Beauty is Not in the Eye of the Beholder

I could go on and on (and on) about how our culture functions on flagrant objectification of women and men in every way... blah blah blah... but I think it's probably safe to say that we all kind of agree that this is the case and it needs to end.  But I'm starting to notice this weird hypocrisy in Christian culture.  For some reason, people think it's okay to objectify your husband or your wife.  In fact, it's often encouraged.

I am seriously guilty of objectifying my spouse (and I mean lustfully thinking about my husband, yes) but I've gotten more convicted about it lately because really, there's nothing beautiful or loving about it.  Christian culture just sort of trains us up to think it's okay to lust after your wife/husband.  Lusting for your spouse is sometimes presented to couples as a potential relief from the temptations out there.  As long as you're married, right?  Anything you want to think about or do to your spouse is fine.  Please understand, I am not suggesting there be a laundry list of things that are okay to do/think and things that are not okay to do/think.  What's objectifying in one marriage may not be objectifying in another.  But there MUST be a standard of beauty in our one flesh union.  Is the sexual attention building something that life giving, or is it a consumption of the flesh?  (Of course, this dovetails nicely into my very strong opinions about why I am pretty much morally opposed to birth control, but I won't go there.  That's not what I feel is laying heavy on my heart tonight.)  

I bring all this up because there is, I think, another detrimental and less known outcome of objectifying and lusting for one's spouse.  I've talked with lots of women about this and there's always a general sense that a wife's duty is to visually please her husband.  And while that's all well and good (who doesn't want a beautiful wife?) I think there is a silent, but very dark and cunning evil to this line of thinking.  If there is no standard for the sexual attention we give our spouse, then there is very likely no standard for what ought to be visually pleasing to a spouse. 

I've heard the sadness in women's voices when they talk about what their men desire them to look like and how if they could just change ------ about themselves, their husbands would find them attractive...  The trouble here is, of course, the intention behind becoming desirable to a spouse.  It is admirable to try to be beautiful.  But, trying to achieve an image of beauty that lends itself to easy lust is ugly.  And, sadly, women don't see the urgency  in helping direct and shape and guide a man's standard of beauty.  If what a man or woman desires is in a spouse is physically unattainable, it is a false idea of beauty and therefore consuming and dumb.  If what is desired does not embody the wholeness of a spouse in the eyes of Christ, then it is a false idea of beauty, an impotent standard that must be altered.  We owe it to our spouses to  help shape their standards.  The consequences of objectifying one's spouse are detrimental, not to mention what this communicates to children.

Some may say that people just have different taste in things, which is true, to a certain extent, but there are standards.  We live by these standards in many ways.  An eight year old will eat chicken nuggets every day if he could.  Someone has to show the child that there are better, more helpful and important things to eat.  It's easy to like nuggets; it takes effort and education like spinach salad.  We must train and educate those we love to raise their standards for a greater good.  We should discipline ourselves, even in in our standards of beauty.  Just because it is easy to lust after a certain version of our spouse does not make it a good or accurate standard for beauty.  If one's tastes or preferences err far away from the true standard of beauty, surely it is our responsibility to help shape his or her thinking!

Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder.  Admiring a person's wholeness and their sexuality in the eyes of Christ does not consume.  Consumption leads to death.  Not objectifying, but rather building up our spouse is what we are called to do.

Most Prized Possessions

In no particular order:

Burberry Brit is the scent I've been wearing for ten years and probably will wear forever.  This is approximately my 20th bottle.  

The mobile above Henry's crib, made out of porcelain beads.  We wanted it to look like jellyfish tentacles.  Kyle and I spent a week making this and I loved to look at it while falling asleep before Henry was born.  The first sounds Henry made were made staring at this mobile.  

Rocks and sand from Lake Superior my brother George and I collected, housed in an antique silver shell for sugar.  

Scientific drawing of my dog Max, drawn by Kyle for my 26th birthday.  This is about a three and half foot frame, so it's quite a large drawing and I love it.  The frame has been painted various colors.  

A unique reproduction of a Boy with Thorn, a Greco-Roman statue.  Given to me by Kyle as a Mother's Day present before Henry was born.  We just found out we were having a boy and this made the statue even more precious to us.  I had seen in an antique store years before.  

Technically, I possess Henry, so he made the list.  

The license plate to my very first car.  My best friend Ashlyn and I vowed that our first license plates would read ASHNES.  ASH for Ashlyn, NES for Vanessa.  She, too, had the same one, only in Wisconsin.  This hangs above my stove today.  

My food magnet collection.  This is an obsession.  

