Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Apparently the male readership wasn’t sufficiently rebuffed with that last post. There is no way to tell how many male readers there are, but I will say that a solid 25% of the Contact Form users are male. And about 99% of them begin their note like this, “My wife reads your site, but…” What a cover.

So, I asked my husband, “Would you read my site if you weren’t married to me?” I did not think this was akin to asking, “Do you think I’m fat?” and apparently he didn’t either. He answered, “Well…noooo…probably not…but you are entertaining sometimes.” I decided not to ask right then if I looked fat in my last month of pregnancy too.

Since a few of you commented with your birth tales and delivery dates, I thought I’d take a minute to recount our Christmas baby’s story.

It was Christmas Eve, my due date, and some of the family had come over to eat take-out Chinese and open presents. Everyone left in the early evening for the Christmas Eve service. I stayed behind, having labor symptoms. My husband went as well, as he was the associate pastor at the time (and we didn’t cancel services whenever someone had a baby or, say, Sunday happened to be Christmas ).

I wasn’t sure what to expect, being this was only Baby #2. She decided to wait for full-on labor until 8 p.m., the exact moment the Christmas Eve service had ended. The timing was so good that my husband didn’t believe me when I called. But he “came to” real quick after I said a few words.

We went to the hospital as soon as he came home. I was nearing transition, but labor stalled when we got there. (All my kids apparently know that a germ-filled hospital is not the greatest place to make their first appearance. So they just refuse. Every time!) This was a problem because my OB still had a bike to put together in his garage before Christmas morning. He was a nice guy and all, but looking back, pitocin and artificial rupture of membranes–ARM—probably wasn’t necessary. This would be my shortest labor by far, as anything under 12 hours would prove to be record time for me in the future.

She was born around 3:38 a.m. in just enough time for the good doc to make it home, put together a bike, and brew some strong coffee. My husband got his tax advantage for the year, I got breakfast in bed, and the world got a little more spice in it with the arrival of our girl. But that’s a story for another day.

Like millions of women in my condition who have gone before, I detest waiting. The suspense, the unknown, the mystery is hard on a Type A personality who enjoys routine, a neat schedule, and babies who never spit up on the way out the door. My husband, however, says that the mystery is solved. When he saw me vacuuming the baseboards and windows, touching up the scuff marks on the walls with paint, and organizing the Legos today, he told me that the wait must be over. I’m obviously “nesting.”

Either that, or I’m obsessive compulsive. (Gulp.) I tried not to think about that as I vacuumed out the oven today and my four-year-old said, “Mom, I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to do it.”

I even had my husband replace the batteries in the smoke detectors. While hanging and testing the alarms, he said in all seriousness, “Now kids, if you ever hear this loud noise at night [BEEEEEP], that means there’s a fire in the house. We have to get out!”

“Yeah,” I said, “But never mind if it’s during the day.”

Yes, indeed, our house is almost ready—we can have company, a white-glove inspection… even the fire department can come on over. But Baby Cakes needs to hang on a few minutes, because we still don’t have any diapers—or a name. I try to prioritize, but I’m obviously not always successful.

In life, there are mysteries, hard providences, and unknowns. True, there are fun, hopeful mysteries—like waiting for a baby. Sometimes they are the kind that leave us in wonder of God’s faithfulness—especially when things produce in our favor, and sometimes they are the kind that leave us in awe of His sovereignty—like when we don’t understand His purposes when the way seems difficult. Either way, in joy or in trial, He is always just, always good.

Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good!
Blessed is the man who takes refuge in him!
Oh, fear the LORD, you his saints,
for those who fear him have no lack!
~Psalm 34:8-9

I know that I post in fits and starts, but that’s the way it has to be. While musing between the ordinary and the not-so, real life has to be lived. And while a simple life is sought, it is not to be mistaken for easy.*

I remember when we were a One Pizza Family. Too, I remember when my husband and I could go out for dinner, and we could feed the kids off of our entrées. And I also remember feeling no guilt when I bought yogurt in single serving containers. But now that there are no leftovers after two pizzas, my seven-year-old is still hungry after a kid’s meal, and yogurt must be purchased in bulk, I have to face the facts: I’m a busy lady. Whether it is considerable more time in the kitchen, in the garden, in the laundry room, or at the table doing schoolwork, until the school-agers outnumber the babies (or Mary Poppins starts returning my phone calls), I’m sunk.

