Rise up and call me broken rather than blessed

In proverbs it states to train a child and when he is older he will not stray from it. I ponder what is it that I am truly invested in my children not straying from. The obvious is from God but what about all the other parts of life that I can only give my opinion, my experience, my fears for them. I look at the fragility of my children and accept that one day their hearts will be broken. That they will make mistakes and see the impurity of ugliness. So what is that I want them to hold near and not forget. That love is eternal and I will love them no matter what they do and choose not to do. I was raised to know Jesus and that I am thankful for  his eternal love.  However my passion was birthed from who I am today. I am passionate about women, human rights, and healing. I was not raised in these beliefs so I have no other choice to believe that my children will have his/her own without my input and perhaps approval. Mothering is not for the weak but its not for the ones who pretend to be strong. I am weakened daily by my faults, my disappointments and my own childhood. I rest in knowing that each one of my children will rise someday and perhaps not call me blessed but beautified by the mosaics of who they become in my life.

The Bra of Eve, Mary Magdalene, and Sarah

I find it amusing how we as women invest in something so delicate to define our womanhood, sexuality, and now even mothering. In all areas a bra appears to look different and even feel different. Over the years of mothering, I have come to a place of serenity that mine will be stretched to a place of no return. Nursing four babies seems to take all the delicate beauty and warp it in some wired item . However I am a woman of change and it has come to my attention that it is time to let go those Johnson & Johnson years moving forward to a place of much needed redemption. I became a wife and mother but a woman I AM. "Where's my bra?" and what exactly does that mean ? It has different meanings with different ages,  and different places. I implore you to search for your bra in where you sit today. Are you wearing one? Does it need to be washed or thrown out to die somewhere? Are you dying in your bra? Is it time to replace your "mom bra" with a reminder that you were once sexually inclined to leave it somewhere and forget? Now that's a vintage bra.  

When I chose the sexton over the sermon...

It has been almost three years since I suffered from post partum depression. I recall the day it hit me and my life was taken with no warning. The research is correct that once a woman has experienced this never ending hell; it follows you. Every now and then I can remember the unspeakable pain, the shame but most of all the pride that this wasn't suppose to be me. No longer was I this strong mama bear of my sweet cubs; I was this feeble, silent, unrecognizable pathetic mother that couldn't hold her baby . And it wasn't because I couldn't physically hold him ; I did not want to hold him. I shamefully hid from family and friends. I would sit for hours at the bookstore fumbling through books like they were my friends. One of them was Emily Dickson and her poetry. "

I consoled in the arms of her writings particularly her views "Some keep the Sabbath going to Church – I keep it, staying at Home – With a Bobolink for a Chorister – And an Orchard, for a Dome –

How I dwelled in Emily and understood her. I found comfort in every place but church. Make no mistake that Jesus was not with me. He was sitting with me every week in that bookstore helping me fumble through books finding my way back. He sent new friends there that mothered me, gently reminding me I was not alone.

Three years later I turn back celebrating the suffering and experienced first hand how suffering brings salvation. Jesus suffered for his children and brought you, me , the most unimaginable gift. I am not Jesus . I was just a mother who suffered and was redeemed by an unimaginable grace. This grace had no walls, no decoration, no words , just grace. A grace that turned my pain into a joy that gleams at being the mother of my sweet three year old. My shame is now a transparent cry to all the other mothers who suffer and need to know they are not alone.My pride was transformed into humility reminding me that I was worthy to be saved.

