That Whole Mom Thing.

I feel like I need to take this moment to... just be honest:

Some women are really into the whole mom thing.

And some crazy women even love the whole newborn stage that goes along with it.

My daughter is 7 months and 2 days old, and I can NOW officially say that I love being a mother.

My pregnancy was hard, but not hard enough to damper my excitement of meeting my baby girl.

Even after the trauma of an emergency C-section, I was still elated that I had a tiny, warm, little baby to bring home. When the Social Worker came in to talk to me about post-partum depression and how to seek help, I was slightly offended, especially when she repeatedly insisted I was a young mother; is 27 really that young? I brushed her off and went back to paging my nurse for morphine.

Before the baby was here, Preston and I tried to prepare ourselves in every way for Emilia. We did a pretty good job on stocking up on diapers, parenting books, blankies, and onesies. But no matter how much advice we asked for and took, we just weren't prepared for the things that we found to be the hardest. Isn't that always the case?

Once home, and without the aide of a nurse, family, or friends, my husband gone at work, I'd look at my baby and cry, just a few tears. I was so filled to overflowing with love for her, but I was also filled with sadness, guilt, and grief.

In my first weeks as a new mom, I'd apologize to Emilia over and over. "I'm so sorry we didn't get you out quick enough." "I'm so sorry I didn't get to hold you for your first 4 hours." "I'm so sorry I suck at breastfeeding." "I'm so sorry I can't carry you down the steps so we can go outside." "I'm so sorry I am eating chocolate again." Guilt. Loads of it.

My husband would come home and find me in tears, kissing the baby and apologizing. "She doesn't know what you're talking about, Lauren. Go to bed." He'd remind me that she was ok, perfectly healthy and happy, and just glad to be with us.

The first month or two was the hardest. Months three and four were a bit better, but not much. I thank God that I have a patient husband, and that I moved to Cleveland - where my mom was waiting to help with Em so I could sleep.

Finally sleep. If I get jolted out of my sleep even a minute before I'm expecting to wake, I feel as though I've been morally wronged. I'm a fully grown adult woman with a master's degree and I still get cranky and cry when I'm robbed of precious dozing minutes.

After four months of wrestling with the fact that my baby just wasn't getting enough milk, I gave her a bottle. And she slept. She slept almost 4 or 5 hours, which was - to me- a luxury more fantastical than golden unicorns dancing on rainbows that lead to piles of whipped cream.

And then, one day when Emilia was about 5 1/2 months, I looked back at her baby book and realized I hadn't written much, and the things I did write didn't sound much like me at all. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten so upset at the social worker after all? However, I still don't consider myself a young mother, for real - that makes me sound 16 and pregnant. The thought finally crossed my mind, maybe these baby blues are the real deal.

My love for Emilia never wavered. From the moment I knew she was to be, I wanted her. I couldn't wait to see her face in the morning, I loved to hold her, and I would've done anything to protect her. But in all honesty, the first few months sucked real bad:

I had nightmares, had a minor tear in my surgery scar internally, a seriously bloated and hurting tummy, an entire apartment full of dirty laundry, and a Very. Gassy. Baby. I felt so alone. When my mom went back to Ohio, I cried for hours. I called and begged her to come back. Needless to say, the warm dinners brought over to us in those first weeks by people from church (some by other moms I didn't even know) are some of the deepest blessings I have ever received. I wanted to throw myself at the people on my doorstep and give them the biggest hug ever, except I couldn't really move.

When Emilia would go down for a nap, I'd pray "God help me please. I can't do this." I would sit there until the panic would pass over me, gritting my teeth and hoping for less pain and a better day tomorrow.

Now that we are about to move into our own home, I am beginning to feel the lightness of heart that I had forgotten. It's a feeling of peace coming over me that I have longed for for quite some time.

This morning, I went to get Emilia dresed for the day and it hit me. She is ok. I am ok. We are going to be ok. Also, this mother thing is really cool. Like, cooler than I thought it ever could be. And - in all sincerity, I am so so glad to have this baby.

What a relief.

