Congratulate me

For the first time in my life, I've been PAID for my writing.

Was it for something inspirational, deep, thought provoking, soul searching?

Nope. It was for humilating myself. Evidently there's a market :)

Check it out - I'm on the front page of BlogHer!

Together for Adoption Conference

I am heading up to Austin on Friday morning for the Together for Adoption Conference and I can't wait.

Please leave a comment and let me know if I get to hug your neck this weekend!! I will link you up below.

Who I know is going:

Owlhaven
Oatsvall Team
McManus Life
Rage Against the Minivan
Mama Koala 




Who else?

How to Be the Perfect Mother

My first baby was three weeks old when the phone rang. On the other end was Karen, the mother of a child in my school. Although I had not taught her daughter Remy, we'd developed a friendship. But I hadn't seen her in months, and her phone call was surprising.

"How are you?" she asked.
"I'm fine!"  I said.
"No, really. How are you."
"I'm good! I mean, I'm tired, but I'm fine."

There was a pause. Then she said, "Really? Cause when Remy was three weeks old, I laid her down on the bed and screamed, 'I don't know what you want from me, you little monster!!'"

"You did?" I asked, my bleary eyes now wide. I sure hadn't heard that from the sweet church ladies who had been bringing me meals.

Then, knowing I was safe, I cried. "It's hard," I confessed. "It's really, really hard."

Karen talked some more, but I don't remember the rest of the conversation. Something about joining 24 Hour Fitness so that she could go work out when Remy screamed all night. It didn't matter what else she said. All I had heard was that this mom, whom I knew absolutely adored her little girl, had been a bonafide nutjob after she was born.

And that was a greater ministry to me than six months of lasagnas.

Because I wasn't fine.
I was completely losing it.

While I loved this child with a power that took my breath away, the truth was, I didn't know what the little monster wanted from me. I hadn't slept, I hadn't showered, I hadn't cooked, I felt fat, and weeks after his birth I still cringed when I moved due to the damage inflicted by his gigantic screaming head. I already suspected I was a Horrible Mother because despite using every coercive means known to woman, my inept yet aching boobs just refused to produce more than one ounce of milk at a time, as evil fairies sang "Breast is best! Breast is best!" inside my previously intelligent brain. I hated my husband and the majority of the other people I knew, with extra fury reserved for the ones who could effortlessly breastfeed and/or whose babies slept through the night.

I was the hobbling, crying, haggard covergirl for PostPartum Depression Today.

And Karen had just told me that I was, well, if not normal, then at least not alone. As far as I knew, she was the only other mother in the history of mothering who had felt that way. But that was okay, because I only needed to know that one other mom existed.

Up until that point, no one had dared to be vulnerable with me, to admit that they were not the Perfect Mother. Every other woman I saw seemed to have this mothering thing down pat. If they had a baby on Wednesday, they were at church on Sunday, skinny, and their hair had not only been washed but blow dried.  Those Women could pump 16 ounces of milk at a time. Those Women had acknowledged every single baby gift with an original heartfelt thank you note before the baby was even born. They were never less than gracious to their mothers and mothers-in-law who did and said everything wrong when they came to visit the baby. And Those Women were just begging the OB to tell them it was safe to do the deed again with their doting, perfect husbands.
 
Those Women never shouted out cuss words when their babies woke up at 3am after finally going to sleep at 2am. Those Women never laid face down on their unvacuumed carpet desperately begging Jesus to just make their baby sleep. Those Women never saw the confused and slightly frightened looks on their husband's face as he asked, "You always wanted a baby, and now you have one, I don't understand why you are so unhappy?"

Then Karen, who had dared to be real, told me the most beautiful gospel. "It ends, Missy. Suddenly it gets better. It gets great. It won't be like this forever! You're halfway home already! I PROMISE!"

She was right. It didn't last forever. It got better. It got great.

And you know what else I learned? Those Women were figments of my imagination.
Those Women don't exist. 

The foray into motherhood is hard. For everyone. It always has been. All of us are struggling when the new baby comes home. We're all just struggling in different areas.

There are a few women out there who are almost one of Those Women. They just go by another label: OCD. Control Freaks encountering a teeny tiny One Who Will Not Be Controlled. Which means their breakdown is coming, be assured, it may just be delayed a bit, and you probably don't want to be around when it happens.

