othersomethings.com

Have you ever had that one day where you go to the post office and your baby is crying, and between filling out customs slips and standing in line, and filling out the RIGHT customs slip and getting back in line, you’ve been there for an hour now, and you reach for you wallet only…it’s not there, but wait! Your check book is! But they need your drivers license. In your wallet. So you you go back to your car and yell something pretty profane and then start crying, and then when you get home you find your wallet emptied out behind the music rack of the piano, and your baby is still crying and doesn’t sleep until after 11pm?

No? You haven’t? Must just be me.

At least they’re cute.

I visited Pearl Harbor when I was 11. I was taking the day with my Gramma (whom I was visiting) to sight see and do touristy things. Awfully nice of her to accommodate my whiny 11 year old butt.

We arrived and as I got out of the car I remember being physically affected. I knew quite a bit about the history involved even at that young age, and as I gazed over the water, out at the memorial floating and the boats ferrying back and forth…I felt it. I felt, physically, the palpable presence of grief and sadness. Of blood shed and cries of anguish. Of death.

Later in the day we visited the cemetery at the Punchbowl, or National Cemetery of the Pacific, and I didn’t even want to get out of the car, honestly. I felt so sick to my stomach, just the magnitude of sacrifice and death I felt on my that day. We walked around and looked at things, but the whole time I just felt like throwing up.

I’ve felt this at other times and places, Gettysburg comes immediately to mind. The palpable thickness of bloodshed is so intense on those rocky hills it makes my stomach turn.

But Pearl Harbor remains in my mind a place not of beauty (which it is) or a place of interest (which it is) but a place of intense grief that overwhelms my soul decades after the last breath of the forgotten was exhaled.

I would like to visit again sometime, with the perspective of adult eyes, and the knowledge of a mature mind. I don’t think the sense of emotion would be any different, but I think I would absorb a lot more than the mere horror of past events.

In the mean time, the last 18 years I have remembered December 7th with a special sobriety that I don’t necessarily give to other holidays with meaningful intentions. The morning dawns and my mind hears the roar of plane propellers and the warning sirens, the steel rending and the guns firing. The crash of a plane onto a deck and ending the life of a well-intentioned but grossly misguided young japanese man.

I hear it. I smell it. I feel it.

Every December 7th.

Today is no exception.

So far today I’ve cleaned a baby in head to toe poop, and accidentally insulted my mother probably making her cry. All before 11am. Yesterday I woke up to an unexpected negative balance in my bank account, a car with water pouring in from the increasingly poor seal on the sunroof, and then ran out of gas in the walmart parking lot.  Batting at a thousand!!!!

When I put Ella to bed at night we have a routine – change, read a book, pray, hugs and kisses, light out. What we read is up to her, sometimes it’s the same annoying short book for 5 nights in a row. Sometimes she asks to read the bible. (The advantage here is that she’s asleep within 5 minutes of starting the chapter.) And the prayer part she has a say in too…for the last two weeks every night she’s asked to pray for Daddy. So we do. We pray for him to come home safe (if she goes to bed before he gets home), or we pray for him to have a successful day at work the next day. And interestingly, since we’ve been praying for successful days at work, Shannon has come home that night and said something along the lines of “Great news everybody!” and that has been really interesting for me to notice.

So if Ella and I praying for daddy to have a great day is seeing fruition…who is praying for MOMMY TO HAVE A GREAT DAY?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Somebody get on that one STAT.

(P.S. the mom thing…I apologized. Also, public service announcement: If your internet service provider offers you an email account, say no thank you. They just want to make sure it’s harder for you to cancel your service with them and it WILL cause you headaches later.)

In the 1970′s, both my maternal and paternal grandparents moved to this area of Florida to work at Teen Missions Intl., which led to my parents meeting, which led to (obviously) my being born.

So far, all members of my immediate family over age 15, as well as many of my extended family, have had their summers overtaken by the compelling summer missions ministry of T.M.I., and this summer proves no exception…my sister Ruth Ann is at this moment getting on a bus taking her to Miami and then a plane to spend the next 5 weeks in Israel. A bus driven by my brother Kyle, who…like his father, several of his uncles, and both of his grandfathers before him, have made the same 10pm starting of the bus ritual and trek to some far off (or not so far?) airport or destination, loaded to the gills with gross smelling euphoric teenagers and luggage almighty.