Cut paper silhouettes of me and Kyle.  

A 1969 Ephiphone Sorrento, made in Kalamazoo, Michigan, given (on permanent loan) to me by my father in law.  It was his father's and I play it regularly.  It is a beautiful guitar and sounds lovely amplified. 

Our Polaroid collection.  We have at least a hundred or so.  They go back to our last couple of years of college.  

This is probably one of the most important things in my life.  A Dollywood mug, purchased for my by my brother George.  I mentioned it to him in passing that I would like one and he, only a little boy at the time, insisted that I have one.  You can see that I was drinking coffee out of it earlier.  

A fraction of my record collection.  Some purchased, some inherited, some hated, but kept anyway.  I only buy vinyl, so these are pretty important.  

The first toy I bought for Henry.

Set of 1959 porcelain mermaids.  I bought these at a garage sale long before I was even dating Kyle.  I knew they would hang in my bathroom some day.  I love the kitchyness of them and I also love mermaids.  

The handmade quilt my grandmother was making when my mom was born.  This is used everyday by me.

A Sunday School chair that my cousin Caleb wrote his name and initials on twenty years ago.

Wing back chairs from my grandmother.  

Vintage mirror from my aunt, in powder blue.  

Vintage dresser, given to me by my aunt.  I don't know the time period, but I'm guess it's 1940's.  

Handmade lap quilt from my mother.

Portrait of three of my grandmother's sisters.  

Vintage high chair purchased for my future children long before I was pregnant.  

Hey, Henry!

THIS POST CONTAINS DESCRIPTIONS OF MY BIRTHING EXPERIENCE, SO IF THAT GROSSES YOU OUT, WHICH IT SHOULDN'T, I GUESS YOU MAY WANT TO RE-THINK READING ON. 

Dancing around the hospital, waiting for the nurses to induce me.  

I loved being pregnant.  And with the exception of intense heartburn, I had no overwhelming discomfort.  (Actually, that's not entirely true.  There were many moments when being pregnant caused "discomfort."  I had to stop wearing panties around my sixth month because all of mine just sort of started sliding off.  It was my ballooning belly most likely.  I think it's important to tell you that because there was one unfortunate incident where I got hot and sweaty doing hair & make up for a friend's wedding and I had to discreetly hide the dripping sweat running down my legs that pooled in my shoes.)

Really though, the pregnancy had gone smoothly.  My OB was very certain that we would be able to go through labor and delivery without any interventions.  But, when I hit the 39 week mark and had not dilated, she informed me that she didn't like moms to go past 40 weeks and would insist I be induced at 40 1/2 weeks.  So, I went in and had an ultrasound to check the fluid levels since I said no to being induced.  As it turns out, I had been having contractions the day before, but I thought it was just Henry squirming.  The OB told me that Henry's fluids were "dangerously low" and that I needed to go in and be induced immediately.  I was devastated and terrified.  Devastated that I wouldn't be able to labor naturally and terrified for Henry.  

I cried all the way home, where I polished off a turkey sandwich, cheez-its, three pickles, and apple juice.  They won't let you eat when you get induced, I reminded myself.  I also showered, braided my hair, and put on make up.  I had always planned to do these things during first stage labor anyway.  The trip to the hospital was surreal and I felt AWFUL for Kyle.  I knew he wanted me to have the birth experience of my dreams and it was killing him to see me unhappy.  But then I remembered how AWESOME it was to be in the hospital.   Free cable, a comfy bed, and lots and lots of ice!  

****

Induction isn't fun.  Your body doesn't get to experience the natural evolution of labor.  There's tiny twinges one minute, then you're in full blown labor with contractions right on top of one another the next.  It was not the most pain I'd ever been in, but it was an overwhelming pressure that took my breath away.  (The most pain I've ever experienced was the night I broke my wrist and then did a cartwheel on it.)  And the hardest part about it for me was not being able to freely move around.  I had a bazillion things hooked up to me.  Every time I changed position, someone would come in an adjust all of my monitors, which is super annoying when all you want is to be on all fours and put your butt in the air.  And the pooping.  So much pooping.  So inconvenient to wheel my machine and unplug cords every time I had to poop.  Which was A LOT.  Bradley method techniques worked perfectly.   I relaxed during these early contractions and didn't panic.  Eventually I did start moaning really low during contractions.  But I smiled and laughed between them.  And argued with Kyle that the film Erin Brockovich was worth watching on TV.  

Being silly and having fun.

