Rest

I am driving through my neighborhood. 

Fifth delivery of the day. Bags, in their beginning and final stages. Slip pockets. Coffee. Quilted linen & thread.

I am craving a minute alone. I am spending every minute of Baby's nap. Am I spending it well? Well, none of it was spent with Him.  

I am talk-talk-talking. Sharing my heart, my life, my last shred of energy. 

I am sipping coffee, attempting to find some more. Energy.

I am late to Bible study at my own house. Our guest standing cold at the door. 

I walk inside and pick up pop-tart off the floor, drain Baby's forgotten bath water from the morning. I push aside any feelings of embarrassment. His grace is sufficient. His power perfect in weakness. 

I cling to the promise as I, the only extrovert, carry the conversation. Exhaustion gives way. {Coffee still being sipped.} 

Then somehow, again, I, in people, find rest.

Home

Tonight I was in a home where nine kids grew up. It was loud. Everyone brought a friend. It made me feel...

And then I come home to write this ... because it's still Friday.

Home is a house where everybody is welcome. 3 am. Trampoline. Playhouse. Tanning bed (though not I).

Home is everyone talking at once. The voices swell. The speaking stick is passed. Thrown. Swung ... at you.

Home is a car driving back and forth. Cheerleading. Softball. Dance. Softball. Basketball. Softball. Secrets are told: "What is said in this car STAYS in this car." Right, Mama Sherry? Oh, and there were three little girls from school.

Home is a bleacher. Field two. Field three. Field six. Or a concession stand.

Home is yelling. For her. To her. Love her: "You got this, Liz. It's all you!"

Home is a dirt road, yelling, "Amen, amen, amen. A-sing it over." Singing, "God is in control. We believe that His children will not be forsaken." Dancing, "Whoa-oh-oh-oh, whoa-oh-oh-oh. Do you wanna revolution?!"

Home is a four-wheeler. Leg scraped. Clothes muddied. Calf burned. Broke down.

Home is a drink. Large sweet tea, please. Styrofoam cup. Little red chicken in the letter C. You know the one.

Home is a living room. Candy bars under the microwave. Sweet tea in fancy glasses. Permanent marker atop the china cabinet. JCPenney catalog to be marked up.

Home is a people. A mama, a sister, an aunt to top all aunts, a grandma so fierce, the most handsome (may he rest in peace), one boy, two honorary sisters, the nephews.

Home is Cannady.

Ordinary

It is just now Friday. Five minutes past its beginning. The Piggy Boy and I have had a big day; so big, he needed two naps.

Yesterday school was cancelled. Josh was home. The weather was gross. I cried for the whole of my forty-five-minute bath. My water was cold and my heart was all anxious because I was past due on well, just about everything. 

Eyes all puffy, I ran my errand. Hours and hours later, a kind lady overlooked my tardiness. God smiles on me, but not in an I-told-ya-so kinda way, more in an I-love-ya-girl kinda way. 

I am relieved. Even though it's nine past midnight and John is laying on the living room floor in front of me playing with a toy tiger and not sleeping, I take heart. Yes, and I have peace. 

My life is in no way what I thought it would be. World changer. Mover. Doer. Active. Make it happen. I am not. I can not.

My life is wonderfully un-special. 

I am making peace with that fact.

For it is in ordinary where God meets me.

Nursing John Past One: The Ugly Truth

Breastfeeding.

It's my full-time job.

I went to college. I am highly qualified to teach middle school language arts and social studies.

I also have a part-time job cutting & shipping & loving on bags.

My hobbies include reading, writing [not arithmetic], Starbucks coffee drinking, talking on the phone with my mom, and walking shopping malls.

All these things are great and sound nice, but breastfeeding.

It's. What. I. Do.

I want to share the ugly truth about breastfeeding a toddler. And not just any toddler, but a toddler who thinks the purpose for which he exists is to nurse.

Picture a day in our life.

John and I wake up. Maybe it's 7 a.m. (Oh, yeah. I should remind you. We are in the same bed.)

And since neither of us are morning people, back on the ninny he goes, and back to sleep I go.

This goes on until around 9 a.m. when John begins to feel human.
{You need your coffee. Homeboy needs his ninny.}
(Also, I receive no benefits of sleep during this period, as you can imagine.)

9 a.m.-ish, we wake up.

I march to the living room & turn on Elmo.
[The mention of Elmo's name is how I finally pry him out of bed.]

The minute I plop down in my "ninny chair" is the minute he decides he needs to go back on his ninny.
Friends, if I am sitting down, John thinks he should be nursing.

We eventually get Boo Boo his breakfast, which he eats, sometimes.
Then we might exercise (together, meaning John climbs on my tummy while I'm doing abdominal exercises [highly effective] or jumps on my back while doing push-ups [which equals quittin' time], or we might do artwork or laundry or watch Cars.