Preston took us to the zoo, and every time we got to a new exhibit, I would exclaim "I've never seen an elephant before!" "I've never seen a lion before!" He let me go on for awhile until he turned to me kind of laughing and reminded me "Lauren. You are at the zoo. You aren't supposed to see these animals in every day life."

When we got to the flamingoes, I kept my confession a secret ("I've never seen a flamingo before"). I just smiled and took in the beauty, so happy to have a sticky little baby in a stroller with banana puffs stuck to her cheeks.

New Things.

Lately I've been trying new things.

New things are usually good, usually.

I like it that this weather is new. Fall makes me want to roll up into a giant ball made out of every scarf I own and sleep for days; except  - I would want to get out to drink coffee, get diabetes from the coconut cake I just discovered at Corbo's Bakery, and chill out to Cat Power's new CD.

What else is new?

Preston and I ... just bought a house. How's that for trying new things? We've been looking since May, and just happened upon a sweet little cozy house with a great kitchen. Heaven on earth. Pictures to come. It was such a great deal. No more apartments without a yard! No more weird people next to us slamming the door and listening to bad music. No more people next door hating us because they think we are weird and listen to bad music.

Sarah Veak came to visit me in all of this newness, and we went to the Cleveland Art Museum. I confessed to her my secret distaste for most, NOT ALL, Contemporary Art. Do you hate me now? I'm sorry. I don't hate it all (Dali? So crazy good). I am into all of these new things, but not so much into the new art.

I mean, I just love how detailed, real, intimate, and relate-able not so Contemporary Art is. From the 3,000 BC chastity belt and 2,900 BC Woman-Bear Vase with a vagina, to the African Fertility Voodoo dolls, to some of the first copies of the (beautifully painted) leafs of Luke's Gospel, to the muses in their bright colors and perky breasts, to St. Jerome's tears and wrinkled forehead, to red-rimmed eyes and crucifixions, it's all so gripping. The canvases are huge, the paint strokes are mixed, minute, detailed, complicated, and just so beautiful.

Then, we walk out of all this beauty into this wide, white space, and a giant neon orange canvas (slightly varied) was before our eyes. It was the opposite of all that came before. Sarah said something about it being "void," and I think that is the perfect description. I can't have the same appreciation for the pink tissue paper sculpture (in what shape?! Are people making up new shapes!?), or the giant piece of graph paper, that I can for the Egyptian vases or the Head of Christ painted by Rouault. Though I found most modern art to be lacking in meaning, cold, or a bit silly, I do have to give major props to the dude that finally decided it was ok to paint women with pubic hair! That's what I call progress!

Art majors, you may now take aim at my head, but - I'm just being honest. Enlighten me, please.

My handsome husband, the second time we met. He was trying something new.

Victoria's Secret? Your Boobs are Deflating.

So, if you ever want to sneak clothes into the house without anyone asking "what you got there?"

... do not sneak in "clothes" from Victoria's Secret.

I've found the giant pink bag with 102384 sheets of hot pink and glittery tissue paper quite difficult to weasel on up the stairs.

It's even harder to get this giant pink mess into a closet before anyone notices when you are getting chased by the world's largest toad in the driveway.

All that to say, it's nice to shake things up a bit. In married life. You know.

My grandma told me never to feel bad for buying nice underwear, "... just so long as you actually like it, though. That is very important," she said. She is actually the one who bought me my honeymoon gear. It totally rocked. When my aunt told me the same thing, I knew this had to be truth. Grandma + Aunt = overtime payday trip to Victoria's Secret.

I say all of this to share an important lesson I learned about spicing up a marriage ... on my honeymoon.

The first night on our honeymoon in Hilton Head, SC, my husband and I went to a karaoke bar. While we were eating, I signed the two of us up to sing a little duet. When Preston and I stood to rock our own version of "Zombie" by the Cranberries, the crowd was pretty impressed. I think. Besides the fact that many patrons were laughing, I believe some were inspired. I'd like to think that an older, average looking white couple was inspired by our talents, but I think it was more along the lines of - no one could do worse than the people who just sang ZOMBIE - that they also got up.