And then there are those of us who are having a second or third or eighth baby and yes, we might even be at church on Sunday. Y'all, we've sung this song before. We've figured a few things out, praise be to His holy name. New babies don't freak us out anymore. But ask us how it's going with our two year old or our six year old or our twelve year old, and we might hit the floor in a fetal position before we can complete a sentence.

Don't compare yourself to the old moms. Don't compare yourself to the new moms. Don't compare yourself to anyone. It is such a ridiculous waste of time, all it will accomplish is making you feel like a big fat loser, and your assessments will almost always be a lie anyway.

Instead, look for the real moms who quit pretending they had it all together a long time ago. Seek the women who rely on God to get them through every day of motherhood. Pray that God points you to them. They're out there, I promise.

Soon, very soon afterwards, God sent me some, who promised me that they had had a hard time too. Maybe even harder than I had! And guess what? These women - Jenny and Amanda among them - were the same women that I had thought were one of Those Women. They weren't. They never were!

These Women were way, way better. They were real. And real friendships were formed.

I was thinking the other night about how Karen's call and my wonderful friends completely influenced the tone of this blog, and my tone to all new moms. I thought of Karen last week when I told Meg, who was pushing sweet tiny baby Emma, "You're coming on three weeks. Three weeks always meant a major breakdown for me. Call me if you need encouragement."

I think about Karen every time I tell a weepy, exhausted new mom, "It ends. Suddenly it gets better. It gets great. It won't be like this forever! You're halfway home already! I PROMISE!"

I want to be one of those women. Don't you?

Hairable

Okay, ya ready for a hairowing walk down memory lane?

First off, I need to explain that I was a little bit doomed from the start. My entire childhood was shaped by a succession of bad haircuts. Por ejemplo:

Ya see? Even at four I thought I looked like a boy in this picture.
(My momma just did her first tsk and head shake. She will now continue to tsk and head shake throughout this post.)

Let's just get the unpleasantness out of the way with one fell swoop, shall we?

 

Go ahead. Say it. 

Bless. Her. Heart.

What can I say, it was the Carter Years. And what could be more patriotic than having the same haircut as your president?

PS - Mom, if I've never told you thanks before for getting me braces, I'm telling you now.

Moving along.

My Ugly Stage (do you hear the tsking?) continued right through sixth grade, where I pulled my long hair back on one side only and clipped on a "hair diddy" that I made myself with lace and novelty buttons my mom bought for me at the Cloth World.

 

Finally in seventh grade I was allowed to get contacts (and I had to pay $60 every time I lost one - I lost many. It was worth it.) and along came the bangs. Which were painstakingly curled just right and then plastered to a fine crunch with Final Net each and every morning before school.  

And where I considered myself cursed, CURSED by first period gym which threatened to dampen my meticulous bang crisping.

Then, eighth grade, and the photo you've all been waiting for:

 

We were young. No one could tell us we're wrong. 

Searching our hearts for so long. 

Love is a mulletfield.

On to high school. Where I got a little funkier and adventurous. I mean, I'd hit my peak with the the above coif, might as well perm the heck out of it and strike a pose in the bathroom

Here's a closeup of the hair art for you:

Nothing says style like some frizz.

From there I hacked it off

Then shaved one side of it.

And if that picture doesn't make you want to groove to some Flock of Seagulls, I just don't know what will.

Another angle for your viewing pleasure:

Yes, my homecoming date Dracula liked it as well. And just how fabulous is Dracula's white suit? I sure wish Walker had a white suit. And a skinny tie to go along with it. And put a whole lotta gel in his hair.

Just one more I found while digging through the photo albums:

Speaking of Dracula, meet his bride.  I HATED that do. I had a friend's brother do it for me, and after he did it, I HATED it, but I didn't realize that I could have combed it out, if I wanted to. So I kept it. But I HATED it all night long. And it was my bestie Garth's prom, and poor thing took me with that ridiculous hair to his prom. Ugh. Ugh! And yes, that's his daddy's Caddie that he was allowed to use for the evening.

Then came the 90s, the blessed, blessed 90s, and boring hair was back.

But now, at the age of 40, in an effort NOT to have a momcut, it seems history is repeating itself:

Hello, my name is Missy. And once upon a time,

I had a mullet.