Bitch fire with Jesus throwing dashes of grace and mercy

This title makes me smile because it resonates a song in my family life the past few months and yes it was necessary to use the "B" word. It humors me when people say " I'm jealous of your move" . Where we are is where God chose to plant us but being moved was like having a scab of wounds cleaned out daily , and yes it was that ugly. I remember a friend sharing as I broke down many times in my weakness "Jessica this is Gods will not yours" As a christian, this is extremely easy to digest when its something like a new baby, new whatever, ect; however, its a whole different level when you watch someone you love suffer and would take the bullet before it ever hit him . Another friend looked at me while trying to hold in tears said " Jessica this is going to be the best thing for you and you will be okay." As Hell continued to reach closer to my family , I could feel the heat roaring its way around everything I cared about and it was only when I would yell out " I cant do this anymore" a rush of mercy would blanket over what seemed like an unimaginable fire. Another friend told me "Jessica, its like childbirth , your family is in transition and you are birthing a new life" Screw this new life, it feels like 20 lb watermelon and so hell continued. Through this journey and numerous tantrums, I discovered a whole different level of Gods grace and how really sufficient it is for us. Looking back he chose certain people to enter my life and partake in the suffering, the transition and now healing. Sadly he also took away people. I still remember a friend placing her hand on mine crying with me and I am still in awe of her transparency and willingness to meet me where I felt stranded.Really I am humbled by these certain friendships that arose and walked with me , loved me , nurtured me , and created a circle of trust around my fire. A true glimpse of what Jesus does in the midst of nothing. I learned that I am strong in HIS weakness and to befriend it because fighting only makes the fire rage. In a fire, they ask what is important is what you will run back in to save. I suppose without choice I ran in and grabbed my best friend, my soul mate, the father of my children but unfortunately when I got to the door I heard a whisper with a striking rod blocking me"Jessica, I did not call you to save, be still and know that I am God." I have heard this before and learned it's wise for me to shut up and sit down. So there it was sitting still in puddles of water hoping the burn would not be long and like HIS mercy it wasn't , just enough. Just enough to make me drown and reach out asking for HIS help. Just enough to pause , look at my children and step away from the idea of having anymore. Just enough to see what kind of wife , friend, daughter I wanted to be but mostly what kind of child of God I haven't been. In the past months, I have been forced to let go of many areas of my life. Mothering children in the midst of uncertainty can be beautiful because it allowed me to reach within , surrender, be honest and tell my children everything will be okay because Jesus will never forsake his children. Months later I sit here in awe of the calming storm and witness how Jesus continues to raise the dead, wash the dirt with his own spit and will always have manna to share. In the calmness I now celebrate suffering and how truly transforming it has been and the residue of it continues to reshape my life, my selfishness, my overabundance of need and challenges me of a purpose that doesn't have walls.

The Gingher Scissor

The portrait is blurry yet I can feel it pressed upon my template of parenting. Sometimes I can remember vividly and others I sit and create stories of butterflies with legs wearing a business suit. Distancing myself through pain was my teacher and observing distraction was hers as I now see her with the scissors that have been passed from her mother and grandmother. The sound of cutting was gentle and precise,carefully measured "so we do not waste." Patterns of lily pads dance in my head while I hear the "putt" "putt" under the small lamp so she can be alone. Never watching the process only receiving the instruction to be happy and thankful as I would be the prettiest princess of them all. With no worry, no thought , no teaching and hopefully no scissor to be passed down. As I sit here years after the sewing has passed, the scissors have been replaced with generic ones that only rape my childhood memory, I am filled with the portrait of a mother who was sad and lost yet with a simple pattern and grandmother's scissors she could create a dream for her children. My pattern today is not pretty nor perfected by the diligence of distractions. It has holes that my children have punched through when they are angry, red marker dots when they are creative and small shreds when they are proud. I hold idle that I do not share those difficult patterns she stared at daily but wonder how much of the portrait they will see of me , of their grandmother , the scissors. She has left the generational scissors that has cut many beautiful, complicated patterns and displayed many wounds from working late. Today I see an old mother who no longer holds those same scissors because her hands ache and her memory is lost somewhere in the best fashion of 54 where she , her, and I were/are the "perfect "mother.

The wooden spoon not sparing

Mothering through my hopes and desires while serving a great God is difficult yet quite simple. My flesh speaks to my womb daily wishing it were full but knowing the conviction of His hand will slap my idolatry away. The mud of other gods I have slipped in covering myself in judgment . I shall not return but my desire is to see a life outside of my other four yearns. My imaginative play continues to create games of hopscotch with sisters and baseball with brothers but my maker calls me not to pretend but pray. My body feels broken and helpless at times but HE reminds me I wasn't a mistake. I feel the wrath of jealously whispering me to abide in his truth, his time, his plan. My disobience finds me pushing the empty swing and blowing out one " Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you , Happy birthday dear empty womb, Happy birthday to you." I sing this while Jesus carries me and befriends my confusion, sorrow and discontent. His gentleness and promise wraps himself around my wounded flesh while recycling my faith .I am once again renewed and strengthened to mother in the midst of His will .