The man was tall, thin, lanky - very Stretch Armstrong. His hair was a teensy bit gray, and he was wearing what looked to be like all khaki. His wife was wearing a black skort and white tennis shoes. She looked like she could be best friends with Mitt Romney's wife. They sang a song together as well, though I don't remember which one. All I do remember is that, as Preston and I boogied the night away, they danced right alongside us. At first, they were a bit rigid - the man's primary dance move looked like he was trying to shove a large dresser to the left. The woman just kind of shook her butt back and forth ever so slightly. The karaoke ended and the DJ was doing her thing. As the songs went on, and the floor filled up, they started to dance harder, laugh, sweat, and just bust some serious moves. When Preston and I left, they were still going strong under the strobe light. Now, this is just an assumption, but - provided they had enough energy after all of that dancing - they probably went back to their hotel room and had just as great a time. Before you think "gross," try thinking "well that's just great." I give props to the Romney-esque duo.

I know that being married just over a year does not give me a license to counsel others in any sort of way. However, I don't think there is anything wrong with sharing the good advice that's been given to me, whether it be the underwear lesson from Grandma and Auntie, or the 47 year old lady shaking her thing right there in her white tennies. Though the couple might not have been inspired by my rock star abilities I picked up by singing in the car in the late 90's, I was certainly inspired by their ability to shrug off any insecurities or cares and just... have... fun. Bravo (especially to the hubby).

Set Your Hair Free

My niece, Burkelle, is very special. She also goes by the name of "Nug." She is the first niece I ever had, and I even lived across the hall from her for a year during college. We loved to have dance parties.

When Nug was very small, she discovered how to ask interesting questions, a talent she still puts on from time to time, like yesterday. She asked me what a period was. When I tried to shrug the question off by saying it was a way for a woman's body to prepare for a pregnancy, she asked - "Then Aunt Brittany is pregnant?" "No." "Will I have one?" "Actually, that is something only your mommy knows."

Back to the small Nug questions. I think she was about to be 5. She came back from Sunday School and asked me to "Explain Jesus." I tried. A few days later, I was sitting on the couch watching TV, and out of nowhere, the top to a long wooden basket flipped off onto the ground. Tiny Nug rose up, eyes closed, proclaiming "I'VE BEEN RISEN!!!"

Small children listen to what you say, and they watch what you do. They remember, especially if they are girls. Now that Nug is here in Cleveland for a visit, I'm reminded in a new way what an influence I had, or could've had in some respects, on her. Now that I have a daughter, this scares me.

These are some things I want to teach my daughter.

If she is ever watching me do my hair, and it is doing its African Fro-Jewish frizz-Random white person straight pieces, I will never curse it. I would rather go to the park with a greasy ponytail and a daughter without hair anxiety.

On a similar note, I will never angrily comb her hair, sweat dripping as we try to get it ready for church in time.

I randomly want to answer her questions with the most fantastical, imaginative, in no way real answers. And then maybe tell her someday. If she doesn't find me out first (she could probably beat me at Scrabble already. Em is very smart.)

I don't want her to think she has to keep friends who treat her badly, especially when she is down.

I will encourage her to always pick up the things I am scared of. Like worms.

I will teach her to ask daddy to buy mommy a Mastiff.

I wish, want, hope with all my might that she will hide beside her bed with a flashlight until 11:30 pm on a school night reading The Babysitter's Club, or other great works of Literature.

I want to teach her that she can grow tomatoes easily, and then cut up a load of them, put them on a cookie sheet and roast them with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and then throw them in a blender with some cream and make wicked soup. With grilled cheese croutons.

I hope she has a lady professor friend who wears great shoes and gives great advice, some of which she will understand, some of which she will pretend to get but won't really until she matures a bit more and then one day goes "ah..."

I will give her a Bible.

I will give her Journey, Creedence Clearwater, Johnny Cash, Feist,  Patty Griffin, and as many 80's punk rock or Dance Cds as I can.

I will give her pens, paper, crayons, toilet paper rolls, peanut butter, bird seeds, and a smock. And then I will sit with her instead of playing on my iPhone.

Like my mother, I will tell her she is beautiful as much as I can, and take her out of school sometimes just to go out for lunch.

I hope to teach her that it is totally ok to cry, even if you haven't figured out what's wrong yet.

