The Guilt of a Second

I write from the throes of pregnancy at week forty. 

None of my favorite jeans fit, I’m sleeping very little and I find myself hungry all the time. It’s like college all over again, but my beloved Chocolate Shop isn’t right around the corner. 

I have a terrible admission to make. I thought if I tell you – and only you – it’ll be off my chest and perhaps I’ll feel a bit less guilt? We’ll see. 

I feel terribly guilty about having a second child. Our daughter Caroline, who just turned two in July, has soaked up every bit of attention and adoration my husband and I have had to offer for twenty-four months. There is no way a second could capture our hearts in the way she has. It is as though I have little love left to give because my heart is running around the outside of my body, begging to go check cows with her baby doll in tow. 

Is this normal? 

Did anyone else feel like their second child would automatically be getting the short end of the stick right out of the gate? How could I possibly love anything in the way I love our first born?

The second will be introduced to hand-me-down clothes on the day they (gender to be discovered at time of birth) come home from the hospital. 

The second will be swaddled in blankets monogrammed with their big sister’s initials. 

The second will use sippy cups with little teeth marks already along the edges. 

The second will never know a mother without grey hair or dark circles under her eyes. 

The second will be bathed with tattered washcloths, wear bibs with spaghetti stains down the front and strut around in cowboy boots already broken in to fit someone else’s feet. 

The second will read books with missing pages, put together puzzles with bent corners and will never have a plastic kiddie pool to themselves.

The second will be compared to the first, out of habit. Will they walk sooner? Cry longer? Bite harder? I pray daily that they arrive in fewer than twenty-six hours of labor. 

The second will use a pacifier that fell on the barn’s dirt floor and wasn’t boiled afterwards. Or, ever. 

The second will blow out birthday candles that have already been lit and blown out once before.  

The second will never get to name their first heifer without input from the next room over. 

The second will never have their birthdate or initials used in a password sequence.

The second will require a sense of humor, high pain tolerance and fierce independence for survival. 

The second is definitely getting the short end of the stick. 

I told my mom and sister about my feelings of guilt and my perceived inability to ever love a second child in the way I have loved our first. My mom quickly responded to my concern with, “How do you think I felt with three kids?!” 

It should be noted here that I’m child number three. 

And her response actually explains a lot of the last thirty-three years. 

UPDATE:

Cyrus Sankey was born August 10, 2018 and when it comes to my fears listed above, 
I think I've had a change of heart. 

Ode to the Farm Mom

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who can miraculously stretch one pound of hamburger into 6-quarter pounders, one 9 x 9 recipe for brownies into two 9 x 13 pans and bake a dozen potatoes in minutes when help accepts the offer to stay for dinner.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who knows that cleaning out the bottom of the washer is like cleaning out a time machine from the previous week: kernels of corn, nuts and bolts, bobby pins, and diesel receipts. She’s never felt that bad about keeping the loose change and soggy bills she finds; there is a very good chance they originally belonged to her, anyhow.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who can take her daughters back-to-school shopping and even manage to buy a little something for herself: a can of hair mousse that will last her two years.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who can save anything:

A science fair project that now contains twice the amount of vinegar than the instructions called for.

A once-brilliant-white baseball uniform that forgot to find its way to the laundry after last Tuesday’s game.

A dismal PTO fundraiser that lacks motivation, input and action.

A decorated cake once certain to win the county fair. People change name tattoos into creative art all the time; surely she can help can change this icing into something beautiful, right?

What can’t she save?

A bad haircut.

“It’s just hair, it will grow back” she’ll empathetically say in support while watching the daughter try to fix the big mistake.

Four hours later she doesn’t feel bad for closing her prayers with: “For the sanity of everyone in this household, please let her hair grow back as soon as possible…”

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who – every once in a while – tries a new beauty product, even though her exhausted nightly regimen typically only consists of drug store face lotion, corn husker’s lotion on her cracking hands and chap stick. One day she’ll finish those jars of anti-aging crème she’s invested in over the years. Probably when the kids go to college and she is past the point of no return.  But she’ll use every drop, no doubt: She’s embarrassed to even think about how much she spent on the little jars.

            

Reality vs. Really Good Intentions

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who keeps stashes all over the farmhouse.

A stash of chocolate she only eats after the kids go to bed.

A stash of greeting cards that arrived in her mailbox when she needed them most. On her bad days, she still reads them. They’re like talking to old friends she’s lost touch with. 

A stash of Christmas presents she bought in April that she won’t find in time for Christmas. In fact, she won’t find them until August….16 months later.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who doesn’t have much use for manicures, expensive coffee or flip-flops.