Hello, Missy.

Got any hair confessions to make yourself?
Oh girl, you KNOW you do.

Pull out those high school prom pix, get them scanned, and let's have us a Scary Hairy Link Party on FRIDAY (if you do not have a scanner, you can take a picture of a picture. Really.)

TEE HEE!! I can't WAIT!!

Lifesong Liberia

2010 Liberia Video from Lifesong for Orphans on Vimeo.

This week we are inviting our faithful readers and supporters to step up and help us in a time of need for Lifesong Liberia.

Liberia is located on the west coast of Africa, between Cote d’Ivorie and Sierra Leone. After 14 years of civil war, the country’s infrastructure was destroyed. A peace agreement was signed in 2003, though significant issues still remain. Currently, there is an unemployment rate of 80%.
Lifesong has partnered with The Master’s Home of Champions orphanage and is providing a loving and safe home to many destitute and abandoned children, some of whom are deaf. Bishop Emmanuel Jones and his wife, Ramona, are passionate about rescuing and caring for such children. They seek to be the hands and feet of Jesus, and are focused on the goal of raising up champions for the good of Liberia and glory of God.  Three months after Lifesong got involved with The Master's Home of Champions Bishop Jones sent us this update:

You should see the children now!  They are beautiful!  When you were here, they didn't look good because they were malnourished, pale and some were sick.  Now they look completely different!

This summer, another orphanage was in dire need, and  thanks to an unexpected donation (story to come) Lifesong was there.  Praise the Lord we can help more children!  But now, we need help too!  We need your help to make sure these children are fed every day!  We need your help to care for the fatherless!  Will you join us?

70 sponsors in one week is a tall order.  We know this.  We also know that we serve a big God who has told us that caring for the poor and vulnerable is at the very heart of who He is!  We believe we can make this happen! We pray that God will call hearts this week and we trust that you will answer!
Our goal is 70 people.  $28 a month.  1 year commitment. Contact us at info@lifesongfororphans.org to commit!

Join us in bringing joy and purpose to orphans!

And do you feel scared? I doooooo

I KNOW.

Where have I been? I can't even provide an answer. Sucked into a mommy vortex.

Walker's birthday was Friday. Whoo hoo! Unbeknownst to him, as soon as he gets home from Shep's soccer practice, he will become the proud owner of a Kindle bought for him by his loving mother-in-law. A Kindle ordered off Amazon last Monday. A Kindle for which an extra $15 was paid so that it would be here by his birthday. A Kindle that arrived TODAY. From Amazon, who has told us that they will not refund the $15 for their SEVEN DAY SHIPPING. But I'm not aggravated or anything.

If this weren't a nice clean Christian mommy blog I would insert something like "amazon sucks" right here but it is so I won't.

Do y'all also have a slew of birthdays this time of year? Let me tell ya how it is around our house. My mother-in-law starts the trend on August 21. Then my mom is August 25. Shep: August 26. Eva Rose: September 5. My niece Wendy and my brother-in-law Seantre (short for Sean): September 6. And Walker closes us out on September 17.

Gee, wonder what went on approximately 40 weeks before?
Falalalala. Lala. La. La.

I always said that you should never have a baby in August or September because it makes the school thing hard - they are always the oldest or the youngest. And I always said I never wanted a Christmas baby because they get so ripped off. I birthed one August baby, one September baby, and one December baby. Falalalala. Lala. La. La.

Anyway now that the never ending birthday cake/restaurant carnival is over, time to haul myself back to the YyyyyyM C A and burn off some buttercream icing.

Another reason I have not blogged is because I have been camera-less. Now, if you are a long time reader, then you can embarrass me by knowing that this it the THIRD TIME in the history of It's Almost Naptime!! (two exclamation points!!) that I have been without a camera. The last two times I lost my tiny point and shoots, so last time I paid more for a bigger Sony Cybershot and guess what happened after two years? The flash died and Sony wants $150 to fix it.

If this weren't a nice clean Christian mommy blog I would insert something like "Sony Cybershot sucks" right here but it is so I won't.

