I am NOT Powerless by Katherine Barron

One of the nice things about getting older is perspective.  I suppose there are other nice things about getting older, but my mind is too slow to think of them right now.  My husband and I are dealing with a new situation in our lives.  It’s a situation of our own making, one in which we and a young person are at the mercy of others.

There have been other times in my life when being at the mercy of others has been my lot.  I remember being in the Charles De Gaulle airport flying stand-by, hoping and praying for a French airport employee to call out my name in a way I could understand, before I had to spend another night on the wrong side of the Atlantic.  There was a sense of panic deep down inside me, knowing that this harried looking woman who could not speak English and whatever faceless computer those tickets were coming out of held my fate in their hands.

There was also the time, standing in a bus station in London, late to catch the train to the airport when I realized that I left my wedding rings at our hotel.  A kind of desperate panic set in, compounded by the strange city, different culture and the fact that we had to get on a plane.

There was the birth of my first son, when I had planned to have a natural birth at a birthing center, but my water broke and labor did not start.  Once my water broke, I was on a 24-hour clock and I knew I was at the mercy of those two little hands.  There was at first a sense of panic, and then resignation that there was nothing I could do to change the “rules” and once my time was up, to the hospital we went, a hospital with its own set of rules put in place by nameless, faceless, bureaucrats looking to prevent lawsuits – not give me the natural birth that I wanted.

Other times, the powerlessness I feel is being at the mercy of God and nature.  In the last few months of my mother’s life, watching her get weaker and weaker as the brain tumor and radiation damage slowly took her away from us, I felt that same sense of anxiety and hopelessness that accompanies not having control over my situation.  Though I am a nurse, and I could think of options such as fluids and feeding tubes, I knew they would not save her life and that she would not want them.  I watched, helplessly, as she stopped eating, then drinking, and was gone.

The perspective that I have gained has allowed me to look back on these situations and see what physical symptoms accompany these times in my life.  I literally can feel my heart rate rise, my appetite diminish, and my frown lines intensify.  I have learned some coping mechanisms to get me through.  One is the best case/worst case game.  I think, if this situation plays out, what is the worst that could happen?  What is the best?  More than likely neither of those will occur, but at least I have emotional prepared for them.  Sometimes I simply change my situation.  In the case of birth, I decided not to go to the hospital at all and had my next two babies at home – and that was the right decision.  Sometimes I just get really proactive, researching and reading anything I can get my hands on about what is happening.

Often I just breathe.  Breathing is good.  In through my nose, blowing the air out through my mouth, I feel centered and less stressed.  And while I am breathing I pray.  For strength, for calm, for patience and sometimes, for acceptance.  Lately, I’ve been asking for the intercession of Sts. Jerome and Joseph, and St. Michael the Archangel.  For these moments are all part of the battle that we fight for the ultimate reward.  As long as I’m breathing, I’m fighting.  And as long as I have my faith – I am NOT powerless.

Copyright 2012 Katherine Barron

I had finished and had poured my milk into a milk storage bag and I was looking at this substance.  This whitish/greenish milk that came from me and I was just amazed all of a sudden at the fact that my body can do this.  Make milk.

There are these t-shirts that you can buy and they say “I make milk.  What’s your superpower?”  I love that shirt.  Because the ability to feed another human being from the substance of my own body is amazing.  I make this living food.  I use the term “living” because breast-milk is alive and ever-changing.  No one knows what breastmilk is made up of because it changes from woman to woman, from child to child and from hour to hour.  Depending on the age of the child, breastmilk has different ratios of fat and protein.  As a woman comes in contact with viruses and germs, her body makes anti-bodies to pass on to the child.  It’s alive!  And I make that.

And I give it to my baby and he grows and benefits and is comforted and kept healthy.  I am connected to him through that let-down.  The feeling that reminds me who I am.  I am a mommy.  I am not with him now.  He’s with his daddy and brothers at home and I am here working.  But the let-down is not just a physical feeling.  It’s a fullness both in my breasts and in my heart.  I feel that fullness in my being.  A connection that draws me to him even as I am here at work.  A feeling that encourages a tenderness in me towards him even when he is at his worst as a little screaming being.

And God made me for this.  Wow.

Copyright 2009 Katherine Barron

Sometimes, the cute little cuddly baby in my bed is unhappy. He cries. And nothing I do seems to console him. And I get mad and frustrated. Is that what was supposed to happen?

Sometimes, I wish I could go to work. Get up, drop off the kids at school, and head off to a job where adults are there all day. My bank account would look so much better right now if that were the case. I mean, I wouldn’t spend all that money. We live just fine on my husband’s salary, but having a whole other salary would be awesome! And I wouldn’t miss my boys. Right?