Shattered plastic, Roaring glass

"One in eight new mothers have post partum depression" Our number was called last year. As I return to the day of our birth, so many deaths occurred. One of them being the death of pride. I no longer had the ability to say I was okay because you weren't silent. You waited months for me to smile, laugh and accept what God blessed me and one year later I am humbled by your presence, your gift, and your fight for me to be better. You cried until I held you so I would remember what it felt like to touch , you stared at me until I would look down and kiss your forehead. Little by little you kept me going but you needed me to get well so you would be well. I remember every day praying that this day would be better and you always believed it would. It stopped raining, I stopped drowning, we began living. My dear son you will be one and I will be skin to skin holding you , laughing with you, telling you the day you were born was they day I was called to be better, to see and appreciate the fragility of living . I would never redeem our number for the sake of dismissing the pain....I would never deny the beautiful lesson and journey you brought me. I will never be able to silence suffering nor blind my eyes of it. I welcome it with a mothering gleam whispering ..Happy Birthday son, Happy birth day to us.

Screaming with no sound

I suppose now that I am on the other end of my post partum I can sit here and dwell in my pain with gladness. My storm was HIS plan to bring me back in his arms so he could reshape me , cuddle me and well frankly , knock me down from my shiny wall of idle. Days of crying and screaming makes me shamefully stand up and realize that pain was my friend and brought me closer to my savior. I would open my eyes and tears would instantly fill them , my mouth was dry from silently praying for me to make it and not have my children in harms way. He faithfully stood near me and like a parent watched me painfully rebuild , repair, and repent. I have never felt the gleaming light of God more than ever as it laid on my back of beaten whipped wounds of pride and judgment. The soothing of his hand that pushed aside my hair while my head layed low on the dirt of my filthy fame and dishonor. In moments of the darkest of darkest, I didnt have to wait to see my savior, he stood right there , wiping my face and guarding those who wanted to harm me , tempt me, take from me....I could here something out there saying, "where is your God?" with arrogant laughter. I would scream , "Lord where are you?" "damn it reveal yourself so I am not a liar." His mercy would rain down on me and in the silence I heard him whisper his gentle self letting me know he was near, to believe, keep faith, and KNOW he is God. Raging back and forth , each day I grew in his promise . I know his promise, I believe it, I have seen it, I have felt the power of his hand switch off darkness and frightened those who were waiting....I was not spared the rod from my father and I will not forget the loving hands who shielded me from slaps of helplessness. I will not yield.

Somewhere in between....a parent and a child

Jesus talked about the narrow road...when I hear this I struggle in the idea of staying narrow, but I realize that it's not the same narrow I run from..its the two sides that keep us in so we don't become too narrow , we stay balanced, healthy, and not extreme...Once again I am in humility that God would take the time to work with me , train me and guide me through this as I parent. I find myself exactly where I want to be with him, in the middle, not extreme on both ends. I learned this on my very difficult journey with my last birth, my child. I was extreme and where I wanted to birth, how I wanted it to be, and never left the possibility that God may have other plans...after finding myself exactly where I hoped not to be , I scattered to keep my mothering in other ways... to parent a way that was comfortable and accepting to my standards,not at all asking God, "Lord please guide me" I was guiding myself straight into a spiral and before I knew it was sitting across Jesus , not with him. My son and I spiraled together and I couldn't see beyond my pride, and my desire to do things one way...Yes we all say we will do anything for our children but I can stand and admit that I wasn't willing to bend, to ask, to mold into something my child needed. It really saddens me and mostly because I look back and realize how much mothering judgement I laid on myself and then to others. I find it beautiful that God pulled me right up out of all of this, stripped me of everything, and let me crawl around for awhile as his child. At one point , I looked up and cried, asking God to hold me and carry me. And as any parent would, he swooped me up, cradled me and nursed me back to health. My thought is mothering is a beautiful and magnificent mosaic but like a mosaic , it can look and shape differently for others... I really believed in mothering through ideals, birth, nursing, and they became my extreme where I got lost, hopeless, blinded ....and my self started to run through my hands like sand, no ground, no substance ,no middle, no more....