I really wanted something that took better photos though, especially for Ethiopia, and I flirted with the idea of a DLSR but suddenly gleaned understanding into the term "commitment phobic" because the more I researched the more I had an urge to say, "it's not you, it's me" and just hang out with my friends. So I am looking for a good "bridge" camera. A bridge camera that does not get blurry in low light, ie, every room in my house. I am leaning towards the Canon PowerShot SX20IS. I am also wondering about buying a used or refurbished one. Any suggestions, oh wise photographer types?

And yes, I said soccer practice. I am officially a Soccer Mom. Who drives a minivan. And lives in the suburbs. Here, I have a crummy iPhone picture to prove it.

That would be his game face. Which worked because the Tornadoes won their first game 10-9! Go Tornadoes!!

Shep is loving soccer which is fun since the last time we tried when he was four he pronounced it "hot and boring" and only lasted three hot boring practices. But we had signed him up for soccer without asking his opinion - a mistake we have not made since. Around here, we have a 'don't ask don't tell' philosophy when it comes to activities. If they don't request to do something, I do not encourage it. And they have to ask more than once. Beg, I make them beg. This is why Shep is now loving soccer and my girls are taking art while my dream of being a suburban living minivan driving Ballet Mom goes unrequited.

The other exciting thing: I have made two count em two Aarti Party meals and they were both fantabulous. In case you limit your reality TV addiction and do not watch The Next Food Network Star, Aarti Sequeria is the delightful winner of the last season, and her show is about making Indian food accessible, which was thrilling to me because Indian is my favorite cuisine and I have always wanted to learn to cook it. First we made the Sloppy Bombay Joes and Kale salad, which was seriously one of the best meals I have ever cooked. Last night we made the Apple-Lime-Peanut-Slaw and Tandoori Chicken. I was loving it when my house smelled like an Indian restaurant last night. This afternoon when it still smelled like an Indian restaurant, um, not so much. Despite the new, lingering ambiance, our goal is to cook all her recipes. Yes. All of them. Which we definitely need to do since I now have big bags of various foreign seeds to use up: cumin seed, cardamom seeds, I got seeds.

The most exciting news, I guess, is this: after a summer of mirror induced self-loathing, my hair is purple now. And I like it. 

You know why I like it? Because I paid someone to do it. As opposed to you know what.

One of my favorite things about this haircut is that I had it once before - in 1986.

I have also had this color before. Once in high school I was at Juli Cox's house and we decided to dye our hair a nice shade of eggplant. We dyed it in the bathroom, then went way down the long hallway to her room...leaving a nice eggplant trail all over the new carpet. And guess what? Their house was on the market. Wow, was her mom mad.

Mrs. Cox, I get it now, and I am so, so sorry!!

So why am I revisiting my tortured youth? Because I'm FORTY, that's why. Midlife crisis, here I come!! Next I'll be wearing headbands, big shirts and leggings while I jam to 80s music.

Yeah, so, I already do that.

Things can only get better.

Gah, you Christians are SO judgmental

Walker and I were just having one of those good, lie in bed, stare at the ceiling talks. The conversation bounced from reading books to Christian leaders who fall from grace to speculating how our children will one day disappoint us to what we would ever do if one of our children told us that he or she was gay.

"I'd love them," Walker said. "I would make it abundantly clear that we did not support the lifestyle, but that they had our never ending love. I think that if we were to get it wrong, by being too judgmental or too loving, Jesus would want us to err on the side of love."

The one criticism that I hear hurled the most at Christians is that we are so judgmental. It was hurled at me recently, during a conversation when I was being the exact opposite of judgmental. I realized that even though the person saying it had absolutely no evidence, and plenty to support the contrary, she so completely expected me to be judgmental of her situation that she couldn't even accept the fact that I wasn't. It's a stereotype utterly ingrained in the minds of non-Christians.

But y'all, stereotypes always come from somewhere.

Christians are judgmental. It's true. So are atheists and Jews and Muslims and Buddhists and Mormons and, ironically, the judgmental woman who was calling me judgmental. But we Christians seem to have cornered the market on judgment. Why is this?

I have a theory.

Judgment, in and of itself, is not necessarily bad. To make a judgment means to form an opinion or a belief. I make a thousand judgments every day, and so do you. I judge Diet Coke to be good. I judge Diet Pepsi to be bad. I judge abortion to be wrong. I judge adoption to be good. I judge firefighters to be brave. I judge babies to be adorable. I judge teachers to be underpaid. Some of my beliefs are based on what the Bible teaches, other opinions, like the fact that Diet Pepsi stinks, aren't at all.