Sometimes, I’m just a little resentful of those stretch marks. You know, the ones that linger on your tummy long after the toddlers have learned to say “No!” to every question that you ask. That skin that hangs over no matter how many crunches you do. (Well, maybe not me personally, but I have a friend who does crunches, I think.) My body isn’t supposed to become so foreign to me, is it?

Sometimes, I’m so tired. Co-sleeping was supposed to make life easier. But that baby has been rolling around in my bed for what seems like years. He nurses, then cries, then sits up. “It’s four am,” I tell him, “please go back to sleep.” He looks at me, babbles and grins. Then cries again. It would be easier if he was in his own bed, right?

Sometimes, homeschooling isn’t the barrel of joy that I envisioned. The baby is cranky, the preschooler is annoying, the laundry needs to be folded. Sometimes my first grader sits at the table and cries. Sometimes he takes two hours to do 20 math problems. My life would be so much better if someone else were teaching him how to read? Right?

Sometimes I just need to vent. I just need to say out loud that this life I chose isn’t always easy. It isn’t always fun and it definitely isn’t always fulfilling. But I know that any other life wouldn’t be mine. And I wouldn’t have moments like right now – where two of my boys are playing in the sandbox on this beautiful fall day with no threat of the stress of homework due tomorrow, or tests that will make the state happy. My two little guys can just run and play and enjoy being little boys and I am here for all of it. When my baby cries, I am the one who comforts him. When my little boy learns to read, it will be me who has taught him.

And for that and so much more, Lord, make me truly thankful. Amen.


Copyright 2009 Katherine Barron

There must be nine or ten songs that are wrapped up in that time for me.  That May, those weeks following his death.  His friends, all younger than me, all graduating from high school, yet missing this crazy guy who they had grown up with.  He and I were so different.  So different, that I think that I lived a little through them during that time.  I got to know them, because I couldn’t get to know him now.  “Tuesday’s Gone” by Lynyrd Skynyrd, “Runaround Sue,” “Little Sister” by Elvis and so many more just take me back.  Put me right back in that moment as this young 20 year old who had just come to know that life just sucks sometimes.

Almost a year after his death I was listening a lot to The Indigo Girls.  Their song “Ghost” is a love song, and some of it didn’t fit, but the idea of being in love with someone’s ghost…with the memory of them was real to me.  My brother was in many ways not a nice guy.  He was someone you wouldn’t want taking care of your kids.  He was just mean sometimes.  But his memory was something we all reveled in.  In love with his ghost.  And we still are.  We still watch home movies of him and there is this sense as we laugh and joke about some of the funny things that he did that underlying the laughter is a sense of sadness.  A sense of doom almost when here’s his last Thanksgiving and his last Mother’s Day.  His last prom and birthday.  And behind it all the music – Jewel’s first album which was in the CD player in his truck when I cranked it up.  “Strawberry Wine” that I heard coming from his room at night.  Barry Manilow’s “Mandy” that he played because the girl he liked was named Mandy.  All songs that will forever remind me of him.


Copyright 2009 Katherine Barron

My husband and I have an older home, built in the 20s.  It’s brick with lots of hardwood floors and real wood doors, tall ceilings and archways.  And we were lucky enough to find a house with a screened-in porch.  For those of you who do not live in the South, the idea of a screened-in porch may not seem all that important.  But we live below “The Gnat Line” in Georgia and not only are the gnats bad but so are the mosquitoes.  So if you want to enjoy the out-of-doors in Georgia you’d better have a screened-in porch.

And I have one.  My handy, teacher husband spent one summer rebuilding, re-screening and painting the ceiling of my screened-in porch.  The porch is 10 by 20 feet just off my living room and is bricked like the rest of the house with arched openings on three sides.  When we moved in we added a ceiling fan for those warm summer days and nights.  In the morning the porch gets a bit of sun, but the worst of the day’s heat is focused at the west side of the house, and so the brick sides and red tile floor help keep my porch cool on warm days.

Now today is a perfect day for a number of reasons.  It is a holiday and so my husband is home and no schoolwork beckons for the 6 year old.  Autumn is peeking its lovely head out in the mornings now, the thermometer dipping below 70 degrees for a blessed few hours.  But clouds have kept the sun from allowing that temperature to move up today and so I am here, in a sweater and pajama pants, sipping coffee and reading a book.  The wind blows through the trees that surround my house.  The robins, thrashers and cardinals are chirping their way from branch to branch.  The squirrels are scampering from pecan tree to pecan tree storing up for winter.  I can see the tree house in the backyard and the chickens in their pen.  I hear my boys inside, and not one of us has turned on a moment of visual entertainment since climbing from our beds.

