The Adventure Begins . . .

What could be more domestic than motherhood? I picture a serene and showered mother rocking her baby in her arms and singing lullabies as she glances at her perfectly kept home. A smile crosses her lips as she smells her homemade bread baking in the oven.

I’m only in the second week of motherhood and here is my reality. I roll out of bed, hair coming undone from my nightly ponytail. I pick up my screaming infant and hope my morning dragon breath won’t permanently scar his olfactory system. I stumble over to the rocker, “I thought I cleared a path during the last feeding,” and position my child. Then I pray this prayer: “Dear Father, please help this child latch on, and please help me resist the urge to smack his face when he chomps on my bruised and battered breasts. Amen.”

How I came to associate “serene” with motherhood shows just how naïve I was about the whole process. Labor itself is anything but serene, although mine was a close to that as I could hope. For those of you who are interested, here is Caleb’s birth story:

I had a dream pregnancy. No morning sickness; I kept active and feeling good, even through the heat of the summer. Because things had been rolling along so smoothly, I knew something was up in early August when I started to feel crampy – like my period was on its way. At my 36 week check up, the doctor informed me that I was 2 cm dialated and 25% effaced. My initial thought was “Wow, I could go into labor any minute!” After talking with other mothers, I learned that this was not uncommon and many people stayed 2 cm until their due date or were even late. With this in mind, I convinced myself that I would have to be patient until the end of August and maybe even after his official due date of August 31st.

My dad’s birthday was August 13th – a Saturday. We went to the evening service at our church that day, and I left the service because I felt awful. Now that I know what contractions feel like, I can say with confidence that I had my first contraction right then, during the 5:00 pm church service. But it came and went and I started to feel better. We celebrated my dad’s birthday on Sunday night at the Elgin Pub House and came home for ice cream cake. That was, I realized when the nurse asked me, the last thing I ate before I arrived at the hospital.

I started feeling sporadic contractions around 10:00 pm on Sunday evening. I went to bed thinking I was finally getting some Braxton Hicks contractions, which I hadn’t felt at all during my pregnancy. By 2:30 am, I was wide awake and starting to think it might be the real deal. Everyone was asleep, and the house was quiet and dark. I marked a pacing path in the basement and walked back and forth for the next two hours, breathing my way through the contractions and trying to time them. I was feeling good. These were manageable contractions, and I realized I really liked working through them by myself. In the dark. In the quiet.

Paul woke up at 4:00 am and found me pacing. When he asked if I was ok, I told him I was in labor. After a few shocked moments of back and forth: “Are you sure?” “Yes, I’m sure.” “You think this is the real thing?” “Yes, . . . [inhale, exhale] this is the real thing!” Paul realized I was in labor. We had talked about me wanting to do some laboring at home before going into the hospital, so at my request, Paul drew me a bath. The warm water was relaxing, but when I got out, the intensity of the contractions had doubled. I told Paul I wanted to go to the hospital. By that point, my mom was awake (we’re currently living in my parent’s basement) and the three of us grabbed our things (I had only packed my hospital bag the previous night!) and got into the car.

 

When we arrived at the hospital, my contractions were coming quickly – every two minutes. I measured 6 cm at arrival. Once I was on the hospital bed and strapped to the monitors, it took all of my focus to make it through each contraction. I didn’t want anyone to talk to me or touch me. I just wanted to close my eyes and focus on breathing. When the nurse asked if I wanted the epidural, I looked at Paul. (I didn’t have a birth plan, except that I wanted to make it through as much of the laboring at home as I could and then I would play it by ear on pain management). The nurse told me it would take 45 minutes before the anesthesiologist would be in because they had to run labs, yadda, yadda, yadda . . . Yes! Please stop talking, lady, and hustle. By the time the anesthesiologist arrived, I had moved into the groaning stage of labor. They were involuntary, and I tried to focus on my breathing, but I could hear it. I could hear myself groaning when I exhaled.

Of all the impossible things one might instruct, this seems most absurd in the moment: “You need to stay still during your contractions so we can get the epidural in.” No matter how difficult it was to stay still, it was worth the result. Pain free! Unbelievable. Seriously, unbelievable. I could relax. I could hold a conversation. I could enjoy the view of the lake out the window. All while the monitor next to my bed recorded each contraction, contractions that just moments before had racked my entire body. It was the perfect epidural. The pain was gone, but I could still feel pressure, so I knew when I was contracting – this helped immensely at the pushing stage of the game. 