Risen from the dead, a new mother

Really there is no way I can describe the journey I have endured but that I was dead and my faithful savior rose me from it . I pleaded daily for this to occur at once but it was slow with long days of silence. I would awake and count the minutes till I could return to sleep as my pain was endless and the suffering was unbearable. Nobody asked how I was doing anymore because the paleness and emptiness in my soul spoke before me. From a therapeutic point I knew that I needed help so like a good little therapist I went and sought one. I sat there wailing in tears and rage wanting to strike my maker at the same time clinging to HIM because he was my only friend. Jesus was the only one at night that stroked my heart to keep beating and gave me dreams that it would get better, I would be better. At times he would speak through my infant whispering to me that this is all for a reason and that I would survive. Months later my eyes were awoken to a beautiful scene of a mother who found her way back to her baby, a mother who accepted that suffering shapes us, and life is not our own. A mother that has never enjoyed giggling with a baby more than now, a mother who appreciates the small voice letting me know that I am not a failure. The enemy has left my home and wandered somewhere else for now because like Job, God was protecting me the entire time but like Job and his abundance, I had to lose it to know what I had, I had to painfully suffer so I could taste someone elses wound, be more aware, I had to be closed in so I would be more accepting, I had to surrender so I could feel the risen of Jesus and the heaviness of his tomb being lifted from my body and truely understand that I have been saved.

The Weeping Camel

I watched this documentary about a camel who rejected her newborn after a traumatic long birth. I too had a long traumatic birth only to end up having to present myself in a hospital consenting to an unnatural circumstance of birthing, a ceserean. For months I believed it was the ceserean that had subjected me to this overwhlelming sense of hopelessness, not believing my infant son is truely mine and wishing I would never wake up in the morning. However I have taken sips of that thought and realize that it was the journey before the hospital ride, it was the pleading, the praying and the yearning to see my baby in my arms. Every push put me in disbelief that I would never see my baby, something was wrong and I could not help him. Four days later I didn't want to look at him, hold him , breath in him . I didnt know that this was happening and I find it disturbing. Suddenly he would not nurse,and would cry uncontrollably. He was sad too but determined to bring back his mother. For weeks he would cry and I would scream inside wishing I didnt have a baby. In the documentary , the camel weeps when she finally allows her colt to nurse, she surrendured as any good mother would to a will of love and sacrifice. I think of Jesus and how he carried, loved and sacrificed for all to do his fathers will. Months later I have taken small steps toward nuzzling my son, laughing with him, and talking to him while he nurses letting him know that he is my son, he shares my blood, I thank him for reminding me that no one can replace me,no one can give him my milk, my breath, my mothering. I give myself permission to be a weeping mother of surrender and peace knowing that he is a child of God , he is not mine to create dreams and plans, he is my Father's will in which I collapse and in pain, say it is finished.

Better to Be Mary than Martha when in Postpartum

After months of struggling in postpartum depression , I think of when Jesus visits Mary and Martha and how Martha struggled with the busyness of her life and questions Mary. Jesus has dwell ed in my brokenness, my home of despair... wanting to teach me while I ran around in the wide path of nowhere. I heard him daily whispering to me, "come, sit and learn what I am doing in your life."But in the beginning I would say "no I am too angry at you for allowing me this much pain" and now I sit with a struck of humility weeping at his feet in pure joy. He looked favorably toward Mary because she sat with him in stillness , teachable. Many areas of my life I have resembled Martha in her running around trying to keep up and appear to my company that I am okay. These months of pain and disappointment moments have pushed me in a corner with no choice to lean against, slide down, and sit with HIM. He continues to train me in surrendering to his will and reminds me to take joy and thank him in this circumstance of suffering. I have yelled at my God and pleaded asking "why?" Yet he continues to smile on me while his enemy swarms around like a bee stinging me with self doubt, pride, failure and a heart of idleness. And with each sting, I smile back knowing only by his mercy I have survived , I am better, I am his will, I am Martha discovering what cannot be taken from me.

House of prayer or den of robbers?

Jesus was disgusted by hypocrites and I feel close to that wrath. In the past few months I have encountered people who claim false gods, worship a mother that never existed, and replace with a peaceful sign of a natural lifeless journey. I am unable to communicate to them anymore and hear that my God is some helper out there for only me, something I have created in my own. I feel that I have risen from this place they call safe and like minded and ripped out for the glory that I may have forgotten had I comfortably stayed. I have long suffered in the valley feeling the sun blaze my back calling me home. God has revealed his teaching and that suffering is an honor and I grow from the pain that inflicted my body, my womb, my breasts. True surrendering is not giving up, its letting go what really was never mine to keep, to worship, to beg back. I pity the one who sits and asks, "what is she saying?" The one with sight can see but choose to stay blind and look for the shiny gold calf to justify.

down came the rain and washed the mother out....