But she rarely goes a day without using a nail brush and lava soap, putting her coffee in the microwave two or more times before finishing it around 11:00 AM (that’s after misplacing it twice) and Muck Boots with plastic Wal-Mart bags lining the inside.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who will buy a new blouse for the women’s luncheon, only to miss the event because she sees cows in the hayfield. But don’t worry, she’ll take the tags off for the next time she gets to go to town: the day she is room-mother for her middle child’s class. In true fashion, it’s finger paint day and it takes only minutes for her to question why she’d buy a new blouse for herself, anyhow?

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who recognizes, but never fully accepts, the fact that vacuum lines are fleeting but muddy boot prints in the carpet will last forever.

And special wishes for a relaxing day 

for the farm moms who sacrifice so much 

time, energy, emotion 
and good hair days that no one 
but the semen delivery guy 

gets to see.

You deserve it.

Read more about the Stockman's Wife

Stealing Joy

I had heard of it, in passing.

I even recognized the characters’ names, somehow?

But I had never actually engaged. 

Through the advice of coworkers, two weeks ago I began watching episodes of FixerUpper.

 

I’ve had a strange urge 

to burn our house to the ground 

ever since.

For the three people left in this world not familiar with the show (I was one of you, only weeks ago), Fixer Upper is a home improvement show hosted by a young, charismatic couple that transforms dumps into dream homes…in one episode…with humor…and a perfect budget.

Every project they complete is fresher, brighter, and more charming than anything I’ve ever lived in. Sorry, Momma.

They just don’t build shiplap bathrooms made to house frozen baby calves over night.

Chip and Joanna are like your admirable, adorable older cousin and his wife who live states away that you keep up with only seeing the highlight reel (Christmas letter). Even after seeing them every so often (Tuesdays at 9:00 EST), you leave feeling just a bit envious of the amazing work they do, the ease of which they do it and the allure of the Texas life they live.

And that’s why 

I have a terribly hard 
time watching the show.

I have to tell you something.

In hopes that maybe by telling you – and only you – I’ll do a better job of holding myself accountable.

I do this thing. Not often, but every once in a while.   

I’m aware of it, only once it begins.

And I cringe each time I let myself do it.

Still, every so often, it happens again.

I let comparison creep into my mind and 

I quietly begin to discount the positive things in my life.

I see a beautifully renovated Fixer Upper house and I forget about how far along our home has come.

 Today our home is filled with ranch and family history. And walls. None of which you can buy at Magnolia Market. 

I see someone begin to take impeccable care of him or her self and I wonder why I’m ok with WhirleyPop for supper when Cody is out of town.

I see people younger than I chasing beautiful kids around and worry: Am I going to be an old Mom?

But isn’t it so easy? The comparison thing. 

Isn’t it so easy to watch good things unfold for someone else, then quietly sit back and think: I’d like to experience that, too. If only just a little.

In a time where we have access to every intricate detail (whether we want to or not) of a family’s highlight reel, it’s so easy to watch our own behind the scenes footage unfold, and compare. If only by saying something as simple as: I like what they did in that space; I’d like to completely renovate our bathroom. 

Side note: A plumber is seriously coming to our ancient farmhouse today – on the day of this writing. If he can’t figure out something quickly, I’m taking the lightening rods off the roof and letting the problem sort its self out. 

Anyway…

Comparison, in moderation, is not necessarily an evil. In fact, it typically encourages the desire to do more or do better.

So when is comparison a bad thing?

When it begins to steal your joy.

Again: 

When is comparison a bad thing?

When it begins to steal your joy.

Proverbs 14:30

A heart at peace gives life to the body,

but envy rots the bones.

When you expend enough energy comparing anything that you have (or don’t?) to others, 

that you’re too worn to seek out and enjoy the wonderful things in your camp, 

the rot has already set in.

And by “someone else’s beauty”, I mean someone else’s

Career, path or professional success

Family, heritage or history

Home, house or furnishings

Friends, social scene or status

Appearance, confidence, or closet

Health, strength or energy

Location, proximity or zip code

Winnings, success or trophy case

Body type, body type or body type

Children, legacy or rendition

Schedule, production or obligations

Someone else’s Life.

Theodore Roosevelt once said: 

"Comparison is the thief of joy."

What a simple, profound way to think of something so common in our every day life. 

Do you find yourself - if only just a little - comparing what you have to what others do? What about comparing your life's path and timeline to other people's? Why do that to yourself?  God made your life's story uniquely for you. Only you were meant to live it. 

You lock your car when running errands. 

