Everyday Life

Categories Parenting

The day I bottle-fed in public

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The plan was that she would drink her bottle on the way over to our missions pastor’s house, she’d fall asleep in her car seat, and then we’d set her car seat in some remote corner at their house while we visited with our mission’s care team.

Instead, she refused the bottle, stayed stubbornly awake for the drive, and spent the entire visit (all of which was after her normal bedtime) climbing around on the floor where we sat.

Well, except when she grew hungry and I pulled the bottle out of my purse to feed her with.

I know our missions pastor’s wife breastfed – her daughter got fussy while we were visiting during a new person welcome function when Daniel and I were new at the church, and she and I talked a bit about breastfeeding. Our missionary had been breastfeeding her sweet daughter as we all talked. She’d mentioned wanting to maybe learn more about maternal/child health so she could help the women she worked with – and mentioned breastfeeding specifically as part of that.

And I just pulled a bottle out of my purse.

I’m not usually self-conscious about my mothering – Daniel and I have been entrusted with the care of our daughter, and we’re caring for her as we know best. I don’t obsess over what anyone else thinks about that. I’m pretty confident that I’m doing the right thing – and I don’t need validation from others to give me that confidence.

Until I pulled a bottle out of my purse.

At that moment, I worried what these people would think. I’m a bottle-feeding mom. I don’t value breastfeeding. I don’t understand its importance. I’d just told one of the other women that I’d been a WIC dietitian before Tirzah Mae was born – would she think WIC wasn’t pro-breastfeeding?

I stuck the nipple in Tirzah Mae’s mouth and she sucked it down like the bottle-feeding pro she is.

No one mentioned it.

I wanted to defend myself, to interject that Tirzah Mae was getting expressed breastmilk. Could I somehow work the fact that I still have breastmilk from Tirzah Mae’s hospitalization in my freezer into the conversation? There was no opportunity. No need, really. But I wanted to defend myself from what I feared the other women were thinking.

Everyone’s eyes were closed to pray when Tirzah Mae grew fussy again. I stood and we walked to the side of the room to breastfeed. She calmed down and I returned my blouse to normal. Someone closed the prayer time and everyone’s eyes opened again.

It’s the first time I’ve ever bottle-fed in public.

Categories Education

Making Connections

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Unit studies were all the rage when I was reading about homeschooling in my mid-teens. Monthly themes governed every subject in the homeschooling curriculum.

A unit study on bugs would have children reading about bugs, catching bugs, counting bugs, exploring the bug ecosystem, learning about how bugs are used in different cultures or throughout history. Bug art would abound.

If mom didn’t have the time, energy, or creativity to come up with her own unit study, websites and books offered an abundance of options.

Learning like this is more natural, the unit study people declared.

I wished I could jump on the bandwagon, but it was unfortunately too difficult for me to figure out how to connect bugs to calculus.

It wouldn’t be long before a radical old approach became popular, thanks to Jessie Wise and Susan Wise Bauer’s The Well-Trained Mind. This new approach was much more systematic than either the unit study approach or the traditional school approach (at least as far as social studies is concerned).

Wise and Wise Bauer’s brand of classical education focused on a four year cycle for both history and science – strictly (for history) and loosely (for science) following the progression of historical thought through the ages.

The Well-Trained Mind gave an example of how students make connections, even when their mothers don’t plan in such a way as to make the connections explicit. They used “Mars” as an example. A student might learn the mythology of Mars when studying the Roman Empire and later learn about the planet Mars (red with blood, like the warlike god). Likewise, he will learn about the martial arts and will trace the term “martial” back to the god of war. Each bit of knowledge becomes a hook upon which other pieces of knowledge (from disparate disciplines) are hung.

When I read this example, I nodded my head. Sure, I acknowledged that was probably true. It’s like when you get a new car and suddenly see that make and model all over the road. It’s not that those cars weren’t already there, it’s just that you became more aware of them.

But apart from my car example, I couldn’t really think of a time when I’d had “hooks” to hang new information on.

Then my husband and I checked out Tom Reiss’s The Black Count to listen to during our fourth of July travels. The Black Count tells the story of the novelist Alexandre Dumas’ father (also named Alexandre Dumas), a general during the French Revolution.