In a good way, of course.

Not yet 30 (I’m holding on for three more weeks), I am caught in the precarious position between that of “older woman” and “younger woman.” My nest is not empty from children who have found their wings, and likewise, my nest is not new and bare because I am just beginning to build it. No, it seems like I’m in a middle stage— prepared to be called a “woman” who has tasted God’s hard providences early on, but still learning to be all the woman He’s called me to be.

With my husband recently out-of-town for 7 days and then working late nights, any time the baby was sleeping, most likely, I was/am as well. (Oh! And the baby got a fever, the older kids had a cough, and my Calgon-take-me-away was empty.) All that to say, don’t mistake my silence and slacker-style posting as indifference or indication that I had the baby. (Though, you’re welcome to pray on that behalf and leave me suggestions for boy names.) Rather, I recognize that there are seasons in life. There are free moments and not-so-free moments, and when the latter outnumbers the former, sleeping and eating bon-bons will always trump blogging and answering email. I am a woman with priorities.

To everything there is a season, and a good woman learns how to weather them all. Now… where’s my umbrella?!

* I recently previewed A Journey Home, winner of the Jubilee Award for Best Documentary at the San Antonio Independent Christian Film Festival. Now, here’s a story that will justify my statement about simplicity not being easy (but, oh-so-worth-it)!

P.S. (I don’t like bon-bons. I was just practicing editorial freedom.)

In just a couple hours, I’ve received dozens of name suggestions—and maybe even more if my email worked. (If you’ve emailed today or yesterday, please resend.) Thanks for all the help, but it’s time for some criteria. As well meaning as some of you may be, Hayden-Jayden-Aiden-Cayden is, well, in violation of Naming Criteria #1.

1. Thou shalt not submit any trendy names. Check out any of the popular name lists. We liked “Ethan” for awhile, but being #3 on the Top Names for 2005 list, he got scratched.

2. Preference is given to names with more than one syllable. Bonus attention to names with three syllables, as all the siblings have three syllable names.

3. The name must have a good meaning. If we were Indians, I’d be happy with something like Sleeps Through the Night or Works Hard in the Garden. This is why “Aiden”—which means “fire”—would never work. Besides, Aiden is also in violation of Rule #1, being the #1 name for 2005.

4. My husband has to like it.

5. It has to be a little unusual, so the long held “Timothy” got scratched. But my four-year-old has a book called Timothy Turtle, and she’s still vying for it. I also thought it’d be sweet to have a plump cheeked, cookie fisted toddler that we could call “Timmy,” but this violated Section 4 of the Criteria list.

6. We settled on Charles Wesley Finney Sunday Moody, but our pastor wouldn’t baptize him.

So, thank you all for helping, and keep them coming!

If you’ve sent me an email anytime this week, I never received it. Due to someone or something deleting my mail on Earthlink’s servers, I’ve been without email all week. If you used the Contact Form on this site, that is gone as well.

I am ashamed to admit that I spent over six hours trying to solve the problem through Live Chats, the phone, and even a virtual desktop session. (This is where some guy in India takes over your computer, while you sit and watch him use your mouse real time and say “um-hmm” a lot because you can only understand every fifth word, hoping all-the-while that he’s not uploading viruses.) It only took me about an hour to conclude that the problem was on their end, but five additional hours would be needed for me to convince them of that. Actually, it was my husband who finally succeeded, because while I tried to use logic, he just eliminated all external variables so that there was no choice but for them to finally concede. Everyone should have their own, personal rocket scientist.