You use a password to securely lock your personal information online. 

Certainly, you lock your home up when you leave for an extended period of time. 

Why?

Because you don't want a thief stealing the physical things that are important to you. 

So why - why - would you allow 

conscious comparing to trespass 

into your most guarded possession: 

- your heart -

so it can

steal your joy?

Fantasy Pinterest

I was trying to get on my shoes and brush my teeth before church Sunday when I passed Cody in the living room, grabbing his iPad. 
His iPad, rushing out the door on a Sunday morning?

"I'm going to need you to drive to church this morning, if you don't mind. I need to update my fantasy football team," he said.

I got one foot in and laughed. "Are you kidding me?" 
"No...all of my players are injured. Except for that Martavis - the Pittsburg Steeler - he's out for drugs."
That stung a little. 
"Fantasy Football is so ridiculous!" I continued, giving my hair one final spritz (fog) of FrizEase. 

Cody defended his hobby as he filled two travel mugs of coffee. "I mean, I'm sure there is a fantasy Pinterest or something that you could play in."

I stopped dead in my boots. 

He, actually, didn't know how right he was. 
There was a Fantasy hobby I could lose myself in. 
It's called Pinterest. 

Someone else does all the work - and makes it look good. 
Guys are spending time drafting players that would never realistically be on the same team. 
They're talking about playoffs four months in advance. 
They're investing time, energy and effort into crafting a line up that they'll track closer than a trophy buck this fall. 
But they'll never step foot on a football field. 
And you. 
Look at where your decisions have led you. 
You think you have enough time/patience/stamina to recycle your old toilet paper rolls into customized greeting cards?
You think you have enough time/patience/stamina to turn peanut butter and jelly sandwiches  into cake pops?
You think you have enough time/patience/stamina to recycle your kid's basketball t-shirts into a tent? 
You think you have enough time/patience/stamina to make a button necklace?
No. 
Let someone else throw that pass, make that tackle or super glue their fingers together - and to the dog - while you just sit back and watch. 
That's what HGTV and ESPN are all about. 

It makes us strangely competitive.

All of the sudden, Cody is talking about players' performance like he personally trained them. Like he has a true stake in this running back's performance. 

"He should have had that!"

"Why in the world would he have done that?!"

And, he talks to his friends about where "his team" lies compared to theirs. 

Ahead. 

Behind. 

Still reeling from Luck's performance during the first two games of the season. (Calm down. He did this last year, too. I think the wind blows his beard in his eyes.)

And Pinterest has created and stimulated this strange need for us to create the most perfect family photos, most perfect wedding, most perfect fall outfit, most perfect meal, most perfect mud room, most perfect engagement photos and most perfect birthday cake for the princess at home. 

Who are you trying to impress?

It did not work. 

Stop. I can't even. 

Stick to Cinnamon Toast Crunch. 

It's expensive. 
I have no idea what kind of investment (do you see the sarcasm dripping off of that word?) Cody has in Fantasy Football. Does it cost money? Don't answer that. 
Let's talk about all of the money you've spent on powered sugar, scarves and chalk paint. 
Enough said. 

Name cropped to protect the innocent. 

You're welcome, Emily. 

It's not real; None of this is real: 
Actually, sir, Andrew Luck doesn't even know you exist. Why are you so hung up on his Sunday performance? And Martavis doesn't care who you are. Which is probably a good thing. 
And "your team" realistically belongs to m(b?)illionaires like Robert Kraft, Jim Irsay, Martha Ford and Dan Rooney. Do you think they get hung up on a pass interference?
No. They have another cocktail. And fire someone. 
And you, Pinterest Pam, the reason your outfit doesn't look as amazing as her's?
You're a real, beautiful size 10. 
She's a 0. 
Which is only a size if you still shop at American Eagle. 
The reason your make up didn't turn out like her's?
You don't have a make-up artist, professional photographer and studio. 
The reason your wreath doesn't look like her's?
Well, frankly, you're not crafty. And that's ok! That's why Hobby Lobby exists. 

And, you're Pinning quotes like this, trying to find your true heart. 
Or something?
Honey you need to step away from the iPad and get some rest. 

Listen, I love Pinterest as much as anyone

But I've come to realize that - frankly - Fantasy Football has nothing on Pinterest when it comes to removing us from reality and planting us smack dab into an unrealistic, candle-lit, burlap-covered life. 

Fantasy Football or Fantasy Pinterest: Which is worse?

I mean...

You're making your husband eat salad out of mason jars. Get ahold of yourself. 

Photos courtesy of Pinterest and Pinterest Fail. Thanks for submitting them.