Amy’s husband here - looks like the day has finally arrived. We’ll be going to the hospital soon (it’s 8:40AM now). I’d write more - but I’ll get in trouble!

Baby arrived at about 2:40PM - 8# 14oz and 20″ long.

Mom and baby are doing fine so far.

Thanks for all your prayers.

EDIT: We’re still working on the name.

Late last night my husband and I decided on a name for our new treasure: Charles Liam Scott. Our infamous Naming Criteria List set some high standards, and yet the name we chose meets the most important feature—it fits him. He is named “Charles” after his paternal grandfather (Greg’s dad). We will be calling him “Charles,” but we’ll allow people who identify themselves as Peppermint Patty to refer to him as “Chuck.” Don’t do it, otherwise.

I plan on recounting an abridged birth story after we are settled in and putting up a few more pictures.

Usually the men folk are noted for their interest in statistics, facts, and figures. Who the third baseman was for the Phillies in 1976 doesn’t interest me– or most women. However…you get a group of women together swapping labor stories, and the stats start flying. It is difficult to get a word in edgewise. We know, remember, and recount all the numbers. Fifty years later, women still remember how many hours they labored with their second child.

My husband, on the other hand, wonders what all the hubabaloo is for. So, I’m offering two birth story versions. I’m asking you to read the one that suits your gender. If you’re confused which one that is, you’re reading the wrong blog. While the women’s version is modest and abridged, I still ask that you only read the one that applies to you.

For the guys
We went to the hospital and had a baby boy. He is hardy and strong. Everyone is home and doing well. See you next post.

For the ladies
When we arrived at the hospital, the scene could only be described as a clip from a bad Chevy Chase movie. If you don’t know me in real life, you have to imagine a five foot two (with shoes on) petite lady doubled-over carrying a nine-pound baby. While I wasn’t in transition yet, I was obviously not there to fill out a job application. Never having delivered at this particular hospital, we entered through the main entrance and asked for Labor and Delivery.

Has anyone ever noticed what happens when you give a volunteer a badge and too much down time?

The women at the front desk demanded our ID’s and told us to stand in front of the camera for a picture pass. This took a few minutes, but we happily complied. Then they asked why we were here. Chuckling, my husband notes that I’m in labor.

Well.

Both of the front desk ladies picked up their phones and started dialing extensions, asking questions, arguing, hanging up, and repeating the process several times. Since this was the weekend, I was informed that I needed to check in somewhere else. Only nobody knew where that somewhere else was. Apparently, having babies on the weekend isn’t standard protocol.

Not trying to be funny, I muttered, “You do deliver babies here, don’t you?” Nobody heard me, and nobody laughed–except my husband.

First, we were sent to Outpatient Registration, which seemed odd. The folks there thought this was odd as well, so after more phone calls, we were shuffled to the Emergency Room. I’m not even kidding. An ER doctor mentioned in the hall that he thought I was having a baby. We were very glad that someone noticed, but our escort then mentioned that that was his first correct diagnosis of the day. If this was a movie and not my real life, the doctor would be Chevy Chase, but thankfully, the scene ended here.

I want to mention that we don’t live in a rural town, and this isn’t a small hospital. My husband and I kept looking at each other while I moaned and laughed, “This isn’t really happening, is it?”

After signing my life away in the emergency room, we were then escorted to the fourth floor—Labor and Delivery. Thankfully, the nurse there, who had been called already by my midwife, had my chart, stats, and the lowdown. And again, if this were a movie and not my real life, the music would turn now from cheerful to melancholy.

My heplock was hooked up (for GBS), and we walked the halls for an hour until the midwife got there. The lady next door was delivering and screaming uncontrollably. My resolve weakened, and I started to lose it. Hearing her anguish reminded me of what was in front of me. My husband talked me out of losing it too, but it would only prove to be short lived.

I began vomiting, but I knew I wasn’t in transition yet. I was not handling the contractions well, which were constant from the night before (and continuous from several weeks beforehand, as well). I was still only 4-5 cm at this point.

Wanting to get this moving before hunger and exhaustion set in further, I asked the midwife to break my water. The contractions hit me hard and fast. I tried to keep my vocalizing low and controlled. When that didn’t work, I surrendered to moaning a primitive, “Help me, Jesus,” repeatedly. At this point, I was still coherent because the thought crossed my mind, “What if the nurse and midwife think I’m taking the Lord’s name in vain?” I didn’t want them to think I was cussing or anything.

Shortly after, I remember the clock reading 1:30 p.m. I did not know that the baby would be born at 2:32 p.m., but this is when I lost the ability to cope. I begged my husband for pain meds, and he just sat there. Everyone just sat there, and I felt so betrayed. They weren’t cold and calculating; I just felt someone should be doing something other than just me.

I tried to yell, but no sound came out. I felt like I was in one of those dreams where someone is chasing you, but you can’t run away. I wanted to yell, to protest. With my last birth, I remember screaming, “I’m going to DIE,” and somehow it made it seem like I wouldn’t.