Every recent run-in with a large corporation’s customer service has resulted in blame shifting. Remember the KitchenAid dishwasher story? It is more expedient for them to conclude that my dishwasher is too far from my sink, than to replace a recalled product. (Never mind the fact that a Kenmore dishwasher worked just fine in the same spot for twenty years, the distance between the sink and the dishwasher is one foot, and the new dishwasher I purchased had been recalled.) If a company admits fault, it requires something of them. In other words, an apology is not good enough: repentance requires restitution.

So, it was no surprise that it took all week to resolve the problem, as getting a hold of someone past “the front line” is a technique that requires skill, patience, and the suave of Bill Clinton. While I enjoy low prices, I become more and more convinced that specialization and big business aren’t beneficial things, and it’s not just because I get aggravated with minimum wage workers who can’t think logically, step away from a flow chart, or use words that aren’t in the script. But that’s a talk for another day. In the meantime, I look for more opportunities to support local and small businesses.

Most women recount their labor stories in terms of hours, but I have to use days as my unit of measure. I’ve begun the count officially, and so my husband and I had a talk about names, considering several of the ones people have mentioned recently. A hearty “thank you” to everyone who posted and emailed name suggestions—even to those who left girl names because, well, you just never know.

In the end, I’m content to wait and see, not worried about anyone’s timetable. Truth be told, it is me who is more flustered than anyone else. Even if He hasn’t told us yet, He has chosen the perfect name already. God is never late; He is always on time. If He cares for the sparrow, I know that He cares much more about His gift to us, created in His image. He’s not worried, and so I take my cues accordingly. God is ever-patient toward crazy pregnant ladies, I suspect. How blessed to have nothing of greater concern at the moment.

On the home front, we are enjoying getting the strawberries right, finally. We’ve supplied our own tomatoes (and extra for the neighbors) for months now, but it’s time to replant new ones. I probably won’t get right on that just yet, though.

Apparently, however, I need some remediation with the blueberries. I think this is a respectable amount of berries on a one year plant, but I suspect there are supposed to be leaves on it too.

My husband bought a new-to-us van recently, and just like the houses we buy, he tore it apart. The picture here is actually pretty good, because you can’t tell that the ceiling was ripped out too. He’s installing all kinds of things, but the one thing all mothers of little ones might appreciate is…the onboard DustBuster. Yeah, baby.

I’ve heard that there are some men who are unable to buy gifts for their wives that plug-in, but I’m too practical for that. While others ride around with gold earrings and smashed Goldfish in their carpets, I’ll be smiling purty with a fully-charged vac in the back.

Now, my husband isn’t a car mechanic, but I there was a moment in time that I remember that I would be lost without him. It was the summer of 1995. We had met a couple months earlier– while I was a very poor, working college girl, and he was a youth pastor in seminary. My only transportation developed a major gas leak. He went to the library to obtain a diagram of my engine and fixed my problem with a .99 + tax piece of rubber/PVC thing. I knew right then, for sure, I was in love.

And now with an onboard DustBuster, I guess you could say that he’s still winning my heart ten years later.

Having secured a babysitter to manage the crew, my husband took me to an Indian restaurant this afternoon for lunch. It is the same Indian restaurant that we always frequent–not because it has the best food, best ambiance, or best prices, but because it has the best service.

Whenever we travel, we peel our eyes to search out new Indian places. We especially enjoy Indian food (and Thai), and if you do too, you know that these restaurants all have one thing in common: they’re always empty. Keep this in mind if you’re looking for a spot on a holiday. In general, Americans prefer dollar hamburgers to Chicken Curry with fresh ginger not because they’re finicky, but because (I hope), they just haven’t tried it.

Having a penchant for marketing, I realize that neon lights, drive-thru windows, and meals that come with a choice of combo-sides all have their draws. Likewise, the usual Indian décor of Christmas lights in February, plastic flowers on the tables, and cheesy music doesn’t do its best to provide atmosphere. Point conceded.

But as we walked in the usual restaurant today, the same owner greeted us, mumbled something that I didn’t understand, and went to get the Raita—a yogurt based cucumber and tomato dip. There were no long explanations necessary, because I always get Raita, which isn’t on the menu.