Please excuse me now.  There’s more coffee to make, more book to read and more of this perfect day to enjoy.

Copyright 2009 Katherine Barron

Maybe guilty is the wrong word.  I suppose homeschooling for me is like becoming a Catholic.  Once I listened to those tapes by Scott Hahn and once I read those books about Christian history, I had to become Catholic.  I knew a truth.  I felt it to my core, and to not act on that truth would feel like a lie.  So many things in my life are like that.  So much about attachment parenting is like that for me.  I breastfeed because it is the single best thing that I can put in my baby’s tummy.  Nothing else in this world compares to breastmilk for babies.  Some situations may call for using other foods, and those mother’s should not be berated for not breastfeeding but that does not change the TRUTH that breastmilk is made for babies.

Babies are meant to be born naturally.  That is how they are meant to come into this world.  There are instances where c-sections are best for mom and baby, but not most of the time.  And whatever we can do to help that natural process along is the way it should be done.

Little boys were meant to play.  Little boys learn and thrive in a context that includes lots of running around, playing with legos and climbing trees.  Sitting in a classroom all day is not how they were meant to grow up.  This is a truth.  Homeschool doesn’t work for every family, but little boys were not meant to sit and follow directions from teachers who don’t love them and mostly just want them to get good grades on tests.  This is a truth.  And again, mothers and fathers whose situations force them into doing things a different way should not feel guilty.

I’m not saying that these truths are in the moral/immoral categories.  That is not what I am saying.  I believe certain things to be truth, and once that is part of my knowledge it is up to me to DO something about it.  The same goes for exercising, or eating right or not smoking.  Once we have been shown the way…we must act on it.  I’m trying to lose weight right now.  Yes, yes I want to look good.  I want to feel attractive to my husband, but I also want to be healthy.  I know that being overweight is not healthy.  That is a truth.  Do I think it is immoral of me to be overweight?  No.  Do I think that it is immoral to not TRY to lose weight? Yes.  I have been given knowledge of the best and I should try with all that God has given me to take care of that which He has entrusted to me.

That is why I home school, because my children have been entrusted to me by God and it is my and my husband’s responsibility to bring them up the best way we can.

Copyright 2009 Katherine Barron

I love your sigh of contentment when you get that first swallow of milk

I love the way your eyes roll back in your head when you latch on

I love the noise of your mouth and jaw as they work together to bring my milk down

I love the feel of let down…little needles that signal my body is working to make food for you

I love the anxious feeling I get when I am away from you too long, a feeling increased by the fullness in my breasts

I love the all-the-time readiness of my milk – perfect temperature, perfect consistency, ready for you

I love when you look up at me while nursing, and smile because I’m smiling and the milk runs down your cheek

I love to love you, and I know no better way to do that than to feed you and comfort you in the shelter of my arms

Sleep well, little man, with milk-wet chin, sleep well.

Copyright 2009 Katherine Barron

As I write this, lying on my bed with my laptop open, my little chubby-cheeked man is curled up next to me, sucking on his fingers, making baby sounds.  He’s so warm and new, so soft and smooth, that I hardly know what to do sometimes.

The power of a baby – something I think this world forgets.  The movie Children of Men captured this power with such reverence.  If you haven’t seen the movie, I’ll just tell you this – a baby enters into a world that has not seen a baby in almost 20 years.  It is a world of despair and hopelessness, and this child makes everyone stop and stare in awe and reverence.  But all babies do that for the world.

On a recent trip, I took my then three-month-old with me.  Everywhere we went, in restaurants, the airport, and hotel elevators, people stopped, looked, and smiled, asked how old he was, tried to make him smile, and generally seemed to enjoy his very presence.  As I was holding him on my shoulder in the airport, a man passed by us talking on his cell phone and I heard him say to whoever he was talking to “I’m passing the sweetest little baby right now…”

Children seem to know instinctively that babies are marvelous creatures.  Adults hear “I’m pregnant” and they see dirty diapers, spit-up, and can hear the crying.  Children though, hear that someone is going to have a baby and they just get excited.  When I was 15, my mother announced to my four siblings and me that she was pregnant.  We were jumping with joy, because babies are so great!  But when the adults in our world heard about this miracle, most of them wanted to know if my parents knew how babies were made.  Such cynicism around such an amazing gift still astounds me.

