel like I’m not in love with my baby”; adding “I feel like” made it seem a little less horrific.  I was desperate to find reassurance, company, words of comfort.  I discovered that hundreds, literally hundreds of women, at some point in their lives, felt the exact same way.  I was thrilled to know that I wasn’t insane after all.  There was one post in particular that really hit home.

“The idea that you should have a magical bond of instant head-over-heels love for your baby the moment you first lay eyes on her is cruel and seems to serve only to make women feel guilty for normal feelings.

Many women take months to truly develop a sense of love for their child. Think about it: one minute you’re pregnant, the next minute you’re a mother, and there is a huge world between those two states that you’re expected to navigate in a millisecond. You’re expected to love your baby more than you’ve ever loved anything in your life, but you’re given no time to develop that kind of intimacy. It’s just not that simple.”

I was loving my baby the only way that I knew how to love him and that was OK.  I fed him.  I changed him. I held him. I woke up every hour and a half at night with him. That is love.  Maybe not the romanticized, TLC version, but love nonetheless.

At some point amidst the dozens of conversations between my husband and I on this topic, he said something that truly affected the way both of us looked at parenthood.  “It really makes you realize how selfish we are.”   We never realized how every minute of our lives was so incredibly self-focused until we had to spend every waking (and sleeping) hour caring for someone else.  In retrospect, a huge part of the lack of emotional connection to my child was selfishness. Pure, sinful, whataboutme selfishness.  From that moment on, I created somewhat of a mantra.  Anytime I found myself becoming frustrated or angry with him, I would think to myself: This is a child of God.; he is a human being for whom I am responsible. He is not another task to which I have to attend to. He is my son.

 

A post form my husband after our first night home: “After approximately 45 minutes of sleep the first night we arrived home from the hospital, issues feeding, many tears, the inability for our son to sleep outside the arms of one of us and a diaper rash, Dmitri is finally adjusting to home…and we are getting some sleep! This is sanctification at its finest…refining selfishness as if by fire: transforming into selflessness. Have Mercy, Jesus!”

Gnocchi Mac & Cheese

While perusing through foodie sites, I stumbled upon The Cutting Edge of Ordinary.  This is a fabulous blog focusing primarily on recipes that are good tasting and fairly easy to make.  The first one I tried (and still my favorite from the site) was the Gnocchi Mac and Cheese.  The photo itself was enough to convince me!  This dish is the definition of comfort food; cheese, carbs, garlic.  What more could I ask for?  Since the Kozak’s are on a budget, I cut out the Gruyere and doubled the Fontina.  I also added about 1/2 cup of Parmigiano-Reggiano to the sauce in addition to sprinkling it on top of the gnocchi.  Enjoy the decadency:)

Gnocchi Mac n’ Cheese
From Cuisine at Home
1 pound purchased or homemade gnocchi
2 Tablespoons butter
2 teaspoons garlic, finely chopped
1 Tablespoon all-purpose flour
3/4 cup milk
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/4 cup shredded Gruyere cheese
1/4 cup shredded fontina cheese
Salt and white pepper to taste
1/3 cup shredded Parmigiano-Reggiano
Basil leaves for garnish, optional (I chopped fresh basil and added it in to my cheese sauce)

Preheat oven to 375. Prepare gnocchi according to package directions. Drain and place gnocchi in a single-layer in a 1-1/2 quart shallow baking dish that has been sprayed with nonstick spray.

Melt butter in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Stir in garlic and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Whisk in flour until it thickens and bubbles, then whisk in milk and Dijon. Continue to whisk mixture and cook until slightly thickened, about 3-5 minutes.

Combine Gruyere and fontina, then add by the handful to milk mixture, stirring until melted before adding the next handful. Once all cheese is melted, season sauce with salt and pepper.

Pour sauce over gnocchi and sprinkle with Parmigiano-Reggiano over top. Bake gnocchi until they puff and the cheese is golden and bubbly, about 25 minutes. Let gnocchi rest for 5 minutes before serving.

http://thecuttingedgeofordinary.blogspot.com/

Writing Withdrawal

I’m a writer. Have been since the time my first grade teacher (Mrs. Scaldone, I think?) handed me a “writer’s notebook.”  We usually had to spend our time in the “practice book” counting apples or tracing letters, but I flourished when given the chance to utilize the right (or write?) brain.  Since graduating college, I haven’t really had the chance to do a lot of writing.  Yes, I’ve corrected essays – underlining thesis statements and circling misplaced modifiers, but I really haven’t dug my hands into the dirt of writing for quite some time. I miss it. The challenge of arranging words in order to evoke some sense of emotion is nerdily exhilarating to me.  So this is my attempt to medicate my writing withdrawal, to rekindle my weakness for words.  This is my crack at exploring life as a mother, a wife, and a homemaker.

I created my first blog a few years ago entitled “Pink Polish Red Wine.”  I was newly married at the time and sought to create a site where I could explore various topics that I had been mulling over for quite some time. It ended pretty quickly when I realized that between teaching and marriage, I had little time to write a blog, at least one that I felt was worth writing.  Being a lover of words, blogging was appealing to me; but I soon found that the ideas I wished to write about I actually knew very little about.  It was a healthy dose of humble pie, to say the least.

In coming up with a name for the new blog, I knew I couldn’t use PPRW.  Within one single year, my life has changed significantly.  I barely have time to get a shower, let alone polish my nails (she says as she writes a blog post), and red wine usually comes at the end of a day filled with copious amounts of spit-up and waterfalls of baby tears.  It’s a beautiful, difficult, rewarding life – but it isn’t summed up in the words “Pink Polish” and “Red Wine.”  A good friend of mine once posted that much is revealed about a person by the stains on their clothes.  His included flour, chalk, and spit up – a baker, a professor, a father.  This lead me to ask myself, what do my stained shirts say about me? What do spit-up, breast milk (breast milk and spaghetti just didn’t have the same ring to it), and remnants of tonight’s dinner (usually some sort of pasta) reveal about my life? Mother, provider, wife, chef extraordinaire;) This is the me that would be explored on my blog. This is the me that I giddily looked forward to introducing to the world.  And that, my friends, is the birth story of “Spit up and Spaghetti.”

Please keep in mind that this is a blog; it’s not a well developed research paper.  It will certainly contain half thoughts and     opinions and will most likely include contradictory statements.  There will be occasional misspellings and maybe even a grammar error or two (gasp!).  Be gracious, friends:)