In any case, what usually follows is a bath (also together). I have to wear my bra in the bath tub, y'all, and he still finds a way to nurse.
{Bathing together has been discontinued beginning this weekend. Not only does John want to nurse his entire bath time, but he also likes to throw things. Earlier this week, he threw a metal can of shaving cream at my head. For my own personal safety, I have decided to bathe at night when my husband is home. I just felt it important to include what has been our bathing/nursing pattern for the past few months to truly document the ugly truth.}

What else, Ashley?

Well, he also prefers what we call "ninny pops."

Let me define. A ninny pop is a  very short breastfeeding session. He "pops" off the ninny after only about 30 seconds of nursing, but DO NOT PUT THE NINNY AWAY. If I do, a meltdown will ensue. John would prefer a constantly topless Mama.

Another reason he'd prefer me topless is because he has a purpose for both ninnies at once.
Ninny #1: He's using to eat.
Ninny #2: He has a strong grip on (to make sure it doesn't get away???) {by the way, [sometimes] OUCH! and [sometimes] Hello, uncomfortable!}

Often when he's having a ninny pop, he will nurse on one side, then pop off and pull on my collar (oh, how my shirt collars are stretched out), which means he is ready for the other side. He will nurse on each side at least three times in an average short nursing session.

So, what is my purpose for writing this? {Ashley, are you trying to persuade me NOT to breastfeed?}

My purpose is to share John's purpose for nursing in this way.

Comfort.

A friend of mine has two kids who hang on to their blankies all day every day.

John hangs on to his ninnies. Literally.

I am so thankful for this.

In all the ugliness that is breastfeeding an avid toddler nurser, I am so thankful that I can bring comfort to my son in such a constant manner.

2 Corinthians 1:3 says, "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort."

I pray that this simple act of Mama-comfort is pointing him to the God who constantly, intimately, and with great initiative and sacrificial love comforts His children. {Psst. Even mommies who don't breastfeed bring comfort to their children multiple times each day. Good job, Mama.}

Breastfeeding a toddler is one of the most inconvenient (in many ways, but in others, extremely convenient ...  Hey, you never leave home without a sippy cup.) and self-sacrificing commitments that you can make, but it's also one of the most rewarding. (Read about some of the benefits here.)

It is my sincere hope that you've laughed a lot while reading this and that you'll breastfeed your babies (or if you're a brave man reading this, encourage your wives to). It may be the ride of a lifetime, but I can promise you grace upon grace (actually God does - John 1:16), and that you'll learn a lot about God and life in the process.

It's a trip, y'all. And so worth it.

What Mama Did

Sorry, folks. She's all mine. {And Calley's.}

Mama dropped me off at cheerleading camp. I mean, she literally dropped me off.

We had broken down every time we stopped on the way, so she said, "Ashley, I'm not gonna stop. I'll just slow down, and you can jump out. I love you."

I cried sixteen times that day because I couldn't get that stupid 1999 dance.

I smile every time I think of the drop-off.

She curled my hair whenever I wanted her to.
She hit me in the head with a hairbrush whenever I whined too much.

She waxed my eyebrows. On demand.

She struggled. For me, for Calley. She drove that beat-up car for way too long. I loved that car.

She came to school way too much. Man, how she loved parent-teacher conferences (and later Parent Connect - the bane of our existences).

She made me turn in my Algebra homework AFTER I failed the class.

She listened to my almost-daily world-ending emotional breakdowns.

She tried to fix it. It didn't work - only God could mend such brokenness.

She shared her heart, her hurts, her experiences.

Mostly, she gave. Not just time, or money, or effort.

She gave her whole self. Her heart and soul.

She made sure that I knew that I am hers. And she's all mine.

{Big shout-out to Sherry Cannady Williams, the sweet soul who will always be "Mama." I thank God for you.}

Thank You

I admit it.

I am bad at communicating.

Emails/text messages/phone calls/showing up in person, on time, I basically stink at all of it.

Faithful are the wounds of a friend, profuse are the kisses of an enemy.
Proverbs 27:6

A friend of mine reminded me that I am really bad at remembering to thank people when they do something kind for me. {Sorry about that.}Thank you notes are certainly part of the aforementioned list of methods of communicating at which I stink.

So, as a result of my friend's rebuke, I am trying to be more diligent about saying thank you because I truly am thankful for the sweet stuff that my friends/family/total strangers do for me.

I figured that since we're only a week into 27 (and since I was completely blessed by my sweet, sweet people) that  I would start by saying thanks for my birthday.

{Back-story} So, a few weeks ago, I put out a plea for a sewing machine.

{Confession} I work for Better Life Bags and haven't a clue how to sew!