Here is another of my judgments: the problem among believers is that we often turn our beliefs into condemnation.

I'll repeat that.

We Christians often turn our beliefs into condemnation.

And while judgment is often not inherently wrong, Jesus tells us that condemning others is flat out not our job.

Let's take abortion. I'm 100% in judgment that abortion is wrong in just about every situation. Yes. I'm crazy judgmental like that. What about the women who get abortions? Do I judge them? Well, in a way, yes. I believe, based on what the Bible states, that the choice that they made was wrong. But do I condemn them?

Do I think women who have had abortions are bad people? Do I consider myself better than them?  Do I wish something bad would happen to them to punish them for their sin? Then I have crossed a line to condemnation.

How about the other hot button issue in the church today: homosexuality. Do I judge homosexuality? Yes. The bible is very clear that it is a sin. I am judging homosexual sex to be wrong - just like every other extramarital sex is wrong. But what about the homosexual person?

Do I think homosexuals are bad people? Do I consider them the enemy? Do I refuse to associate with them? Do I wish them punishment for their sin, or rejoice in their misery? Then I am condemning them.

The gay thing is a big one for me because several of my favorite people on the planet are gay. I do judge their lifestyle - I believe that it is outside of God's will for their lives and is therefore harmful to them. I pray for them to repent. But I don't condemn them as persons. In fact, I love them with all my heart.

In the bible, Jesus had a habit of seeking out the people whom the rest of society condemned: the women who slept around, the people with embarrassing diseases, the thieves, the prostitutes, the sinners. If the rest of the world thought you were too sinful to hang out with, chances were, Jesus was going to hunt you down and invite himself to dinner with you. I have long believed that if Jesus were to come back today and land in Houston, Texas, he would head straight to Montrose, a neighborhood in the heart of our city that is half gay and expensive and half very seedy. Montrose residents would be his kind of people, based on the company he kept in Israel.

Jesus would judge their behavior, yes. He would tell them it was wrong and call for them to repent of it.

But would he condemn them? When Jesus confronted sinners, was his evangelism strategy to disassociate from them and pull into a Christian bubble? Did he look down on them, or tell them that they were horrible people headed straight to hell in a handbasket?

There was one group of folks in the bible that Jesus did treat that way. He held those people in contempt and wasn't shy about letting them know it any chance he got. Who were they?

The people that disgusted Jesus to no end were the church ladies who looked down on the everybody else. (Okay, the church men.) The Pharisees, who spent their lives chasing bible study after bible study in an effort to be the holiest guys on the block. The ones who could quote scripture all day. The ones who wouldn't be caught dead even looking at a gay prostitute, much less hanging out with one, even much less loving one. 

They were the ones who were completely and utterly missing the point.
The ones who didn't have a clue what grace was.

Because while the Pharisees were wallowing in their own self-righteousness among others who shared their smug superiority, Jesus was out hunting down the prostitute.

Who do you hunt down?

When we condemn others, we are focusing on their sin instead of our own. And the sin of a gay prostitute is not one bit greater than the sin of my own judgmental heart. When we condemn instead of love, we are completely forgetting that Jesus came to set the captives free, to give sight to the blind, to proclaim good news to the poor (Luke 4:16-21).

It's not easy. Personally, I have a very hard time not condemning child molesters, for instance. Heck, I have a hard time not condemning people who wear white shoes after Labor Day. And I know what you're saying - that God will judge us all one day, and some of us will indeed be condemned. He gets to do that, because he's God. And we're not. So let's not try to be.

Let's err on the side of love, as hard as it is to do. I think that's what Jesus would want.

Judge not, and you will not be judged; 

condemn not, and you will not be condemned; 

forgive, and you will be forgiven

Luke 6:37

WELCOME HOME ELIJAH!!!!!!!

 Need some more of that sweet face? Go to Amy's blog here.

'Cause baby there
Ain't no mountain high enough
Ain't no valley low enough
Ain't no river wide enough
To keep me from getting to you babe

Failing my screen test

Six years ago on Labor Day, I was in labor.