I was experiencing back labor 15 hours in and thank goodness for Kyle being able to push on my back with his elbows and knees for three or four straight hours!  The contractions had gotten long and intense by that point and I found myself shouting "Oh Lord Jesus!  Oh sweet Jesus, help me get through this next contraction!" over and over.  I knew how hilarious I sounded, but I couldn't communicate that to Kyle.  The bummer was that I was not fully dilated yet.  They came in and told me they were going to let me labor a few more hours, but if I didn't progress any more, they would stop the pitocin and have me sleep and start it all over again the next day.  That sounded like the worst idea in the world.  

"Oh sweet Jesus!"

I was emotionally and physically exhausted, having labored for 17 hours with no food or sleep.  Kyle talked to our birthing instructor and told her the whole story--that I had been induced, hadn't dilated, hadn't eaten or slept, couldn't move, couldn't shower--and she told Kyle to tell me that it would be completely reasonable to think about an epidural.  

Moaning into the bed, I felt a dull pop and then heard a bucket of water from inside me splash on the floor.  I told Kyle to go tell the nurses my water had broken.  When Judy (my favorite nurse) came in, Kyle left to go tell the family my water had broken.  Judy came in with a test tube to collect a sample of the fluid to confirm that it was amniotic, since I wasn't fully dilated.  She looked at the pizza-sized puddle and said nevermind, your water definitely broke.  I remember whispering to her that I might need an epidural and I was too tired to keep going, but that I was sad to do it.  She told me that was a great idea because there was already talk of an emergency C-section because Henry's heart had elevated too high and my blood pressure had dropped too low.   Judy said I would end up with the epidural anyway with a C-section, but that I might be able to prevent one if everything leveled out.  So I said I want the baby safe and I want an epidural!  

When you get an epidural, they try to do it between contractions, but mine were so close together that there wasn't really time.  Judy told me to count to ten slowly.  A contraction hit right as I was sitting up for them to give me the drugs so I screamed ONE TWO THREEEEEEE DO IT!  (Kyle wasn't allowed to be in the room when they gave me the epidural, so he can't vouch for that bit, but I really did say that.)  Next, I think I fell asleep for about two hours and I'm pretty sure Kyle slept some too.  I felt awful for my entire family sitting in the lobby waiting.  We had been there for 20 hours at that point.  Mostly, I was heartbroken for Kyle because he wasn't privy to the emergency C-section conversation between me and Judy.  I was worried he had felt like he failed as a labor coach.  Even though nothing had gone according to plan, Kyle helped me manage the intensity of pitocin and experience the joy of feeling one's water break!  

I was given a "walking epidural," which means that I got sleepy, but could feel my legs.  And though the intensity of the contractions were lessened for a while, I was not numb anywhere.  The rest until transition/pushing is sort of a blur.  I remember seeing my mom for a while and telling her my legs were tired.  And I also remember telling the nurses not to worry about hunting down a mirror for me to watch, which is a shame because I really did want to watch, but was too loopy to remember.  I felt contractions, but it was like they weren't happening to me, rather it was like I was imagining what contractions felt like for me watching myself.  I also remember hoping that Kyle sleeps and knows how much fun I'm having and that I'm not sorry about the epidural.  I felt a little queasy so they gave me a barf bin.

Putting my hand over Henry and hoping I don't puke.  Note the barf bin.  

I must have dozed off after that.  I woke up panicked because the pain (and I mean ALL OF THE PAIN) was back, only this time it wasn't sharp, but very, very deep and concentrated and all consuming.  I started to hyperventilate and clutch at things behind me because I felt like I couldn't breathe.  Of course, I was transitioning, but once you get knocked out, you don't really feel the movement to that stage.  I was just there.  Kyle reminded me to breathe and relax.  It was when I relaxed that I could tell that these contractions were really different from the ones hours ago.  I could feel my little boy moving downward during each contraction.  This was the most painful of all of the contractions, but also the most exhilarating ones and, weirdly, the ones I loved the most.  I remember letting them just come in waves and marveling at how I was doing nothing to make it happen.  It kinda felt like what I imagined the toothpaste inside the tube felt like when it was being squeezed down the tube to get the last of it out.  It sorta freaked me out because I was watching on the monitor just how intense the contractions were and how much bigger the little mountains looked on the screen than before.  But, somehow, I just stayed still, even though I wanted to yell and grab at things around me and cry and swear.  I remember telling nurse Judy that I could feel pain.  She told me that the medicine was wearing off and that it would just get more intense.  She also said that my blood pressure was fine and Henry's heart rate had stabilized.  So I just layed really still and stared at Kyle and relaxed everything I could think to relax.  If transitioning contractions could make a sound, I imagine they'd sound a lot like the Lunar Module careening back into Earth's atmostphere, with this swelling in the background: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WvuJwMFPz4 until you get to that point and you know it's time.  And I really knew.  There was no doubt.