Now, until a year ago, what little I knew of the French Revolution came from Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities (not a bad read by any means, but certainly not a comprehensive introduction to the Revolution.) But last year, that changed when Daniel and I started listening to Mike Duncan’s Revolutions Podcast. We listened as Duncan gave a history of the English Revolution, and then the American Revolution, and then the French (he’s not done with the French Revolution yet – and I haven’t listened past the first dozen or so podcasts on the French Revolution.) As we listened, I’ll admit that my eyes sometimes glazed over and my mind started wandering. So much was so unfamiliar – the names, the events, the political bodies.

But as we listened to The Black Count, something strange happened. I started hearing the names, the political bodies, the events I’d heard before. And I listened more carefully this time around. It picqued my curiosity to read more, to relisten, to become more familiar with the French Revolution.

I thought of the differences between unit studies and a more systematic approach as I listened.

While Daniel and I were listening to one podcast after another after another of Duncan’s Revolutions, I got worn out with the topic. If I’d have been listening to The Black Count concurrently, I likely would have ignored the parts about the French Revolution, thinking I’d heard it before.

But, listening to it several months later, I was able to see the Revolution through fresh eyes, able to enjoy it, able to pass through again to impress the events more deeply upon my own memory.

I feel that there must be application to how I choose to homeschool someday, but I’m not sure exactly what it is.

I’m still rather enamored with the Bauer and Wise Bauer approach to history studies. I still rather enjoy immersing myself in a topic every once in a while. But I think this has reminded me that connections can be anywhere – and that it’s okay to let them arise naturally.

I don’t have to beat my children (or myself) over the head with learning. I have to make plenty of good books, good audiovisual learning opportunities (like Duncan’s podcasts!), good educational experiences available to my children.

They will make connections – even if it takes them until they’re 30 to start recognizing it.

Categories Everyday Life

Driving lessons: Six lane highways

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Complaining about other peoples’ driving, like complaining about the weather, seems to be ubiquitous to the human condition (at least in the modern age).

Everyone thinks that they understand the rules of driving and the conventions of traffic, and that they drive in the most common-sense way. If only everyone else drove like them, traffic would flow smoothly.

I am no exception.

Now, let me clarify. My husband and I are what you could call aggressive drivers (which is not the same thing as bad drivers, family-of-mine). I am aware that not all people have the, er, gonads to drive like we do. They are easily frightened by changing lanes or taking left turns.

Other people drive differently than we because they have different levels of experience. Many residents of our hometown, Lincoln Nebraska, have no reason to regularly drive a six lane highway. It makes sense that they would have a lower level of comfort as well as a lower level of understanding of how to properly drive on a six-lane highway.

But Wichitans, who drive on a six lane highway on a daily (or at least weekly) basis, should have a basic understanding of how to drive when they have three lanes all going the same direction.

Alas, they do not.

In case you were taught by a Wichitan, or were never taught, how to drive on a six-lane highway, allow me to educate you.

A six-lane highway has three lanes going in each direction. Each of those lanes has a different function.

It would behoove you to think of the outermost lane as the “merging” lane, the middle lane as the “driving” lane, and the innermost lane as the “passing” lane.

Functionally, this means that you should only be in the outermost lane if you are getting onto or off of the highway. You merge onto this lane when you enter the highway, after which you should be looking for the first opportunity to move into the middle “driving” lane. When you want to get off the highway, you merge back from the middle lane into the outermost lane and then to your off-ramp. Getting into the “merging” lane should happen no more than 2 exits from your off ramp. Ideally, you should never pass more than one exit at a time in the outer lane.

Why is this?

Lots of people are getting onto and off of the highway at any given exit. They HAVE to travel through the outermost lane to drive on the highway. If someone is just hanging out in this outermost lane, access onto and off of the highway is impeded, resulting in traffic snarls on and off the highway.

The innermost lane should be reserved for passing and should only be used if you are going faster than the traffic in the center lane. It amazes me that people don’t understand this particular convention.

If you are going at the same speed or more slowly than the driver to your right, that means that anyone who comes up behind you is forced to either slow down or to switch into the (already busy by necessity) outermost lane in order to pass. The more people that are popping in and out of that outermost lane, the more likely it will be for accidents to occur. So, to keep traffic moving and to avoid dangerous snarls, you should only drive in the innermost lane if you are going faster than the traffic in the middle “driving” lane (and if someone comes up behind you going faster than you? You should move into the middle “driving” lane to allow them to pass before moving back to the innermost “passing” lane to pass those who are going even slower in the “driving” lane.)

THAT, my friends, is how you should drive on a six-lane highway.

Categories Parenting, Tirzah Mae

Tirzah Mae is Eight (Six) Months

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As of yesterday, Tirzah Mae is eight months old (corrected to six.)