Six years ago the day after Labor Day, here was the fruit of my labor.

Eva Rose's birth wasn't exactly easy due to the fact that she weighed TEN POUNDS. Well, so it was 9 pounds 15 ounces - I give myself the ounce. She had a little trouble breathing when she came out, which scared us, but then all was well.

Just a year before, I had given birth to Shepherd. Now since he was born a mere nine months and three days after my wedding, and since I had been told on numerous occasions that birth is kind of an icky experience, I had demanded that Walker stay right by my head the entire time so that he would not be exposed to such birthly ickiness and surely be repulsed by me for all the remaining years of our marriage. He, of course, absolutely ignored me and got all up close and personal for the the birth of his first son, and I was too busy actually birthing that son to do anything like construct a sentence to tell him to return to his assigned post.

But after Shep was born, instead of needing therapy to remove the horrifying images of his wife being split open and a slimy kid popping out, he just kept going on and on about how stinking beautiful it was. My incredulous looks and, "For reals?" only caused him to get a beatific look on his face and say, "Yes. It was so amazing." And then he'd look at me like I was a rock star. Which I was. And I'd pop another Vicodin like any good rock star because the whole supposedly beautiful amazing birthing thing hurt and continued to hurt for days on end.

The more he talked about it though, I began to get a little jealous. I mean, the man just wouldn't shut up about it. Maybe I was mistaken - maybe birth actually was beautiful, like he said! And I, the one who deserved to witness such beauty, who suffered to produce such beauty, mightily suffered, was completely deprived! No fair! I wanted to see it too!

And then, I considered doing something that I had NEVER, EVER considered doing before - I began to think about videotaping my next baby's birth.

Now, I know some of y'all are all au natural when it comes to birthin babies, and y'all probably put your birthing video on your facebook pages and uploaded it to youtube are saying, so Mis, what's the big deal with that? Some of my dearest friends are just like y'all. My BFF Carol actually gave birth at home last year, bless my ever lovin Vicodin. I supported her 100% because I think that the theory of natural childbirth is super cool.

There was even a period during my twenties when I seriously considered becoming a midwife. But the midwife dream died abruptly when it occurred to me that, considering I would never in a million billion years give birth without accepting any drug offered to me by any body, I was probably not a prime candidate for the program.

Cause my birth plans always went something like this:

1. Schedule mani/pedi
2. Show up at hospital on predetermined date
3. Begin pitocin cocktail
4. Add a splash of Epidural
5. Take a nap
6. Re-apply makeup
7. Push out a baby

Yes. I, Missy, am the proud poster child for Unnatural Childbirth. Perhaps you've seen me?

So for me to actually digitally record my own birthly ickiness for all perpetuity? That was stepping about a mile outside my comfort zone.

But Walker went on and on and I got jealous-er and jealous-er.

A mere four months after Shepherd's birth, barely weaned from the Vicodin, we found out that another little stranger was on her way. Following the initial shock and awe, I decided that this child would make her screen debut at the same time that she made her every other kind of debut. My plan was that afterwards, I would watch it once, see what the big beautiful deal was, then erase the tape. I lined up Shelly, the only friend that I could possibly ask to do such a personal screen test, got my mani/pedi, and went to the hospital on the predetermined date of September 5.

Shelly taped Eva Rose's birth.
All ten pounds (okay nine pounds, fifteen ounces) of it.
And the tape sat in a drawer for months.
Because beautiful and miraculous yada yada yada - I just couldn't bring myself to watch.

A mere seven months later, we found out yet another little stranger was on her way. I decided that I really had to watch the beautiful amazing video of my precious daughter being born before the next precious daughter was born. Just once, before I erased it, as was the plan.

I took a deep breath, and watched it.

OH my netherlands!! I desperately tried not to hyperventilate before I had to look away because seeing my own self split WIDE OPEN by TEN POUNDS okay NINE POUNDS FIFTEEN OUNCES OF BABY was not beautiful, it was not amazing, it was just HORRIFYING.

But here's the deal y'all. You can't erase the video of your child being born!! There is just no way. It is her debut into the world, as ghastly a miracle as it may be. It has to be kept.

So now I have this tape in a drawer and I have only watched it once in six years yet I live in constant paranoia that my sons will one day find it, naively pop it in, and be subsequently damaged for life.