Once I got the ok to push, I refocused my energy, feeling rejuvenated from the rest that came with the epidural. I had Paul on one side and my mom on the other. I pushed for approximately one hour. The pressure increased until Caleb came out. Relief washed over me, and I sobbed when they placed him on my chest. There were too many tears to even see him clearly. It was over. I had a son. My life would never be the same, and the beginning of motherhood would definitely not be easy.

Ode to Elgin

Proverbs 16:9 - "In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps." With this in mind, I wrote a poem for Elgin.

Return

Cradle to grave in a single space, a river town           

spent and refilling. Soft imprints in graveyard grass,

my child-sized feet walking history, bluff city

cemetery. A whole life, but not many years,

belong to you. Not a passing through visit, a sudden

stop of breath along the bike path, a quick grave.

No. You are home.

I left for bigger things, cities and careers I thought

you could not hold. My heart’s longing for beauty

a decisive blow to you, mountain-less, sea-less, cement

town. I carried only the memory of a dirty river.

For seasons in different places, no thought of returning

to the tower’s shadow on an empty drive.

Yes. You came back.

Lesson learned: we all change in both directions and hope

more good than bad. Familiar sights: a pavilion surrounded

by willows and water, a muddy creek and wooden bridge, a store

where we stopped for Little Debbies on our way to school. Delightful

news: a taller library with fireplace and views. Trains sound

my nighttime song of youth and I pat my son’s head and think.

      Now. You are home. 

Where Dreams Begin

Remember what it felt like to have endless possibilities? Yeah, you were probably twelve and dreaming about all the adventures your adult life would hold. If you were anything like me, you were trying on careers in your mind: saving lives as an emergency room doctor, working as an interpreter at the UN, making movies, playing your favorite sport professionally, teaching to eager students, photographing wild animals for National Geographic, designing wedding gowns, traveling to war-torn countries as a journalist, pounding the gavel as a judge, writing novels in the mountains, drawing up building plans. You name it, I probably imagined doing it.

The adventures of real life have taken a different form than my childhood imaginings. The cold hard fact is that getting good at anything requires an incredible amount of dedication, hours of work – doing the not-that-exciting-part of the career you’re working in. (I know, sad isn’t it?) It’s not as easy to try on careers as I’d hoped.

But what I want to know is, how can you choose just one thing when there are so many exciting possibilities?

You might wonder how a nice lady like me ended up – for now – in the law (which is not my passion, by the way, but enjoyable at times and always challenging)? Well, it was passion of another sort. You see, the man of my dreams happens to have a single-minded passion for the law. If he was going to be in my life (and I couldn’t imagine life any other way!), so was the law.

Ok, here’s my domestic connection. Dreaming up the many possible adventures for my life, and feeling like I could do any of those things if I put my mind to it, all stemmed from my domestic life: loving parents, a warm home, family meals every night, plenty of clothes to wear, weekly trips to the library, homework time, discussions around the dinner table, reading countless books under the covers, bedtime prayers.

So maybe through all this rambling what I really want to say is this: what I really love is home because home is where dreaming begins.

Home with Animals

Love of animals has been a defining characteristic of mine since childhood. Thanks to my kind and patient parents, animals have always been part of my domestic life. I’ve lived with cats, fish, rabbits, various reptiles (not my choice), and finally dogs.

The first Christmas gift of my married life was a blonde cairn terrier named Toby. Toby was my first friend in Minnesota (not including my hubby, who used his persuasive skills to convince the landlord to let us get Toby in the first place). To set up this gift, I should tell you that I was pretty much an emotional wreck when we moved to Minnesota. No friends. No family. And lots of cold. When Paul told me I was getting a puppy for Christmas. I cried. Not a few sweet tears, people. I mean, bawling, blubbering mess. Ridiculous.

Thinking back, Toby was the end of a pet drought (darn those college dorm rules). In a way, adding him to the mix was like getting a piece of myself back.

Toby’s six years old now and never lonely since we added Reese to the family just a year later. I’ve learned endless lessons from these two characters. I thought I’d share just a few:

1.      It’s completely appropriate to become wildly excited about the smallest pleasures – like taking a walk, seeing someone you love even though they’ve only been away a few hours.

2.      Forgive like it’s the easiest thing in the world. My pups are incapable of hating, holding a grudge, or feeling sorry for themselves.