Try ordering something off-menu at Red Lobster. The computer won’t allow the server. Or order a side of sour cream at a Mexican place, and watch as your bill increases by a buck just for a spoonful of white stuff. Or try saying, “I’ll have the usual,” anywhere, anymore. The employee turnover is too great, so you can’t.

I turned to my husband as the Raita was delivered 30 seconds later and said, “That’s why we come here, isn’t it? He knows what Raita is, he knows that I always want it, and he doesn’t have to have a manager approve a non-menu item on the bill. In fact, he doesn’t even charge us for it.” Furthermore, he doesn’t nickel and dime us when we bring in the kids…which makes us want to bring the kids and leave a huge tip.

My husband replied, “He doesn’t have to wrestle the computer into submission because there is no computer.” Nope, just a nice owner, with a nice accent, and nice service. The food isn’t bad either. No comment on the plastic flowers.

It’s hard to think of yourself as a grown-up when you still harbor a secret liking to Peanut Butter Capt’n Crunch, but nevertheless, I have a lot of responsibility on my shoulders. I hear it all the time whenever I’m in public with my crew, a nice stair-stepped looking bunch of rascals. “You have your hands full,” they’ll say.

Depending on how long it’s been since naptime/snacktime/give-mom-a-break-time, I’ll smile sweetly and beam, “Yes, and my heart is full as well!” I won’t tell you what I mutter under my breath if it’s been too long since breakfast. That’s between me and Jesus, but I tell you, it’s not pretty.

One of my heros, missionary Amy Carmichael, wrote, “Don’t imagine that by crossing the sea and landing on a foreign shore and learning a foreign lingo you ‘burst the bonds of outer sin and hatch yourself a cherubim.’ ” No, dying to self is a daily thing. Just as crossing the sea doesn’t make a holy missionary, birthing a child won’t make one patient, kind, and loving. I know this.

Relying on Jesus and casting oneself on His mercy is the only way to fight that sinful nature. He is not a vending machine, waiting for our order, but rather, a tender God who loves to pour out good gifts to those who ask. Ask for mercy; ask for the baby to stop crying; but above all, remember to ask for wisdom as well.

Sometimes His good gifts are found in the word of an encouraging friend, in the Scripture, or in the circumstance of your husband coming home from work early. And if we wanted to get real technical…even in a bowl of Capt’n Crunch. However His mercy is shown toward you today, thank Him for it—and then ask for more!

Turn to me and have mercy on me,
as you always do to those who love your name.
Direct my footsteps according to your word;
let no sin rule over me.
~Psalm 119:132-133

What is thy only comfort in life and in death?
That I, with body and soul, both in life and in death, am not my own, but belong to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ, who with His precious blood has fully satisfied for all my sins, and redeemed me from all the power of the devil; and so preserves me, that without the will of my Father in heaven not a hair can fall from my head; yea, that all things must work together for my salvation. Wherefore, by His Holy Spirit, He also assures me of eternal life, and makes me heartily willing and ready henceforth to live unto Him.

How many things are necessary for thee to know, that thou in this comfort mayest live and die happily?
Three things: first, the greatness of my sin and misery. Second, how I am redeemed from all my sins and misery. Third, how I am to be thankful to God for such redemption.

~ The Heidelberg Catechism

Being assured of the greatness of my sin and misery is no problem right now. It wasn’t too long ago that women were grateful to make it through childbirth alive; now we all just want to make it through without too much pain. Times have changed. The good news, if it can be called that (since the Apostle Paul tells us that dying is gain) is that I’m not going to die—at least not just yet. The bad news is that I feel like it.

I walked out of my midwife’s office this morning with a diagnosis—posterior baby. I use the term “diagnosis” knowing that it is a little dramatic, but I’m allowing it considering my condition. After reading on the subject, however, I’ve concluded that maybe my gloom is justified. Enter Eeyore.

As I processed what she was saying, I knew that the midwife was putting things in the best possible light. It’s kind of like the dentist saying that you’ll feel a “little pinch.” I read a lot on the subject of childbirth, but I tend to skim the subtopics that don’t apply to me: gestational diabetes, c-sections, RH compatibility, and now, posterior babies. All I could process initially was the (extensive) knowledge I had on the subject: posterior = bad, bad, bad.