Sometime after this, I received 5 mg of Nubain. I kept waiting for a break in the contractions. But it never came.

I wanted mercy. I heard them calling my name, asking me to sit up, to move, to respond. I just lay there and delivered the baby flat on my back. There was no sound from me for that last hour. The baby was placed on my stomach, but I did not see him. They shot my leg with pitocin (something I’d never agree to in real life), because obviously, I would not be nursing him to help with the bleeding. I do remember feeling him when he was placed on my stomach, but I did not care. I do not know how much time passed, but the baby was gone by the time I “came to.”

I asked to see him in the nursery, and we went. I did not hold or touch him. I just cried. The nurse asked if I was crying from the cramping, and I agreed even though it was a lie. The pain was not forgotten upon seeing his face. My psyche was just altered forever and everyone acted like this was normal. It took three hours for the shock to wear off, and then I snuggled and enjoyed him. It was strange.

Then the second wave hit—the after pains. They did not send me reeling into another state again, but nonetheless, the thought of nursing a baby during those contractions was unbearable. It would be three days before I’d attempt latching the baby. Knowing that this could possibly sabotage any hope for nursing, I refused anyway. Thankfully, all is well with the milk supply despite the delayed nursing.

I will never say, “I will never _________.” (Wait…)

The baby is strong. He is well. (In fact, his APGAR scores were 9/9.) I am getting stronger, and I will be well. And I’m not crazy, just in case you were wondering.

Incidentally, the day before the delivery was unusual. I received several phone calls (including a few long distance) and emails, and our friends unexpectedly brought by dinner as we played games in between contractions. All our kids spent the evening going bonkers, and it was a great time. I recognize it as grace before the storm, though I’d rather have just avoided the storm altogether.

Philippians 1:29 says, “For it has been granted to you on behalf of Christ not only to believe on him, but also to suffer for him.” We become like Christ not in spite of suffering, but through it. Every trial is an offering to Him and profitable to make us more like Himself, who did not despise the cross but bore it willingly. If this were a movie, the story would end here. But it’s my real life, and the end is better than any of us can imagine.

There is nothing like a newborn around the house to remind a woman that she is blessed. The squeaks, the content sighs, the soft downy head all tell again and again the goodness of God. Yesterday we sang in church Tell Me the Old, Old Story, and I thought of how the story of Jesus and his love is told to me in more than just words.

My seven-year-old son sat next to me in church, holding the hymnal for me while we sang together. He did not know the tune very well, and I smiled hard as he sang loudly and confidently. I think he was concentrating on reading the words that he forgot about the tune part of things. When the song was over, he whispered, “Mom, the notes go up and down a lot, but it’s a good thing I can sing it so well.”

Yes, I am glad he can sing so well.

While faith comes by hearing the Word of God, our faith is made stronger by His constant everyday goodness. It is there if we will see it. Precious newborn babies and seven-year-old boys who love Jesus are just some of the ways that He sends us more faith for the road ahead.

Oh, how abundant is your goodness,
which you have stored up for those who fear you…
~Psalm 31:19a

There is nothing like a newborn around the house to remind a woman that she is…busy. The around-the-clock feedings, the continuous diaper changes, and the soft newborn cries all tell again and again that I need to get my act together.

I’ve five kids now aged seven and under, but save any pity and send cash donations instead. While the newborn takes the most care, the older ones still need to be fed, clothed, schooled, and refereed. Even I might start to feel compassion for myself now. Remember, though, that these are just the ramblings of a 13th day postpartum woman, and I intend to resume my normal self as soon as I can find her.

In between my blessed baby’s calls for comfort, he sleeps. In fact, he sleeps most the day away. I think God does this on purpose. Yes, the Lord in His kindness gives rest to the weary, to little babies, and to rambling postpartum women.

One of my email pals told me that it’ll take three months to finally see to my toes again get into a good routine. And, I believe her, well, just because three months sounds doable. My sweet little newborn will not awake every two hours until he’s a teenager. I hope. While these days are long, this season is short. Though this good season is more demanding, I will remember that this is still the day the Lord has made. And rejoice.

Sing to him; sing praises to him;
tell of all his wondrous works!
Glory in his holy name;
let the hearts of those who seek the LORD rejoice!
Seek the LORD and his strength;
seek his presence continually!
~1 Chronicles 16:9-11

To all the expecting women that I terrified with my birth story, my apologies and prayers for a grace-filled delivery. Life is unscripted sometimes, and I do my best to be honest. But if you think about it, our stories could always be worse. You could– after all– be a porcupine…

Womanhood– particularly the part that involves mothering– can be a bittersweet calling.

If a newborn isn’t enough to keep one busy, the washing machine began making very loud sounds this week. It turns out Someone-Who-Will-Remain-Nameless left a marble in his pocket. The washing machine took many hours over the course of a few days to dis- and reassemble. Here’s the front loader that sat in the middle of my kitchen this week:

Now, my husband is working on the broken ice maker. We already checked for foreign objects, but that’s not the problem this time. Thankfully, we can do without an ice maker for awhile…but only because I’m not expecting right now.