I spent my first birthday in Mexico, as my parents led a team that summer of ’83…and I spent plenty of weeks at bootcamp in the 80′s with my grandmother, Lois, as they were still on staff or were leading teams. I recall vaguely playing with the Bland’s grandchildren, of playing with Mahars and a few other staff kids…I have memories of strange things like sitting on three and fourwheelers under an awning waiting to get yelled at to get off them, of helping my grandmother run the store during bootcamp and various folk being amused at my no-nonsense “yep” and “nope” answers to their inane questions. I remember sitting under the desk in the main office, and playing with all the different colored labels used in mailing, the florescent green, orange, pink, yellow, denoting whatever. I have no idea what. I actually have a memory of some special staff weekend where there was a party, and everyone gathered at one of the lake areas and rode around on the most primitive jet skies you can imagine.

I remember spending nights in a tent next to my snoring grandmother, listening to the croaking of the gators and the hum of mosquitoes.

For some reason, going on a summer team was never on my agenda. Perhaps my youthful experience was a caution to me. I’d like to think God had other things for me and my learning could be obtained outside that environment. Whatever the case, I haven’t been on a Teen Missions team of my own volition. But four of my siblings. TJ, Kyle, Kelly, and now Ruth have. And I really respect them for that tenacious on-taking.

I think Ruth is going to come back in 6 weeks with a more polished perspective on her life, and on life in general. God has an incredible way of using short term missions to transform the missionary far more than the recipients of the mission. And as much as Ruth has grown (metaphorically and literally) in recent years, her character is going to have a different sheen when this is all over. I look forward to seeing that. And I look forward to seeing similar journeys in the remaining 5 siblings who don’t have bootcamp and world travel under their belt yet. (I have those things, I just gained them unconventionally.)

And perhaps, though I expect Bob and Bernie will be dead and gone, probably the Lanes, Yosts, Kramers, Widder, and whoever else as well by that time…perhaps my own children will be interested in the idea of a teen missions summer team. I’ll go with them to buy boots, and batteries, and they can use the hand-me-down dish bag…and their uncle Peter or Graham will be waiting on a Saturday night in the driver’s seat of an old red, white, and blue bus to take them to Miami or Orlando, or perhaps even JFK.

Perhaps. One day.

Legacies can be hard to shake.

I’m no activist…I can’t claim any political label other than “person with thinking brain, feeling heart, and searing conscience” but it strikes me as significant that our culture chooses trivial things to rally around and ignores the true heinous acts that occur without eyes batting.

What gets your attention? What is it that raises YOUR ire?

Casey Anthony? A jury finds her not guilty and perhaps you disagree…But I doubt she’s going to be killing any other children or persons, I think we can rest easy on that count – and I will be resting knowing God himself will judge the just and the unjust.

Gay people marrying or not marrying? In my opinion a state or government of any kind has no business saying which adults can and cannot marry, no matter which gender they are. Marriage is a covenant before God, not a contract between two people, I don’t care what the state says. If God doesn’t recognize the marriage, who cares what your status is in the courts.

The economy rising and falling like the next great ride at you-name-it-big-time-theme-park? Do you care about that? I haven’t met a single person in my middle america-existence that hasn’t been effected by something economically themed in the past 5 years, myself and immediate family not excluded. It is hard not to be intensely focused on something that affects one so personally. Do I have a job? Can I provide for my family? Will we make the house/rent payment this month? All those questions are far too relevant.

How about Abortion? Some people find themselves unfazed by the idea. Although calling it an “idea” when it is in fact a reality of breathtaking proportions is itself a mistake of the largest kind. People find it simple to consider it an issue of “tissue”, “embryos”, “cells”, and even the remarkably impersonal term “fetus”….

I’ve held living, breathing, human beings in my arms of similar proportions and statistics. This is a child who could have been named. Could have seen a first birthday, with cupcakes and chocolate frosting. Could have played on a playground within 48 months of this photo. Could have, within a decade after that been blogging from her iPhone 25 or whatever is about at that time. The thought of a girl/woman considering herself (regardless of the circumstances that brought about this life) more important than this little girl’s life, is so shameful and horrifying to me, that words don’t even form in my mind to properly express my opinion.

Like I said, I’m not an activist…it’s not in my nature to stand up and be an eyesore or a nuisance or a joke that Jon Stewart can poke at like the next Fox News…But neither am I a coward. Nor a non-confrontationalist.

I don’t imagine this is a situation that will change within my lifetime. Or anyone’s. I don’t imagine my saying any of this will change anyone’s mind or make a dent in any decision a woman makes on the whole “I didn’t want to be pregnant, now what?!” question.

I don’t even imagine that the activism I’ve been witness to in my lifetime, (more significant than you’d imagine) made the difference we’d hoped it would.