I came home and told my husband the reason why things weren’t moving along and why they probably never would (he already knows how to sort out my hyperboles), and so he did what all responsible husbands do. He googled it. After a couple minutes of reading, he got up and left his laptop open. I stole a peek, to which he admonished, “Don’t read any of that stuff.”

“That stuff” that he was trying to protect me from was the following knowledge: Mothers of babies in the ‘posterior’ position are more likely to have long and painful labors, generally requiring increased use of interventions. The fact that posterior babies generally don’t engage means that it’s harder for labor to start naturally, so they are more likely to be ‘late’ or require an induction. “Braxton-Hicks contractions before labor starts may be especially painful [tell me about it], with lots of pressure on the bladder [no comment], as the baby tries to rotate while it is entering the pelvis.” Many homebirth sites stated the need to transfer the mother to the hospital for interventions, including but not limited to: forceps, vacuum, pain relief due to fatigue, and cesarean sections.

You know you’re in trouble when even the Natural Childbirth sites employ the phrase, “tremendous pain.”

Having had long, painful labors four times already when everything was going in my favor, frankly, pops my balloon. If I didn’t know better, you could have almost heard me say a few weeks ago, “I am woman; hear me roar.” (Kidding, folks.) I am ready. I am knowledgeable. I can do this. Now, I’m thinking about calling for a home health nurse to come put in the epidural now.

Sure, in labor, most all women have their moment of weakness. But they usually save it until the end. Being an overachiever, though, I like to get a head start on things. My husband calls me a “pessimist,” but I prefer to refer to myself as a “realist.”

Now, of course, it’s entirely possible that the baby could turn, but seeing as how he’s been comfy like this for several weeks now, I don’t hold much hope. Additionally, in my reading on the subject, I learned that there are ways to turn the baby. Holding your breath and crying for a bowl of Bing cherries isn’t one of them.

Now that it seems that my hopes for a more natural birth are dashed (there are other factors, like a positive Group B strep test), I rest in the fact that this pain I am in now cannot last forever. Because I am His, I have comfort now and ultimate comfort to come. Not to be trite, but what is my only comfort in life and in death (and in pain)? That I, with body and soul, both in life and in death, am not my own, but belong to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ.

I am His and He is mine! Yes, there are worse things than posterior babies. Like cancer, chronic pain, and watching your children suffer. But there is no worse tragedy than not belonging to Jesus Christ.

Now, if I can just hold on to this. Or else the shrinks will diagnose me with something else entirely.

Loved with everlasting love, led by grace that love to know;
Gracious Spirit from above, Thou hast taught me it is so!
O this full and perfect peace! O this transport all divine!
In a love which cannot cease, I am His, and He is mine.
In a love which cannot cease, I am His, and He is mine.

His forever, only His; Who the Lord and me shall part?
Ah, with what a rest of bliss Christ can fill the loving heart!
Heav’n and earth may fade and flee, firstborn light in gloom decline;
But while God and I shall be, I am His, and He is mine.
But while God and I shall be, I am His, and He is mine.

Thank you for the notes of encouragement on the last post. After reading each one, I am strengthened for the road ahead! It is possible!

I’ve been able to try a lot of the suggestions for turning Baby this weekend, as my husband took the kids while I labored for two days. Early this Sunday morning, I thought that we’d finally established a strong pattern, but alas, things are slowing down again. I am very uncomfortable, but at least now, I’m getting longer breaks.

This evening has been very quiet. I even attended the evening service and directed the children’s choir. I was slated to play for our church service this morning, but being unable to walk or talk through the contractions, I called in “sick.” Now I feel like I should have produced a baby to explain my absence, but here I sit with nothing apparent to show for all my hard work.

This reminds me of my garden sometimes—all work with not much to show for it.

Everyone should experience the joy of a seven-year-old boy who likes magic tricks, catching bugs, and telling jokes. I remember dreaming of the day that I’d finally be able to have a conversation with my kids. You know, something beyond, “Do you want your cup? Oh? Say, ‘Please.’ You’re such a good boy.”