In some ways she’s exactly at her age-by-birthday. In others, she’s maybe a little behind her age-by-due-date. But she’s growing healthily, normally, well.

Gross Motor Skills:
Tirzah Mae is rolling, rolling, rolling – and she can back on her hands and knees as well. Unfortunately, she hasn’t figured out any way to move forward. So, for now, this means she’ll frequently scoot herself underneath one of the couches so that just her head is peeking out – then she’ll cry for help because… forward, mom!

She’s still not sitting by herself – I’m not sure exactly whether it’s lack of muscle control or simply interest in moving around. She’ll sit for about ten seconds before she topples – except that topple isn’t quite the word for it. She’ll sit for about ten seconds until she lunges for some object a couple feet away.

Fine Motor Skills:
Our girlie has just about got the two finger grasp down. When she gets really quiet on the floor while I’m reading a book, I’ll look up – and, more often then not, she’s delicately picking up a piece of lint between two fingers and placing it in her mouth.

Eating:
I started her on solids around 7 months (5 adjusted) since she was grabbing at our plates and wouldn’t give us any peace at mealtimes unless we fed her (and no, breastfeeding would not do.) She generally has some fruit for lunch (or what I’m eating if I have enough leftovers for two), and eats what we eat in the evening.

I haven’t worried about introducing foods slowly (even though I have routinely encouraged moms to do that in the past – mostly because I had just enough moms come to me after the fact worried that their kids had intolerances and ended up doing elimination diets in an unsound manner – far nicer to add slowly while a baby’s getting good nutrition at the breast than to eliminate things when those are providing the bulk of a child’s nutrition). Anyhow – I haven’t worried about introducing things slowly, have just been giving her what we eat.

So she’s eaten enchiladas, curry, turkey and broccoli over biscuits, Great Grams’ spaghetti, Szechuan chicken, you name it. And she likes it all. (I won’t get too triumphant yet and pronounce this to be because of my expert child feeding practices – but I *will* say that if I’d stopped when she made faces on the first few bites, she’d have a much more limited palate.)

Sleeping:
This continues to be a struggle. Tirzah Mae sleeps “through the night” (meaning a five hour stretch) most nights, but she doesn’t often do more than that. She’s mostly in her crib, but still occasionally ends up in bed with us.

I think teething may be the cause of our most recent nighttime woes – she’ll wake up and want to nurse and then eventually fall asleep at the breast. But as soon as I take her off the breast, she’ll wake up and want back on – she’s not swallowing anything so I know it’s just for comfort. If I refuse her the breast or try the pacifier, she’ll be wide awake and screaming. I took her to bed with me a few nights, but she was on the breast absolutely all night long and I didn’t get any sleep. On the other hand, spending an hour and a half up with her trying to get her to sleep and finally resorting to graduated extinction (which means I don’t sleep for another hour after she goes to sleep because I’m still hearing her scream in my head) isn’t exactly ideal either.

This is a stage, I remind myself. I signed up for this, I tell myself. And it’ll only be another twenty years or so :-)

Teeth:

When are those teeth going to finally pop out? This is the question of the month. She chews on everything, rubs her gums with a fervor I’ve never seen, is fussier than she’s ever been, isn’t sleeping very well again. It’s GOT to be teething (right?) But the teeth remain stubbornly hidden and the teething process seems like it’s lasting forever.

This is a stage, I remind myself. I signed up for this, I tell myself. And it’ll only be another twenty years or so :-)

Social Skills:

Just yesterday at the library, one of the librarians came running (as she usually does) when Tirzah Mae and I walked in. Tirzah Mae took a little while to warm up before she smiled at the librarian. But, after a little bit of playing on the floor while her mama looked at books, she was ready to laugh at everyone she met – a girl near the computers, an older gentleman in the stacks, and the same librarian as we checked out.

It’s tremendous fun, being her mama.

Categories Everyday Life

Here’s to you, Mr. Robinson

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When I was in elementary school, I read an article about the Robinson family in Mary Pride’s Practical Homeschooling.

The Robinson story fascinated me. Lots of kids left without a mother, end up essentially “homeschooling themselves” with classic books.

I was always about being self-taught, thought that was the most wonderful thing. I wished I could be the Robinsons (without the mother being dead, of course).

Of course, even though my family wasn’t using the Robinson curriculum, I could still be really smart and self-taught. I wouldn’t be surprised if that article wasn’t partly responsible for my decision to read Plato’s Republic in sixth grade.