Judy told Kyle to help me sit up and help me squat.  Then she pulled the big observation light down from the ceiling.  It was so bright that I got dizzy and started to black out.  Kyle said that I mumbled "No, I think I just want to go back to sleep for a little bit."  But what I wanted to say was "I feel like I'm trying to move my ears, but I can't find the muscles to do it" because that's how I felt.  I was aware that it was time to get up and pull my legs to my head, but I was too exhausted to do it or too exhausted to find the muscles to do it.  I started to get really, really woozy then and I could see Kyle looking worried.  Judy told Kyle that some people act like that when the medicine's wearing off and are getting ready to push, kinda like coming down off of a trip.  Like the body is rejecting the fact that it's about to do something terrifying.  Judy slapped my knee and said "Okay, Vanessa.  You're going to have to do this again.  Just like before, when you had to deal with the pain.  No more medicine."  

Kyle says I sat up and came back to life.  And I pushed during the contraction and it felt soooo good.  I also pooped and didn't care.  I was so hot and thirsty and the light was so bright.  Kyle fed me ice between pushes and it was the best thing I've ever tasted.  I pushed a second time and Judy told me to wait, as she was bringing the rest of the team in.  Kyle said he could see the top of Henry's head.  I was so concentrated that I couldn't really talk, but I was so happy.  Then I shouted "I need to push!"  It was so powerful and I could feel Henry's head just bobbin' away.  And the "team" had this weird look on their face.  I need to push, I yelled!!!!  They started whispering in the back of the room and I asked harshly "What are you whispering about?"  They told me the only OB on rotation was stuck in traffic and I needed to wait to deliver until she arrived.  Looking back, I should have just pushed Henry out anyway, but I was so protective that I would have done anything they told me to.  Kyle says that I held back pushing for twenty minutes.  Each contraction I yelled "I don't think I can't not push anymore."  (I think we'd had five pushes so far.)  

The OB walked in and I pushed twice and Henry was out.  The OB said I had a lot of fluid for someone who had to be induced due to "dangerously low fluid."  Hmmm.  Interesting, no?  I had a minor tear, which was stitched up quickly.  I flinched when she started to do it.  You can feel that, she asked.  Obviously I could feel that.  She offered local anesthesia, but why bother, I thought.  

"Hey, Henry."  

Henry swallowed amniotic fluid at some point during delivery (perhaps in those twenty minutes in my birth canal) and had to be treated in the NICU for a week.  It was so, so awful to not have him with me every moment, but we got a few precious minutes together as a family before he was whisked away.  

The NICU became our home.  I actually stayed at the hospital the whole time in the Ronald McDonald house.  I also slept in a Tempurpedic bed, which was fantastic.  Henry was a breastfeeding champion, so it was very easy for me to be eligible to stay there to breastfeed around the clock.  All of the nurses said Henry was a doll.  It was so funny--he was so big compared to most of the babies in the NICU that he had to have a special little bed pad.  Within two days, doctors were sure the fluid had not created pnuemonia in his lungs and Henry was sent to the step-down unit.  Apparently, Henry was so feisty that he kept ripping his IV from his hand.  Eventually, they had to put it in his head.  

When you cannot take your baby home right away, you sort of think of yourself more as a spectator than a mom.  When Henry was able to leave, I called Kyle from work and told him to hurry and come pick up his boy!  But, it felt weird to take him out of there.  It felt weird to put him in clothes!  They just wear diapers and swaddling blankets at the hospital.  

From the induction to the epidural to the stay in the NICU, nothing about my childbirthing experience went according to plan.  But, it really didn't matter to me in the end, because I got to take Henry home at last.  

Probably Not the Worst Mom in the World

I'm ashamed of only a small handful of things I've done (or accidentally allowed to happen) to my son.   I'm probably not the worst mom in the world, but I figured I'd share some of my worst blunders, you know, just in case you had the same idea.

*** 

 
When my son came home from the hospital, he was still a bit yellowy, so his pediatrician from the NICU said to let him get some sun.  It was warm enough outside and the sun was shining.  So we got some sun.  He was eight days old.  And I stayed outside with him for an hour.  Without sunscreen.  It didn't even occur to me, but I did think ahead and cover his eyes with his sock. 

 

Not burned, but slightly pink enough that I was too ashamed for anyone to see you for a day or two.