Babies are the natural progression of the love between man and woman (you know – fall in love, get married, make babies).  And as my husband is fond of saying when the subject of how many kids we plan to have comes up, “Practice, practice, practice.”  And then enjoy the life, the life looking back at me with enormous baby blue eyes, a visual representation of the love that God has for all of us.  I’m going to give that little life a kiss right now.

Copyright 2009 Katherine Barron

I’ve passed the 38 week mark.  My first pregnancy (which is supposed to go longer – or so I was told) ended at 38 weeks with the birth of a six pound six ounce red head.  When it came time for number two to be born, I was all set up to go into labor early.  Everything was ready and waiting at 36 weeks.  So we waited and waited and waited.  Almost 6 weeks after everything was ready, my little blond made his appearance.  Here I have two very different lengths of time.  One child who showed up early surprising us all, and one who showed up late – surprising us all.  For this pregnancy – I’m trying not to expect anything.  This little man may show up tonight, tomorrow or sometime in late March.  He could be later than my little blond, who I thought would never show up.

I learned an important lesson through waiting for number two.  It’s a lesson parents (one would think) learn early – since every child does things differently.  This one walks at eight months, that one walks at sixteen months.  This one is ready to potty train at two, that one won’t even consider it until three.  This one likes the same story read every night (twice) and that one picks four new books per night.  Why is it that when it comes to these life lessons we let our children do things on their time, but labor and delivery has to happen at 40 weeks for every baby?

If trying to do things naturally has taught me anything it is the unpredictability of my children, and by proxy their own unique selves.  The timing that must be watched and not pushed (well okay maybe pushed a little).  Each child’s own special gifts, talents, and personalities.  These differences are God-given and need to be respected.

As parents we sometimes have to make difficult choices or medical decisions that are not what we would have planned for our babies.  But I find God’s plan for their lives in those decisions as well.  In all matters concerning our kids, we need to be constantly praying for direction from God and from Our Lady.  In that way we can have confidence that waiting on the Lord (and sometimes for that slow moving toddler or late coming baby) is many times the best decision we can make.

Addendum:  As timing goes, our #3 came right on time.  It just so happens that right on time for him was his due date!  I hope to be writing more now that this latest baby is a little older.

Copyright 2009 Katherine Barron

The miracle is not the problem.  A baby (oh a baby) is warm and soft.  A baby is snuggle time and sleep time and breastfeeding time.  A baby is smiles and laughter and light.  But pregnancy, oh pregnancy, for me this time around is drudgery.  And I don’t know why.  I mean, I don’t have anything to complain about.  I don’t have nausea or morning sickness.  I don’t get hemmorhoids (I know, gross).  My face doesn’t get fat.  My ankles do, even fairly early on, and my heartburn is awful.  My labors are not long (so far).  I have good, “nothing-to-complain-about” pregnancies.  But I am ambivalent about this one.

Part of it is plain, old-fashioned selfishness.  I was just starting to lose some weight that I had been hanging onto since Sam was born three years ago.  I had finally seen those scales drop below a certain digit and I was excited and feeling good about myself.  Now I get to watch those pounds creep back up.  Even at 20 weeks I’m already starting to waddle.  You know what I mean, that pregnancy waddle.  And as if my boobs weren’t big enough – ugh!  Okay, so there’s the self image thing.

Then there’s the old “I don’t know this kid” part of it all.  Here are these two adorable boys in my life.  They are growing and changing.  They enjoy each other and they both enjoy books.  And who is this person inside of me?  Is it a girl?  If so, will she like me?  Will we be able to get along?  If it is a boy how will he fit into this current “Ben and Sam” dynamic?  Regardless of sex, will this baby be okay?

Yeah, yeah, I know.  These are all unknowables.  But pregnancy is that wondering at the unknowable.  Looking down the face of change and seeing all the endless possibilities for this new life that does not even have a name yet.  Seeing all those possiblities and not even having a tiny face to put with them.  With my first two I just felt a connection early on, but this time “eh.”

I know (know) that when this baby comes I will be head-over-heels thrilled and in love.  Pregnancy time is unlike any other time for me.  It seems to yawn and stretch, dragging it’s feet like a toddler on the way to anywhere.  Pregnancy time is pondering time.  And perhaps it is as God intended it.  A time to get ready.  A time to prepare for a new life, already set on a path.  A time to say good-bye to the way things are right now.  Though life doesn’t stop when children are growing – it sure does get a large push forward with a birth.  So this is my time, to prepare for the adjustment…to ready for the change.

I’ll be ready, right?