In my profession we identify it "postpartum depression" but when I sit with Jesus, he reminds me of the cross he has chosen me to bear. I know that I am a good mother but I cannot help but sing lullibies of the spider that drowns from the rain waiting for the sun. Hours go by and I look at my schedule because if i sit too long, my fear is that I will die. Pain seems to sit next to me on the other side of Jesus letting me know it's time to cry. When I cry, I feel like I have emptied out the overly flow of desparity , it feels soothing like when my breasts are emptied from nursing. I find solace, I remember but I no longer recognize my face, just a shadow of meekness crawling around the house picking up toys and folding a pair of pants that need to be hung. This ritual brings peace to my children letting them know that a mother doesn't fall , she limps even when it's painful , when it's slippery, when it's unimaginable.

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall.... My great fall

God says "thou shall not judge" and in these past months I have felt the wrath of why not to judge others. In all areas of my life I have been measured in the same length of my judgments. Little things make me smile because I dont even look high enough to see anything bigger. I am tired, my body aches to move and my heart wrenches when I see someone enjoying mother hood. I love my children but I am having a hard time connecting with my infant son. He continues to pull me closer and I keep listening for his small voice to direct me. Days have no become months of tears, scraped knees from praying and pleading to HIM. A friend said I looked tired, and i really believe she wanted to say I looked sad but like me its hard to admit to others...because I use to be strong. I am learning that in his weakness I am becoming stronger but I wonder if my anger will subside, will I overcome , is there such thing as a cloned Job? I want to dance again, wave my hair , and stride my mothering, instead i wash my face with filthy hair strands , not moving , looking for the sun while medicating my mind that I am somewhere else. Someone asked me today if I were okay. What will they do if I am not, cook a meal, hug me, pray for me....all the kings horses and all the kingsmen couldnt put humpty back together again. I am angry at my maker today, the same hand that has blessed me, has striked the core and left me to bleed all of who I thought I was meant to be and I want to scream "screw you" but instead I shamefully bow my head in dirt praying for his mercy while drowning in his grace.

Hannah's Prayer

God led me to her prayer over a year ago confirming that I would have another child. How I never imagined that her prayer is my thorn that continues to poke me from each side leaving me in a pillar of pain. I know now that I am to leave my expectations, my reason, my knowledge at the alter returning my son to who he really belongs too and train him to permanetly stay with him. Many days I sit here in the wade of my tears asking why have I been forsaken Lord. Like birth this is when we think we cannot take anymore and then it happens, we breathe in new life. Spiritually I have taken gasps of this and unable to comprehend his teachings. Sadness has overcometh me with little light and hope but I press forward knowing he is a good God, he is my savior, he is my giver , he is my taker .... and my tears will continue to wash his feet with praise and honor, asking forgiveness for my strike of anger.

Out came the sun....

and dried up all the rain

Stripped and Naked: art of mothering

God says to not have any other gods before him and when I think of this , I think of wood, something shiny, but sitting here with my almost 3 month old, I now see what god I had sitting in my heart, my soul, my mind. I thought that I could master mothering without Jesus . I shamefully admit that as long as I had the "tools" I could mother naturally and blend in with others. I now sit here not having any direction or light that guides me so I fearfully hold on to God's promise that he never leaves and that it's not for my understanding, it's his will. I wake up in fear of feeling like already the day will be a failure yet when I yield to prayer , I press against the dragon and blow away images of my expectations. I would not trade this dinner place with Jesus for anything because I know he makes no mistakes and his invitation to trial is an honor. Indeed , my table set is not what I chose nor looks familiar but its exactly where I am suppose to dwell. Everything I thought I was is shredded in bits of pieces , yet what is clear and strong is God and my faith that dwindles back and forth singing a song of redemption.