I don’t care what the Anthony verdict was…I don’t care what the economy does in the next 5 years. We get riled up about journalists in Africa getting raped and killed, we get angered by civilian familys caught in the cross-hairs of middle eastern countries. How dare we not be angered by the exact facts about abortion?

On no level is it OK. On no level is it warrented. On no level will we NOT answer for this later.

We will answer for these atrocities on every level.

I have felt mentally stagnant for the past 3 years.

Boring. Sad. Unfortunate. Shameful. Whatever you want to call it, that is the unvarnished truth.  This past month has been a shocking awakening of brain functions, in which I realize science, art, language, and the school of life all are STILL INTERESTING and there is plenty for my distracted mind to absorb inbetween the changing of the diapers and the washing of the fabrics and ceramics of the home.

I have long been a scholar of everything life contains, both the physical and non-physical, and it has taken some drastic measures to remind me of the fact. I’ve mastered the subjects of diaper rashes and infant/toddler behaviors (not too difficult since I had pre-courses as a teen), and it was a matter of time before I realized I could move on into uncharted territories.

The past few weeks have been spent studying a few subjects, namely aquatic husbandry and all subjects related to photography. It’s been a predictable tumble down the rabbit hole for the photography part – ken rockwell leads to fro knows photo leads to nikonians leads to various flickr groups leads to fred miranda leads to the strobist…seriously. A rabbit hole. And I drank the bottle and ate the cake.  My feed reader grew by a dozen blogs in one weekend, and my blood shot crispy eyes attest to my chronic 2am reading sessions. Everything I see and do is measured in focal lengths and light directions. I see EVERYTHING differently.

All that begin with Shannon asking me what I wanted for my birthday and I responded within .05 seconds “A DSLR.” Which I don’t yet own.

And the fish. OH, the fish. I wish I had a great camera (coming, forthwith!) to capture the adventure that is our fish debacle. In the past two months we’ve owned 9 fish. 4 are with us today, at varying degrees of health and happiness. I think the current 4 could be in for a good haul, they’ve made it past the critical first “3-24 hour” mark and appear to be living in some semblance of harmony. We’ve said goodbye to Tornado, Freddy, Dr. Zoidberg, and two beautiful unnamed specimens who died before names could be on the table. But we are enjoying the antics of Tower, Achoo, Cannonball and Ginger. It’s bizarre how much enjoyment we are getting from their presence. And Like I said…I’m learning a lot. Habitats, water conditions, behaviors, compatibility, etc. etc. etc. Yet another rabbit hole one can fall into if one so chooses.

In conclusion, I’m happy to be thinking again. To feel mentally challenged. To have (literal) dreams about off camera flash, and conversations with the mythbuster (Specifially Jamie, the one with the crazy beard) about the design of a strange contraption I designed and fabricated in my dream. Not that my happy little mommy/housewife existence isn’t fulfulling – it is. But I’d forgotten that a certain part of my brain – the part that uses science outside of baking powder, existed, and FLOURISHES on new information!

I love it. I love making my mind WORK.

*sigh*

It’s good to feel that mental activity again.

My 3 month old son’s calves are bigger than my wrists.

Don’t ask me how I took a picture of both my hands and my own wrist…it’s complicated and slightly embarrassing.

I remember with Ella being so frustrated that she had no distinguishing ability between the concepts of “night” and “day”. Between “happy”, “OK” and “pretty bad”. Babies can be so polar in their behavior and understanding. And as a first time mom, it drove me insane. I went sleepless.

This is not currently the case. When my daughter slept poorly, my son’s sleeping habits amaze me. When my daughter ate nonstop and gained weight at glacial speed, my son knows when he’s had enough and gains weight like a wrestler edging into the next bracket. When my daughter expressed her displeasure with a slow buildup and remarkable endurance, my son goes from zero to angry in two breaths and stays there until he decides sleeping or staring is better.

What I’m trying to say is that Ella and Django couldn’t be more different.

And I couldn’t feel more different as a mother from first to second time around.

I’m growing accustomed to life as mom+kids. I’m having a hard time remembering single or married Leah, it’s just mommy Leah now. I used to check my own oil. Now I check diapers. I used to spend 10+ hours a day on the computer earning $$. Now it’s a feat to spend 1. I used to look down at my chest and think “I wonder what it’s like to have a bust line?” now I think “I hope I don’t run into anyone who thinks feeding babies from these things is weird.”

Motherhood has exponentially changed me. I love being a mom.

I love my children. That is probably why you won’t see me on “60 minutes” or profiled as the woman you pity/think is crazy.

And I am kind of blown away by the realization that my mother had a similar journey in life. And so did her mother. And so on.