This weekend, my son flopped on my bed crosswise, and asked, “Where do dogs go for a rest? [Pause for effect.] A barking lot! Get it, Mom? A barking lot?!” Yes, we’ve come so far. I love him.

I was in a hurry the other day and found the closet door jammed open and blocking my path due to Hungry, Hungry Hippos being logged in the fold. I cursed muttered under my breath, wondering if I was cut out for motherhood for the long haul. (Sometimes, I’m dramatic.) The marbles were spilled all over the floor, and so were the ones in my head. I couldn’t manage my nine-month pregnant form around the door, so I heaved my hand in blindly as I grasped for plastic hippos and small white marbles. The dented box was hardly worth salvaging, but I rigged it enough to hold all the treasures.

As I cleaned up, I recalled my son in his suit just a couple weeks earlier. He helped my husband collect the offering in church. Beforehand, he and my husband practiced how to collect, time, and get the plates synchronized. It’s a science, I tell you. My son was up and dressed in his suit a few hours early for the big day. (A son’s quiet eagerness is something special that wives and husbands get to share and muse over behind closed doors.) He was so handsome in his suit and serious expression, clues that he was to embark on a weighty task.

Then, from my view from the piano bench, I caught a glimpse of his tennis shoes, all scuffed up. My husband and I leave for church at different times, and this escaped my notice that morning. Gelled hair, straight tie, ironed shirt…and dirty sneakers! I don’t have adult children, but I wonder if I will see and consider him like this when he’s older—tall, handsome, and important, but still wearing scruffy sneakers and a joke book in his back pocket.

I happen to like Google– even if they sold out to the Chinese. Thanks to smart search engines, you can learn almost everything about anything concerning nothing nowadays. Type in your fancy, and voila’, information overload is at your fingertips.

But sometimes search engines aren’t so smart. Often site owners will check their Google hits and find highly amusing ways that people got to their site. For me, hits are often generated by someone searching for “Amy Scott” or something in relation to a dishwasher. But yesterday, someone in Ohio found me by typing, “I am beginning to hate staying home with little kids.” Out of 11.9 million websites, my site came up fifth concerning those words.

Not knowing this woman (presumably), I will never have the chance to sit down and sip a mocha with her. But I will continue to cross paths with women harboring the same sentiment in her heart in the coming days—especially if I look long enough in the mirror some dreary mornings.

There are two ways to approach the matter, the way I see it. One is to follow the advice of many women who have gone before: get plugged in with other mothers of preschoolers, set a schedule (preferably one that includes nap/quiet time for all), get moving outside, and surround yourself with others who will encourage you in your unique calling. Try new things: plant a garden, test new recipes, volunteer with the kids in tow, and keep your mind fresh with books, books, and more books.

And tape over toys with noise in order to mute the sound a little.

The second approach is entirely different, not necessarily exclusive to the first. And that is to repent. When Jesus tells us that the way is narrow, few find it, and to take up your cross, He was the antithesis of the trendy pop-advice found in Oprah-like magazine articles. They say, “Love yourself,” as He says, “Love the Lord your God.” They say, “Make time for yourself,” while the Bible says, “Wait on the Lord.” We (mothers) are not leaving home for the workplace for lack of “me time,” but because, we fill our minds (un- and subconsciously, to be sure) with ideas that are anti-Biblical: “Have it your way,” “You deserve a break today,” and “Our bodies, our choice.”

We are not called to a life of ease, but to a life of glory. That is, our chief end is to “glorify God and enjoy Him forever.” (Westminster, Question 1) In this simple catechism statement, we see God’s transcendence (His awe, His power) and His immanence (His nearness, His care). Not only are we to glorify a great God by taking up our cross and following Him, but we are to enjoy Him as we do, as He is One who enables us to glorify Him, “He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young.” (Isaiah 40:11)

He gives strength to the weary so that we can serve Him with gladness. If we find insufferable our jobs—the very one that God has entrusted us with, the precious calling of accepting the least of these in His name—the remedy is not more “me time,” but more time on our knees. This is first. A mocha topped with whipped cream shared with another mom afterward doesn’t hurt either.