And, like Caitlin Moran with her little girl, I will teach Emilia to say "Damn you, The Patriarchy!" every time she falls down.

God bless my lil' chunker. I hope I make it out of this mommy thing alive. I'm glad I had practice with the smartest, sweetest lil' Nug.

Garden Days

Sometimes, when I am taking care of Emilia, I get small glimpses of the way God must see me.

This also happens when I garden. Today I was weeding, and I had to be pretty ruthless. I will save my beautiful beans.

Goodbye Lynchburg!

So, as many of you know, the new little Lund family is moving to Cleveland Schmeveland. We are very excited about this, as it means we will have (tons of) help with the baby. We will also be very close to at least 9 Chipotles which is very good. We will miss Lynchburg very much (especially Blue Ridge Community Church).

Please keep Preston in your prayers as he continues the interview process with the Cleveland Clinic. Everything about this current job position he is applying for sort of "fell" into his lap at the perfect time. We were worried that he'd go the whole summer without a job, but now it looks as though he may have one before we even get there for good! Miracles!!!

Emilia continues to grow at an alarming rate. She is only 11 weeks old (almost 3 months) and she is already 14 pounds and 24 inches long!!! This morning I had her in a little rocker chair that has 3 rattle toys hanging over it, and she was literally pulling herself up  by grasping the toy bar. I have an Olympian Genius Baby. In 3 years she will be able to beat me up and beat me at Scrabble.

Here are some pics for you to enjoy, or not. Many of you have asked to keep in touch, so you can read an occasional post and keep up with us here too!

Not Beyonce's Blues

So last night I read an interview with new mom, Beyonce, in which the pop star admitted that having a baby has been rough on her body -- in particular -- her feet, which are no longer "as soft as they used to be." What!? Come on, really? What new mom who reads that comment will ever buy another album from you, Bey? It's not even like she said "I'm on my feet all day cooking, cleaning, changing diapers, destroying my boobs by feeding a baby, and staring at my poor abs in the mirror, all of which have made my feet hard and calloused. No. It's just that poor Beyonce's feet "aren't as soft" as they used to be. I can't get over it. Today I was walking down the diaper aisle at Target with my simultaneously saggy and calloused new mom body, and I had to hunch over a bit and laugh a little about that comment for the 89th time.

Some people warned me about this thing called "the baby blues." When it was mentioned, I would roll my eyes and say "yeah, yeah, yeah... if I can make it through high school, the basic standard eating disorder that any girl in America suffers between ages 12- 23, working at Quiznos for 5 years, publishing a thesis, and 10 months of pregnancy, I can deal with a baby." Wrong.

The baby blues are real, and I had them (past tense used cautiously). Here is a list of things that prove my feet are definitely not as soft as they used to be:

1. The first 3 days after I delivered my baby I was high on morphine because I had an emergency c-section (and I didn't even get special security glass window in my room).
2. I didn't sleep for 5 days after my delivery because every time I would drift off, I'd have a nightmare that I was still in surgery.
3. Less scary, all I can bring myself to eat is anything processed or dark chocolate.
4. My poor husband has walked into every room in our house, including the bathroom, to find me on the floor crying, babbling something like "I'm trying my best."
5. I threw a jug of cranberry juice at the wall.
6. I called my doctor 6 times asking for birth control before I finally got my RX fixxx.
7. The other day my daughter screamed her way through the line we stood in at the bank and when we finally got help, I was bending over trying to force sugary gas drops into her mouth and didn't realize that about half of my lacy nursing bra was hanging out (yeah I said lacy -- take that Beyonce).
8. I met my dear friend Amber for coffee the other day and she walked into starbucks to find me wearing my pajama top, acid-wash jeans, covered in spit up with sweaty hair and a screaming baby whose tank top was too small and whose chubby, sweaty little belly stuck out in public. I was also carrying a hot pink and zebra print diaper bag. She laughed at me for a little bit.

... All of that to say, I am moving to Cleveland next week. My parents and grandparents live there. I hope I can sneak off for a few hours to go scrub my feet.

This picture is proof that despite the new sounds and smells that have invaded our home, I freakin' LOVE my daughter. I mean love love love like I've never loved.