But I want to learn so, sew badly.

A few hours after I clicked Send, I got a phone call (which I couldn't answer because I was holding a precious sleeping almost-two-year-old and was unwilling to give up that sweet moment [but more importantly I didn't want to wake him up]), followed quickly by an email. An email offering me a barely used and seriously fancy sewing machine.

I was floored.

And. Oh. So. Thankful.

Check out this beauty. I call her Nina Machina. {I can't even figure out how to thread her.} [But Rebecca will help me with that.]

I also got tons of sweet sewing supplies along with my Nina.

So, I'd like to start by saying thank you (!!!) to my sweet sister, Rose, who has made my sewing adventure possible.

But my birthday was more than this machine.

I was so blessed by my friends in Hamtown.

I mentioned here that I had purposefully scheduled two engagements on my birthday so not to make a big deal over it (totally God-ordained with my week last week - I did NOT feel like celebrating).

At my first appointment, no one knew it was my birthday. It was kind of fun, like I had a secret that I wasn't telling. Only John and I knew.

I failed to make it to the second event (where everyone knew it was my birthday) due to traffic and baseball practice.

I failed to make it to the event where everyone bought me a gift/card. I was totally surprised when I got them all!

So, I just want to say thanks.

To M: Thanks for your life-altering card and the sewing supplies. Your thoughtfulness means so much to me, especially now.

To R: I stinking LOVE my hand-knitted socks. Thanks for the hours of patience and care that you put into making them. Thank you for the beautiful RED card.

To S: Thank you for your sweet words & the strawberries. You know my taste buds so well.

To M.H.: Thank you for the festive make-up & bag. I have never worn such quality face paint in my life.

To A: Thank you for the scarf/notebook/note cards {which I intend to use to write thank you notes ... we'll see}.

To R.S.: I am so thankful for the sewing lessons to come! I need them BAD!!!!!! Also, thanks for the audio Bible. Can you say rulin'?!?!

Chapstick? Somebody gave me chapstick. I need it and I love it (esp. the berry flavor). Thanks!

Beyond that, my family & friends sent cards (filled with $$). :)

The words were really life-giving (especially the two-page letter of mommy encouragement from my Mama. Thank you.)

The money was really gift-giving. Thanks, y'all.

But I have to highlight my favorite card. The one from my mother-in-law.

This card was perfectly what I needed to hear this birthday.

You see, I often wonder if my hubby's family wishes I were different. You know, I wonder if they had some other kind of girl in mind to be his partner. {aka one less messy, one more on time, one more disciplined with John, one more quiet} I second-guess myself ALL THE TIME, and Josh is such a catch that I often tell myself that he deserves better.

It was so wonderful to read these words from the woman who cared for Josh for the first portion of his life. So, Ms. Debby, thank you. It has been a tough week; you have no idea how life-giving your words have been to me.

And if you can hang on for just another minute and go way back with me. Back to when John was still squirming around in my tummy. Back before there was a gold band on which my engagement ring now sits. Back to when there was no engagement ring at all and I couldn't even afford to drink orange juice.

Back when. You gave.

I seldom look at my kitchen table that I don't think of my Aunt Lisa. Thank you.

I cannot mix yummy and delicious corn casserole in my glass mixing bowls that I don't remember my friend who gave them to me. (Recipe too!)

And when I stroll John through the fifth shopping mall this week (must.leave.the.house.must.survive.winter.), Aunt Sharon will be on my mind.

My point? I am so thankful.
Thankful for the ways that y'all bless me materially.
Thankful for the ways that y'all bless my heart. Period.

I am so sorry that I stink at communicating it.

Beloved

It was a Sunday. I skipped church.

Desperate for time with God, just me and Him.

I went to the place where I feel most at home, and more importantly, most alone with God: Starbucks.

At my table, basking in the sunlight, for four hours straight, I asked Him questions.

I needed to know if I was lovable.

There have been times {many times} when I've felt otherwise.

I asked God, "Are you proud of me?"

Then I closed my eyes real tight. I knew that God could speak.

I saw the image of a crown. It was silver, complete with pink & purple jewels - like a little girl crown, but nicer.

Okay, God, that's so cliche. I don't have to be made to feel like a princess or anything. I want to know - from your Word - if you're proud of me.

Then a verse came to mind like magic.

Isaiah 61:3: to grant to those who mourn in Zion - to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes, the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit; that they may be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord; that he may be glorified.

{emphasis obviously mine}

I was floored. God not only gave me the image of the crown, but then He directed me to that very image in the Scriptures. My God truly wows me (and this is a small thing for Him).

Is He proud of me?

Oh, yes. Proud of His work in me. Of His Son in me, the hope of glory.

One Sunday, upon hearing the voice of God, I experienced His love.