Kid #1
Upon coming in from hitting some balls outside, my husband punches my son and says, “Hey, there, Slugger.” My son’s face turns downcast. He thought his dad called him a “sluggard.” Can you guess what book we’ve been reading during family worship?

Kid #2

Kid #3
My four-year-old returned from the grocery store yesterday and showed my husband what she bought. Very plainly, sweetly, quietly she states, “Dad, look what I wasted my money on.”

Kid #4
We brought the new baby home from the hospital, and the 21-month-old was unsure of this new family member’s position. Would he be staying here?! The next morning, she gets up and searches the house, wondering from room to room. Finally, upon spying the newborn next to our bed, she calls her older sisters’ names and yells, “I find it! I find it!”

Kid #5
2 a.m., 4 a.m., 6 a.m., “Wahhhhhhhhhhh….”

My husband, who reads my blog, says that I have horrible grammar. He tells me that sometimes my word choice is bad and that my sentence structure needs restructuring. It’s a good thing I’m not overly sensitive.

In my defense, I usually point out that I’m writing a blog, not a book, and that in order to post something within the lingering 32 minutes of naptime, you just have to take the unpolished version. In addition, I know that I shouldn’t end a sentence with a preposition, but truthfully, I don’t know how to fix it. But I like the first excuse better.

Yes, I am the mother, the teacher, the educator of my husband’s offspring. (Poor word choice?) I am the one who sees to it that his son reads well, his daughter writes well, and that his preschoolers color well. In the future, I will be teaching all of them about prepositions, times tables, and photosynthesis.

I will also (theoretically) teach them not to switch verb tenses in the middle of a sentence. My husband says I do that all the time, too.

Hi Amy, I am just starting to homeschool and I was wondering what kinds of things you do. Do you use a curriculum or use a variety of methods? I know there is a lot out there to choose from. It can be overwhelming. My kids are 5 1/2, 3 1/2, and 10 months. The older 2 are doing pretty well with reading already. Any thoughts? ~ Wendy

For over a year of typing here, I’ve never mentioned our homeschool method or philosophy. I hear you’re supposed to stick to writing on things you know about.

Education, however, is a subject I should know something about. I am a homeschool graduate. [Insert all sarcastic jokes here.] If that’s not enough, I’m one of those “professionals.” In other words, I have a piece of paper from the state of Florida that says I can educate kids. In theory, this means that I have an education since my degree is in education, but that isn’t necessarily so. Educated people know about prepositions and verb tenses. I’m sure of this.

But truly educated people possess more than a working knowledge of verb agreement; they possess wisdom. The goal of our children’s education is that they gain wisdom. This is done by teaching them God’s character (as revealed in the Bible) and what God requires of them. This is why I consider myself still learning, still growing. Educating requires more than just doing the opposite of what I was taught in a public university’s School of Education (though, one could get far on that method), rather, it requires renewing one’s mind according to God’s Word.

In order to choose a curriculum, you must have a goal. What do you want your children to learn? If you answer the “what and why,” the “how” becomes more obvious.

For us (and this is particular to our family), a focus on the “three R’s” during the primary years is a good method (but it is not the end). Right now, we use Rod and Staff for language and Saxon for math. The children also keep a journal. I keep things simple so that they have many opportunities to read, read, and read some more all day long. In the very early years, I did nothing but read aloud to them. Now that I have a seven and a six-year-old, they take over a lot of the read aloud time to the little ones.

We keep a simple schedule and stay home a lot. This is not only to save time, money, and energy, but also because a simple schedule allows for evening devotions, family time, and read alouds. This is the core of our curriculum, the primary means by which we disciple our children. Nobody imagines we’re doing “school” when Dad reads aloud from a chapter book, the family prays, and we hear a chapter from the Bible.

My son took a day off “school” this week and began repairing a riding lawn mower, salvaged from a neighbor’s trash. He wants to convert it to a go-cart, but my husband has visions of a new Lawn Boy in his head. Either way, the professionals disagree with me, but I think small engine repair with Dad is more useful than whatever is going on in second grade science chapter 5. We do read science books, but we don’t follow a formal science curriculum. We read G.A. Henty books, but we don’t have a formal history curriculum. This is what works for us.

Because of the lawn mower project and my husband’s plan to build a shed from scratch next month, my son got his first set of real tools. The curriculum, of course, is not just engine repair or building construction, but ultimately, family repair. Dad is teaching his son that a man takes responsibility for his family and works hard. The method is repairing engines and building things, but the agenda is always there, always underlying everything we do: be the man (or woman) that God has called you to be. Get wisdom. Work hard. Love God.

While there is more than one way to skin a cat, this is our current method. When it stops working, we’ll reevaluate. In the meantime, I’ll be picking up a good book on English grammar, and I’ll use my degree as a bookmark.