 

***

 

My son was forced to wear this awful outfit and sit like this because I thought it made him look like a cartoon baby:



 



 

This is probably the worst color on you, son.  Mommy's sorry.

 

***

 

He needed a moustache for Halloween, so I made one with my waterproof mascara. 

 

 

You were the sweetest Brawny Man, but I'm sorry I had to scrub you with makeup remover. 

 

***

I had never left my baby alone with our dog Max until this day.  Max appeared to be growing incredibly fond of the baby, so it seemed natural to let Max sit beside his new human best friend without me scolding him for doing so.  I turned my back and took one step away from the baby when my little boy shrieked like I had never heard before.  Max had grown fond of my boy indeed.  The dog was, well, the dog was trying to be intimate with my son's head.  Horrified, I removed the dog and comforted my son.  I'm sure it startled the baby because it was so quick.  Here they are, shortly after, with Max acting appropriately:

 

Max has done it to all of us.  Now you're part of the family.   







Truths of Smoking

I'm just going to say it.  I used to smoke cigarettes.  American Spirits... ahhhhh.  It was a social activity.  It was something to do with my hands.  It was a distraction from homework.  I fell in love with my husband while smoking.  I loved smoking and I will always love it, but I quit a few years ago and I will never smoke again.  These are the Seven Truths of Smoking. 

1. Smoking is cool.  Cool guys and gals smoke.  It makes you look sophisticated, laid back...like you've got it all together. 
2. It smells good, if you're a smoker. 
3. It creates a club that anyone who smokes any kind of tobacco in can freely enter and leave.
4. It is not a huge expense if you learn to roll your own and/or stub each one out after a few drags, then re-light when you need more. 
5. It relaxes you.
6. It is something to look forward to every morning.
7. It will kill you because it is so, so, so toxic. 

I had to quit.  So many loved ones have died because of their habits.  Please don't smoke anymore, friends.  At least, limit it to one cig per day.  Anything.  If you're addicted, get help now.  If you do smoke, I completely understand the appeal, but do a favor for your family and stop smoking as soon as you can. 

What an awful thing to say!

People have said this to me so many times that I have this freaky sensation when it's about to happen.  I feel blood rush to my head and my ears start pounding.  Wow, you must have a lot of time on your hands.  I think to myself: I just shared with you something that I thought was really beautiful and important so I made it a priority in my life and all you could do was disassemble everything that I thought was Good and True.  (Well, that's how it makes me feel anyway.)  And of course, I know why they say it.  It's because they feel overwhelmed by life and don't think they have the freedom to make things beautiful, which I get.  I mean, I really get it!  But what an awful thing to say!

I think it is not only pleasurable to be around beautiful things, but it is also necessary for your sanity.  Order is beautiful.  Good art is beautiful.  Imagination is beautiful.  Intentionality is beautiful.  I like to make things beautiful, in any way that I can.  It makes life better.  So when people say that, I get really self-conscious about my whole lifestyle.  It's like they're saying everything that I value in my "world" is silly. 

It's your world too, you know?  You can make your surroundings more beautiful, if you want.  It has nothing to do with money.  It is about intentionality.  My mom always reminds me that you make time for the things that you want.  And I want to be around beautiful things.  So I make it a priority.

And I think about my son.  He'll undoubtedly feel like making his things beautiful.  It seems to be only natural for children.  Of course, for a young boy this probably will amount to being imaginative (an element of beauty!) with his surroundings like making swords from sticks, and guns from tin foil.  I could never say to him Stop being creative and do something practical.  It's clear you have a lot of time on your hands.   

Making things beautiful is not idling.  It improves that which already is.  And it breaks my heart when people fail to see that. 

A Public Diary? (oops, at first I typed "pubic")

Hello, friends.  I'm excited and a little weirded out to be writing like this.  I feel so self-indulgent making what is essentially a public diary.  Nonetheless, my plan is to write regularly about lots of things--motherhood, fitness, things that I think are incredibly cool/awful... who knows?  Heck, I might even make VIDEOS!!!  Also, I stole this blog's name from someone I knew in college.  My middle name is Pearl and my maiden name is King, but he thought of it first.

A little about me and my life:
My son is four months old and I get to stay home with him during the day.  He's really into his feet.  In the evenings I tutor high school students so they can get high scores on their ACT.   My big goal in life right now is to be more vulnerable to the right people.  My husband writes fiction and teaches high school literature.  Our dog Max (a weiner dog) chews apart all of my son's favorite things.

Thanks for reading!


Vanessa