This mothers day, while reflecting on all the things that your mother is to you, and how much you love her…consider how much she loves you. She sacrificed things you’ll never know she dreamed about in exchange for you, your health, your wellbeing, your success. And your mere existence, let alone fulfillment of those sacrifices were enough satisfaction for her to love you no matter what.

I look forward to the day when my children understand their appreciation for me and choose of their own volition to celebrate that. It only took me 20 years…and until then, I’m happy to recognize my own mother – Lora – as an example of motherhood that is difficult to match. I love you mom, and even with your faults you are a discernible example of what a caring and Godly mother looks like.

I guess it took being a mom myself to understand that.

For the birth junkies and interested parties…I want to write it all out before I forget any details. So here’s Django’s full birth story. For some reason writing everything helps me process, and I feel like I have a lot to process! Stop reading here if “mucus plug” sends you dry heaving, ok? Continue reading

I don’t have much going on in my life right now other than just…being very pregnant. Not to say lots of stuff isn’t going on, because it is. But because I’m *very* pregnant I’m either uninvolved,  or preoccupied. This will probably remain default mode for another two months at least, as this kid arrives.

I would just like to say something though. We were told with relative certainty that this baby is a boy. We also decided that the name we had picked out if Ella had been a boy was one we still wanted to use. So he has a name. We’ve shared the name with a few people, and without fail we get raised eyebrows and a comment that isn’t particularly positive.  This unfortunate reaction to naming a child something one might not be familiar with is getting old, frankly, and he’s not even born yet.

However, that has not changed our minds. Unless God himself writes on the wall “His Name Is __________” and that name is something other than what we’ve chosen, we are sure in our decision. It’s been prayed over, it’s been examined from all angles, and people who have something against infrequently heard names will have to keep their comments to themselves. This child will live up to his name.  He will not be a baby for long, and will grow into a man who embodies his name, his name will be memorable to everyone who is introduced to him. And if he is raised to fear and love the Lord, this will be nothing but an asset to him.

I’m not of the camp that every child must be named after a parent or close relative. (Although middle names are perfect for that, IMO.) I’m also not of the camp that every child should be given a bible name. That’s nice and there are a number of biblical names I really love, but there are plenty of wonderful names that aren’t found in the Bible. And I don’t think the people IN the bible were naming their children after, well…people in the Bible. So it’s not an unwritten commandment in my mind. People in the bible were naming their children after certain people, places, things of importance, or character traits they wanted their children to embody. Sounds sensible to me…I can do that.

Ella means “Bright light.” So far in her life, my daughter has been this. To her parents at least. Again, being raised to fear and love the Lord…I don’t think continuing to shine brightly will be a problem for her. It’s also the name of my great great grandmother. It’s also the name of a musician who left her mark on the jazz world, with music in general never being the same after that.

This boy – unless we get one heck of a surprise and suddenly have to think of a girl name last minute…will be named Django Robert Cherry.

Django – pronounced “Jan-Go” – means “I awake.” I would prefer for this name to be embodied figuratively rather than literally…I’m sure he will keep me awake plenty without any added impetus. But I can think of plenty of awakening that needs to happen in the future, and my son might be the man for the job. It’s also the name of a musician who left his mark on the jazz world, with music in general never being the same after that.

For the record, I’m aware that the first thing that might pop in your mind when you hear the name “Django” is a game known as “Jenga.” And that there is a “Jango Fett” associated with a certain sci-fi story. And that it’s a weird name you have either never heard before, or would never in a million years consider naming your child.

I’m aware that my grandmother, the minute she hears the name will say “I don’t like it.” She says that about every baby name she hears unless it’s Matthew, Mark, Luke or John.

And that couples all over the place will snark to each other and chalk us into the “wackos who gave their child a crazy name, never to be taken seriously again” camp. I know this because I’ve been told this.

I’m also aware that it is not the most easily pronounceable name. That it might be considered a mouthful for a tiny baby. There are some built in mechanisms for this event…Shannon and I are both comfortable with using a nickname for him while he’s a child, if it fits better.

Options are “DJ” or “Doc.” (D.R. Cherry? Yeah. We went there.) Or you can call him by his name.

The choice is yours. But for the sake of clarity, when you hear the name of my child, assume we’ve put plenty of thought, prayer, and research into the choice. It wasn’t a whim. We are not irresponsible parents. The name has meaning, and has been deliberately chosen, in spite of any negative associations that might arise. I guarantee you the associations will be short lived, and as my son grows he will reap benefits from his name. And perhaps leave his own mark on it’s meaning and perception.

I really hope that, anyway.