But there was one part of the story that I envied intensely and had no way of replicating myself. Mr. Robinson, a Ph.D., wrote of how he’d have other Ph.D’s over to dinner, where his children would listen to the technical and intellectual conversation, seeing how bright minds are always asking questions of the world.

Oh how I longed for a Ph.D. around our table, spurring my mind to ask big questions.

Fast forward twenty years. I’m sitting around the table with my husband and his parents. Daniel asks his mom if she still has those CDs from the Robinsons.

“Rebekah would like to homeschool our kids someday,” he said, “and I think she might find them interesting.”

And my mother-in-law begins telling the story of when a Mr. Robinson was visiting the institution where my father-in-law was doing his post-doctoral work. Mr. Robinson was a widower and he homeschooled his children, so he’d brought his whole family along.

The Robinson family came over and had dinner with the Garcias, where the children notably refused brownies and ice cream, on the grounds that sugar was bad for them. They’d told of hiding their father’s sweet stash from him – not because they wanted it for themselves but because they knew it was bad for him.

At the end of that visit, Mr. Robinson gave my mother-in-law a copy of their family’s homeschool curriculum on several dozen CD-roms.

Yes, the Ph.D. dinners I’d so longed for as a child? They were a reality for my husband.

I never got a Ph.D. dinner growing up, but my children will. Every time they go to visit their grandpa, my children can have dinner with one of those same Ph.D.s the Robinson children had dinner with.

Categories Everyday Life, Faith

Powerful Dreams

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I watched paralyzed as she dunked my little brother again and again under the bathwater. He struggled and then went limp.

When at last she relented, he was alive but not alive.

My bundle-of-energy, always-sociable, never-without-a-grin-and-a-fresh-face-scrape brother was an automaton, going through the motions, but no longer with any sign of his former animation.

Then I awoke. It was two in the morning. I could check on him in his crib, but that wouldn’t do any good to reassure my troubled mind, my racing heart. When he was sleeping was the only time John didn’t display his characteristic energy – the energy the faceless old woman had robbed from him in my dream.

I went into the living room with my Bible, turned on a lamp, curled up in the couch and read. I started in Matthew. By the time I reached John, I had at last calmed enough to fall back asleep.

Nevertheless, the dream continued to haunt my future, when any ordinary occasion could make my heart race again with fear for my little brother.

Other times I dreamed of friends, family members sinning against me or against another loved one in terrible ways. I’d awaken knowing that it was only a dream, that nothing had happened, that my friend or family member was innocent of the nightmarish accusations. But I struggled nonetheless to avoid hurt, anger, and bitterness towards those who had offended in my dreams.

Yet other times, I dreamed that I was engaging in some illicit act, taking pleasure in evil. Even when I knew it was only a dream, that I had neither done the evil deed nor chosen the wicked contents of my dreams, I felt ashamed, guilty for what I’d done in my sleeping dreams, for how I’d enjoyed what I truly abhorred.

Dreams are powerful because they’re not under our control. They’re powerful because while they aren’t reality, while we can know they aren’t reality, we still experience them as reality while we dream – and still feel the effects of those experiences once we awaken.

I am usually a rational person. I like to think things out. I like to believe things based on thoughtful consideration. But dreams circumvent my thoughts and go straight to my emotions.

When I dream, I’m not relating to the world through what I know to be true. I’m relating to the world through my emotions. And when I wake up, those emotions, those responses are still there.

And just like when I first started dreaming these powerful dreams, the Word of God is the antidote.

It is insufficient for me to tell myself that my brother is fine, that my sister hasn’t done something horrific, that I haven’t rejoiced in something perverse.

Instead, I must steep myself in the character of God, in the reality of sin, and in the hope found in the cross of Christ.

In himself, my brother is a dead man walking, devoid of life. But in Christ, he is a new creation, a new creation such that neither disability nor death can rob him of life.

In herself, my sister is a sinner who offends against me and God and others. But in Christ, she is a saint who is being transformed more and more into the image of Christ.

In myself, I do indeed glory in the worst of debauchery. But in Christ, I was created for good works and delight to do God’s will.

Yes, I need to know that the dream is not reality. But even more, I need to know that sin is real – and the solution is real.

Christ died for sinners. For me, for my family, for faceless women who abuse children. If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. Me, my family, the person who tried to hurt us. No one can kill what God has made alive in Christ. Not me, not my family, not anyone.

“For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

~Romans 8:38-39

That’s the truth, more powerful than any dream.