3.      Curiosity is the ultimate cure to boredom. Imagine exploring the possibilities of everyday household items – like toilet paper or sharpie markers – using only your mouth! Oh, the mess you could make.

4.      Don’t be afraid to ask for attention. Whether you’re looking for a pat on the head or a snuggle, you should let your requests be known.

5.      All we need is love. Treasure the moments you get love, and make your life’s mission to love everyone you meet (if you’re Reese) or at least those who feed you (Toby)

P.S. Dear Bryn, I hope this qualifies as answering the question. Here's my shout-out to your excellent design blog: http://brynalexandra.blogspot.com/2011/01/january-giveaway.html#disqus_thread

Life with Music

I can’t imagine my life without music. In many ways, music has shaped the domestic life I know. In my family, music was mandatory. All the kids started with piano lessons at age five and then were given the option of switching instruments in fifth grade. Some might think a mandatory music standard is too strict, too limiting of a child’s freedom. But I am extremely grateful for it! Don’t get me wrong, there were plenty of times in my childhood that I dreaded the thirty minute timer sitting on the piano, keeping me from going outside and playing with my friends. But the reward of being able to enjoy music like I do now – to play it, to write it, to sing it, to be in a band – wouldn’t have been possible without my family’s rule.

I recently had the privilege to sing backup at a concert by my friend, Mandy. It was a blast!

Guess who was there grooving to the tunes with me? That’s right – my family. The cool part is, if we wanted to, we could put our own band together.

Hope you’re enjoying the sounds of the season with the people you love.

Haskeland

I come from a traditional family: mom, dad, siblings and multiple pets (ok, maybe the pet part isn’t traditional). Each family is its own country, unique in its manner of speech, favorite foods, and pastimes. Even as a child I remember my curiosity about my friends’ families. Did they have mandatory piano lessons? Did they get to go to the library once a week? Did they stay around the dinner table long after dinner to discuss current events and swap stories? Did they have a cupboard dedicated to Little Debbie snacks?

Paul and I have been married for six and a half years. For the last few years we’ve discussed our desire to start a family of our own. We are the founders of a new country. A combination of our unique family traditions and values, with a few of our own ideas. I think about some of the things that are ours, that make us the family we are (even though we haven’t yet added a little one to the mix):

** We love our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He is our greatest treasure, the source of our love, a constant companion, and the ultimate model of forgiveness and grace.

** We camp whenever we can and love to be “in the wild.”

** We care about the earth and want to be good stewards, but it doesn’t feel like a “Haske” Christmas without a real tree.

** We are not trendy, but we are loyal to certain brands: like Heinz ketchup and Quilted Northern toilet paper.

** We are usually talking about the law, politics, current events, and books we're reading.

** We often end phone conversations with one word: “pieces.” In our country, that means you are loved (to pieces).

** Popcorn is the snack of choice when watching tv or a movie. It has to be made on the stove and sprinkled with excessive amounts of salt.

That's just a glimpse of our country. 

Pretty Things

My friends know that the running joke in my family is that if I could, I would change careers each week. Although I have never considered myself visually artistic, I love, love, love all things design and architecture related. The list of blogs I read consists primarily of those focused on interior and building design.

Not long ago, my dear friend Magdalena recommended this little gem of a book. 

The book’s thesis is one that I have often thought and felt: the beauty or lack of beauty in our surroundings affects how we feel. As humans, we have a deep connection with dwellings. As a young girl visiting the San Juan islands, where my mother spent many of her summers, I remember thinking that if I lived somewhere so beautiful I would never be sad.

It’s a simple thought, and not unequivocally true, yet it created a resistance in my mind to returning to Illinois.

My dad (an Iowa native, which should explain this sentiment) believes that miles and miles of flat land filled with cornfields is beautiful. I couldn’t imagine coming home to Illinois, especially to the Chicago suburbs, because they are so uninspiring to me. I wanted to live in Montana or on an island in Washington. Instead, I moved back home – to Illinois. So while the natural surroundings might not be beautiful. It doesn’t mean the interior of our living spaces can’t be. If it is true that beauty of our surroundings impact us emotionally and our naturally landscape doesn’t help pick us up, the Chicago area should have some of the most beautiful interiors. How’s that for logic? I wonder if psychologists will start prescribing improved interior design as a remedy to depression.

All that to say, if I could spend most of my time looking at beautiful things, I would.