Be still and know HE is God.... Preston Morgan's Birth story

I was sitting on the birth ball talking to my friend Belinda(labor assistant too) when I felt a pop, I walked to the bathroom and water drizzled down letting me know labor had begun. Belinda and I decided to walk around and with each stride I felt a contraction coming, I embraced them letting my baby know "good job." We joked and laughed through each contraction , it was so different from my last VBAC because the pain over came me with Milani , while this one I seemed to dance with them. At some point, I realized that things were happening faster and my midwife needed to come right away. Another friend was called and while I labored in my living room, my husband was preparing the pool. Labor pains became intense and I knew I was getting closer to pushing. At some point Brenda arrived and I was in active labor closer to 10 cm . I went to the pool and within 10 minutes felt the ugre to push , my husband got in back of me holding me while I pushed , I also pushed on my own, and I truely felt it was time.....it wasn't....its hard to describe all events in detail and as Brenda said to me later that a person had to be present to truely see the process of how I went from pushing, feeling my baby's head sitting right there ready to come and hours of him not able to come out. There were moments of the mothering animal that comes out right before the last push and still I could not get him to come. I talked to him, I prayed for him and it wasn't until sitting there 2 days later with my MW and other MW family friend that I knew I needed to surrender to a place I didnt want to visit. I called the hospital and it was a blessing in my opinion that my preferred back up was on call the last 2 hours. I let her know what was happening the past 2 days and I let her know that intuitively something didnt feel right. I transported at that time and the was the worst car ride ....my body was still pushing. I arrived grunting and moaning in the wheel chair...I did request to be checked by the OB so she could see how close I was, she watched me push and see that the baby's head would not move...the heart beat was doing great through it all from the beginning of labor to the last contraction before the surgery ...but intuitively I knew that something wasnt right and that he wasn't coming for a reason. I honored that over my desire and pride to birth him vaginally . As I was preparing emotionally for the surgery I asked my husband to pray and we ( brenda, Cecily, my husband held hands in a circle praying while the medical staff did what they needed to do. I requested that Dr. Kratzer be present and he wrap our baby in my hoody so he could smell me while I was in recovery and that I wanted to be with my baby as soon as possible.. after minutes of the surgery , I heard him cry and I requested that the OB not state the gender and to let Billy. Billy brought him over and said "here is our son" Because my hands were not strapped I held him , talked to him and kissed him...this was for about 10 minutes..Dr. Kratzer held off the nursery staff while I held him standing there smiling. The entire staff was respectful and as sacred as they could be..the post partum nurses all said how sorry they were and they knew that I didnt want to be there but to let them take care of me so I could go home earlier. I did go home after 24 hours as I was immediately released by Dr. Newell and Dr. Kratzer released our Preston. We are home now and there are parts of me that feel like I didnt leave and that I did give birth to him because of how calm and sacred things have remained, but there is the pain emotionally and physically present reminding me . Preston was tangled up in the cord from his neck to his stomach and he was pushed back in a position that caused him to remain stuck. He also was in an OP position , face up. Because his heart tones were strong, I was able to avoid the "dramatic" scene of an "emergency c-section" and so even in the unnatural circumstances I hope that our son felt the calmness and peacefullness despite the surgery. I am certain there are lots of areas I have left out but this what I remember and wanted to keep remembering....It's hard for some to understand why I might be grieving but for me its a dragon that I had to meet again and also knowing the empowerment of a natural birth and wanting it again for this child is a loss but I do not regret my right to surrender and allow God to do his will. In my faith , there are no questions, and I sit still knowing He is.

How to make a baby with clay...

"It's getting closer." Indeed this is one true statement, but I still feel invaded each time someone mentions how low I am, how big I am and how "courageous" I am. I suppose that is what I enjoy molding clay most with my children. There are no expectations, no disappointments or cookie cut form of creating, it just sits still waiting for someone to touch, imagine, and hold...just like my baby growing inside of me. Milani (3) asks "what making Pey-Pey?" Pey-Pey stares down at his clay and states " You have to wait sissy." Milani and her big eyes accepts this, moves on and appreciates the constant movement of clay and it's open -ended possibilities. Sometimes I imagine this perfect birth circle of my children, husband surrounding me at home, supporting me and helping me bring our baby in, and even then I must surrender, put the image down, crumble it because it's my image of when , where, and how. I don't see my due date as a marker, I can feel the baby descend physically , my anxiety has turn to anticipation emotionally, and my prayer has been simplified to let he/she be healthy, so it's getting closer because this little person has placed reminders on my soul, preparing me to birth like a child with clay and no manual.