The LORD is righteous in all his ways
and kind in all his works.
The LORD is near to all who call on him,
to all who call on him in truth.
He fulfills the desire of those who fear him;
he also hears their cry and saves them.
~Psalm 145:17-19

When a person can barely walk, has to be manually rolled over, moans all day, attends weekly doctor visits, and can’t think straight, the usual protocol is to call a family meeting and arrange for home-health care, convalescent care, or some other form of involvement. It’s just the right thing to do.

But when these are just pregnancy symptoms, somehow standard protocol is overlooked. Ignored. In fact, not only is nobody rubbing my swollen ankles and feeding me mushy food, but they’re hounding my phone at the same rate as telemarketers.

Me: Hello?

Other Person: You haven’t had that baby yet?!

Me: Who is this again?

I feel like a watched circus animal who is unable to perform her tricks. I must need more treats. We all know that a watched pot doesn’t boil. It hasn’t escaped my notice that the original due date has come and gone, my husband’s mid-February prediction passed, and the adjusted due date occurs this week. I’ve never gone past my due date, but apparently, this baby didn’t get the memo.

Everything has a time. Ecclesiastes 8:6 says, “For there is a proper time and procedure for every matter, though a man’s misery weighs heavily upon him.” He orders all things perfectly. Even the delivery of baby memos.

The answer to, “How do you do it all?” is simple. Nobody does it all. If you bake your own bread and mill your own wheat, then you probably don’t polish your silverware. If you polish your silverware, you probably don’t parse Latin verbs with your kids. If you do Latin with your kids, you probably don’t have a garden. If you have a garden and do all of the above…you probably don’t take a shower. And I’ll bet your garden has weeds.

I had another chance this week to discuss the How-do-you-do-it question from a still wet behind the ears mom. Why she’s asking me, I figure, is just for the sake of conversation. She can’t imagine I do it all. I mean, if she bothered to look, she would have noticed that I didn’t even bring my Bible to church. Let alone the diaper bag. (One can scrounge a diaper from a hidden place in the van, if necessary…)

When the mom with the newborn told me about her day and its trials, she related her baby’s routine and his nighttime bath.

And I remembered. I remembered when I had my firstborn and gave him a bath every evening before bed. I remembered that I dressed him in sleepy-time clothes and powdered him up. I remembered that I would comb his peach-fuzz hair. I’d even brush his one tooth. I’d talk and sing to him, rock and cuddle him. He even had a mobile in his crib that sported working batteries.

Then I remembered my #4 baby. We didn’t even own one of those plastic baby tubs. Takes too much storage space. A box of baby wipes is much more efficient. Sure, we’d rinse her off in the sink when one of the diapers failed to contain its contents, but she had to wait until she could sit up to have a real bath. With the other girls, of course. Currently, we line them up, three-in-a-row, and wash their hair in assembly line fashion. Not wanting to ruin their childhoods entirely, I do use (generic, of course) lavender-scented baby shampoo. Then, we dress the baby in cozy blue pajamas, a remnant of an over-indulged firstborn. I feel no guilt.

For the record, when I sorted through the newborn clothes for our #5 baby, my husband put his foot down and told me that no son of his was going to wear pink pajamas. Even if it was only for around the house.

With each addition, the grooming and manual tasks get streamlined. But don’t for a second imagine that their caretaking gets short-changed. Number five will not have special baby Q-tips and coordinating sleeping booties, but he will have more hugs, lovin’, attention, prayers and holding than any baby in the neighborhood.

Our 20-month-old was just getting over the flu a few weeks ago. My oldest boy asked if he could have another job to earn more money before we left for the store. I conceded, and we left together for a quick shopping trip. He pulled out his money, counted it several times, and checked the prices carefully on everything. And then he purchased a glob of candy for his baby sister. Because she didn’t feel good.

And so, my conscience remains ever clear about #4’s babyhood bath time. It’s all good.