Categories Homemaking, Work

Don’t try too hard

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Imagine having your boss greet you in the morning with: “Don’t try too hard to get things done today.”

What would you think of your boss? What would you think of your place of employment?

If you heard that someone else’s boss greeted them with that, what would you think of their boss? What would you think of their place of employment?

I think of city road maintenance crews. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s how their bosses greet them every morning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a road maintenance crew try too hard to get things done. And everyone knows (right?) that government agencies have to use up their full budget by the end of the year in order to get a full budget for the next – so it’s in a government boss’s interest to waste money.

Certainly, I never heard that from my bosses when I worked in the private sector.

But, honestly, I’ve never heard that from my public sector bosses either.

No.

Bosses are interested in getting value out of their employees. They want their employees to work hard and get things done.

Sure, some bosses are better at motivating their employees to work hard and to accomplish things – but no employer would go so far as to tell their employees not to try too hard to get things done.

Except my boss right now.

My husband is not interested in getting as much hard work out of me as possible. That isn’t his goal for our home.

I’m not at home so I can be hyperproductive, so our home can be immaculate, so I can finish a to-do list a mile long. I’m not at home so my husband can arrive home to a harried, exhausted wife who is frustrated with not meeting her expectations of the ideal housewife. I’m not at home to be frustrated at our daughter for keeping me from completing my to-do list.

I’m not a homemaker so I can “get things done.”

Does that mean my husband was encouraging me to lie in bed all day long, to not rinse and wash the diapers, to not make him dinner, to not tidy the house? No. He was not encouraging me to idleness.

No, he was encouraging me to have perspective.

Because trying too hard to get things done makes me worse, not better, at my job.

It makes me impatient and unresponsive as a mother. It makes me frustrated and unhelpful as a wife. It makes our home a place of chaotic frenzy instead of peaceful rest.

Right now, I am called to fulfill a role (or several roles), not merely to complete tasks.

Which means I need to listen to my boss when he tells me not to try too hard to get things done. I need to stop and consider what is really important.

Categories Everyday Life, Technology

I don’t comment like I used to

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The advent of smart phones has brought with it plenty of advantages. My smart phone means I rarely double book myself, I always have my price book/grocery list handy, and I can pull up my weight history or blood pressure history at the doctor’s office without a problem.

On the other hand, it has affected how I use social media – and blogs.

Facebook’s app made it way too easy to spend hours on Facebook, since it would give me frequent notifications that my sisters-in-law had posted new photos of nieces or nephews. I would get onto Facebook to see the photos and end up spending another 15 minutes just scrolling through my newsfeed – multiple times a day.

Eventually, I decided to uninstall the app. I still access Facebook on my phone, but I do it through the browser. I visit when I choose to, instead of when a notification tells me to. I still see the notifications once I get to the website, so I don’t miss anything – I just choose when I’m going to see them (and how many times a day I’m going to waste time browsing.)

I still probably overuse Facebook on my phone, but it’s better than it used to be.

But what concerns me now isn’t my on-phone Facebook usage or the amount of time I spend connecting via Facebook.

What concerns me is my on-phone blog-reading – and how the phone experience keeps me from connecting when I’m reading.

You see, before social media became a big thing, there was this little thing called blogging. I did it. Lots of people did it. We wrote “posts” on our “blogs”. We read other people’s “posts” and we left “comments”. When other people read our “comments”, they visited our “blogs” and read our “posts” and left “comments” of their own. We developed relationships through this mutual sharing.**

This was what I did.

And then the phone came along.

It was a boon to blog reading, with it’s available-everywhere-Feedly app. I could read in the car (while Daniel is driving, of course), in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, while sitting on the loo (yes, you do it too.)

But it was a death-knell to commenting. To comment, I’d need to click on the title, wait while the browser opens, scroll down to the comment box, attempt to type a comment, and try to get past my phone auto-correcting the word-verification caption. All this with an oversized finger on a tiny screen.

Then there’s trying to continue the conversation. I subscribe to the comments feed on each post I comment on because I want to hear if the author says something back or if another commenter riffs on the same topic. It’s a way to be a part of the conversation. But to do that on the phone, I’d have to try to find the RSS feed, try to copy the URL, switch from the browser app to the Feedly app, and try to paste the URL into the subscribe area in the Feedly app. All this with an oversized finger on a tiny screen.

So I read my usual blogs and think of all sorts of things I’d love to chat with the blogger about via comments. I mark the post “unread” in Feedly, figuring I’ll go back and comment when I’m on the computer. But there’s rarely enough time to go back – and when there is time, it’s weeks later and the post is old and conversation no longer happening.