Just like I was.

Blog worthy part 2

first watch this



then this





You're welcome.

Blog worthy

Walker sent me an email yesterday with the tagline "blog worthy". I agree.


Rachel's Birthday Video from Kristian Anderson on Vimeo.

Kristian Anderson has been battling bowel and liver cancer since last October.

How To Help A Friend Who Has Had a Miscarriage

Next in the How To Help a Friend series: Lora Lynn from Vitafamiliae, who has five kids ages five and under and is going to Africa for more. Yes, she's one of those, I mean one of us. And, like far too many of you, she's also lost two babies. Welcome, Lora Lynn!

It happens to many women at some point or another.  The loss of a pregnancy, no matter how early, is a painful shock to us when our bodies fail to do something it’s been designed to do.  When it happens to a friend, here are some ways you can help.

1. Obviously, if she has children, offer to keep them for a few days.  Whether your friend has to go to the hospital for a D & C or chooses to miscarry at home, she won’t feel up to caring for her children for a few days.
2. If her husband can’t stay with her, make sure she’s not left completely alone.  Some women want to be by themselves.  But it’s comforting to know there’s someone in the next room in case she needs them or wants a distraction.  
3. Take her a care package.  Some items to include:

• Therma-Care heating pads (these are great for cramps)
• Magazines (steer away from Parenting and go more for home decor and entertainment)
• DVDs - Comedy only!!!  No weepy movies please.
• Ice cream.  Duh.
• A piece of jewelry or a sweet stuffed animal to commemorate the life she is mourning.
• Nail polish.  Nothing cheers a girl like pretty toes.
• A throw blanket.  I had a friend who brought me a blanket for every hospital stay.  Those are treasures to me now.  And they made my hospital bed so much cozier.

4 . Don’t forget the father.  When mommies are in mourning, it’s easy to forget that Dad is suffering from a loss, too.  Obviously, his primary concern is going to be for his wife, but there are ways to serve him, too.  Probably the best way to help is to take care of some of his normal chores so he can pick up the slack for his wife.  Find someone to mow the grass for a week or to get the oil changed in the car.  Cross something off his honey-do list.

Besides the practical ways to serve, there’s a few things that you should and shouldn’t say.

1. Do not regale the mother with stories of people who miscarried only to get pregnant the next month.  There are many of these stories, but even those don’t always end well.  She is focused on her current loss. Let her mourn this first.
2. If you’ve never had a miscarriage, do not express guilt that you haven’t experienced this, no matter how well-intentioned you are.  Nobody wants their friends to suffer what they suffer.  This will not make her feel better and it puts the focus on you.
3. If you can empathize, give her a hug and say, “I know.”  Sit with her and just be sad together for awhile.  Sometimes we women don’t talk about these babies in heaven enough.  We start to feel like we’re the only one who has ever experienced that pain.  But it isn’t true.  This gestating thing, it unites us.  The good stuff and the bad.  Just like we should start talking about how painful breastfeeding can be in the beginning (why didn’t anybody WARN me?), we’ve got to talk about these miscarriages.  Suffering in silence doesn’t help anybody.  And it doesn’t properly honor our lost babies.
4. Don’t be afraid to tell her good news, share something funny, or invite her to parties.  Certainly be sensitive to her grief.  Preface things with a question like, “Are you up for some happy thoughts?”  But don’t leave her out of things just because you don’t want to upset her.  And if you need to announce your own pregnancy after a friend’s recent miscarriage, tell your friend in private.  But tell her first.  She doesn’t want to be the last to know just because you didn’t want to upset her.  She needs to feel included.  
5. If your friend has no other children, remember to send her Mother’s Day cards and treat her as a mother.  She was a mother, no matter how short.  Women never forget their babies, planned or unplanned, living or not.  Remember with her.  

And that’s probably the key.  When mamas grieve the babies they’ve lost, they don’t want to grieve alone.  And when they pick themselves up and move on, they don’t want to be the only one who remembers.  A good friend remembers.  She honors.  And she loves.

A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.  Prov. 17:17

Lora Lynn is the mother to five children on earth, two in heaven, and one she hasn’t met yet in Uganda.  She writes at Vitafamiliae and runs HopeSuds to help fund adoptions.