I don’t comment like I used to – and I think it’s sad.

**Side note: Was this explanation necessary? I’m not sure. As I observe it, blogging has a very different character nowadays than it did when I first started. The blogging I see now tends towards selling stuff (even if that’s selling your own story) versus sharing life. Developing relationships through blogging seems much less common, while “networking” via blogging is perhaps more common. Blogging is a business venture rather than a friendship.**

Categories Following Christ, Parenting

The End of Myself

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Desperation.

That’s what I felt as Tirzah Mae’s not sleeping at night approached two months.

Would she ever sleep through the night again? Would my “good” baby, who never cried unless she needed something, ever return?

Despite the doctor’s ultimate diagnosis of colic as the source of her crying and frequent night waking (in other words, “crying for no understandable reason”), I was convinced there was something causing her crying. Yes, we ruled out GERD when two weeks of medication had no effect. But prior to this, Tirzah Mae never cried unless she needed something: she was hungry, she was dirty, she was overtired, she was in pain.

As I got up with her yet again, bleary eyed and exhausted from two months of rarely finishing a sleep cycle and from the effort of cleaning up a filthy mobile home while my own home slipped back into chaos, I was absolutely desperate.

I made a plan to do what I’d been toying with for weeks – I’d go to the pharmacy, pick up every scientifically suspect remedy. Gripe water. Simethicone. Homeopathic remedies.

I was willing to throw away my scientific dogmatism, to do anything, however contrary to my training and philosophy, if only it would help.

That’s when, in desperation, I cried out to God: “God, heal my daughter.”

At long last, she was soothed and fell back asleep. I left her in her crib and returned to my own bed, where I continued to cry out to God until I fell asleep myself.

And I slept. Two hours, three, four.

I roused, thinking surely my overtiredness had kept me from hearing Tirzah Mae’s screams. I heard her rustling in her crib – and nothing more.

I fell back asleep.

Six hours after she had fallen asleep, she awoke and fussed for her mother.

The next night, she slept another five to six hours. And the next. She’s slept wonderfully since Tuesday.

And I turn, at the end of myself, wondering why I waited so long to turn to God.

Why is it that I only turn to Him after I’ve diagnosed her myself, after I’ve turned to the internet, after I’ve turned to the doctor, after the medication fails? Why did I wait until my only other resort was hocus-pocus?

It’s frightening, how slowly I turn to the one who knows all things, who alone has the power to change all circumstances.

It’s humbling, how sinful I am even in turning to Christ.

But it’s so amazing, how God’s mercy doesn’t punish me for waiting to turn to Him. Instead, He graciously grants my daughter (and myself) sleep.

Just one more example of the gospel at work: God, graciously giving good gifts to those who don’t deserve it, forgiving those who turn aside so often to self-reliant idolatry.

Thank you, Lord, for bringing me to the end of myself. Thank you, Lord, for your patience with my delay. Thank you for reminding me again how it is only in you that I live and move and have my being. May I turn aside from self-idolatry and ever more quickly turn to you, the source of all life.

Categories Everyday Life, Family & Friends

Lifecycle of a nightie

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Some 20 years ago, my little sister Grace grabbed one of my mom’s nightgowns out of the laundry basket and started carrying it around.

It was a “slicky” nightgown you see, some sort of synthetic with a silky feel, perfect for snuggling against or rubbing between one’s fingers.

As I remember it, Grace carried the nightgown with her whenever she had a chance, slept with it, and generally loved it until Mom made her a “slicky” of her own – something akin to a handkerchief made out of similarly “slicky” fabric.

Years later, mom retired the nightgown and I grabbed it up. I cut off the lower portion, added a casing at top for elastic and wore it as a slip for eight, ten, or more years.

Recently, I pulled the slip from my drawer and added it to a pile of mending sitting atop another dresser in our room. The elastic in the waist is shot. Either I need to replace the elastic or convert the slip to other purposes.

But one day, about a week ago, Tirzah Mae’s lovey (a “slicky” I made for her with ribbon tags) got dirty and was in the wash – and Tirzah Mae was not settling down for a nap without it. I grabbed the old nightie-turned-slip from the dresser and snuggled it against Tirzah Mae’s cheek. Safely nestled in a “slicky”, Tirzah Mae fell asleep.

Tirzah Mae with the old nightie

Today, she wraps her hands in it and waves it around, just as her aunt did some 20 years ago.