Empty?

I felt empty.

Steve and I had dreamt about this weekend.

We had loved our time at Keele University:

the campus, the courses, the nightlife,

and the Christian Union.

The CU weekends away with inspirational teaching, relationship building and muddy football games were an annual highlight.

We walked away after graduation both wanting to go back and impart into students at a later date.

Knowing the CU president and our return to England imminent, the stars seemed to have aligned and opened an opportunity.

We were excited and eagerly anticipated all the things we would do, the ways Father God would move.

Who would have known that we would travel to that weekend, driving away from a house shrouded in grief just less than three weeks previously.

Like I said, I felt empty.

The weekend passed like a blur.
We had planned and prepared as diligently as ever, but I looked back and questioned whether things were as creative as we could have made them,

whether we really challenged them enough,

if our words were full of Holy Spirit, or just read off of a paper.

I wondered if I had really given my best,

if we had done the right thing.

After the weekend, our Facebook burgeoned with friend requests, comments about how much our talk spoke to them. And I got the warm and fuzzies.

When you think you don’t do well,

When things are super hard,

But you step out in faith regardless,

God can do great things.

True.

But not the end.

The thing is

I don’t just want warm and fuzzies.

I don’t just want to experience the high of a temporary feeling.

To think I did something good one day

And the next

Nothing substantial has changed

More was in store:

Never would I have imagined

That out of pouring myself out

That weekend still grieving

And being open to what Father wanted to do

That now

Two years to the day later

These girls who sat on seats and listened

Politely taking notes and clapping in the right places

Now

Sit at my table

Text me

Do lunch

Talk birth

Live chat through Obsessive Compulsive Cleaners

And pour into my sweet daughter

(with Petit Filous)

I don’t have much to offer this great world

Just my stories

My inappropriate humour

My meager words

And my love for people

But offer it I will

In the hopes that my longevity

My sticking around and involved

 it makes some difference

It changes some directions

It makes Father God bigger,

more visible,

more tangible,

in more lives.

Ceasefire

A comment I recently posted in a mum’s Facebook group received more than 50 "likes" in the hour following my scribing of it.

At my last check of it, it had exceeded 100.

We are a lazy bunch in the Miller household.

Steve’s alarm goes off at 6am (when he actually gets up is debatable) but Zella and I are only awake before he leaves if thereis a feed to be done or a poop explosion to clean. Some days 8, some days 9, on the lucky ones 10am is the hour we make it downstairs.

I still breastfeed Zella, in spite of her clamouring on top of me as if I were some gymnastics apparatus, and the occasional nip from the four teeth she has recently acquired. I am more than happy feeding her in public: on the bus, at cafes, at others houses, in parks, and, if the moment arises, while running to catch a train.

Some days, we hang out and play with the toys, some wooden, some with batteries. Often the only toy she’s interested in is my phone or the video baby monitor. I know I use technology around her too much because she can swipe the Mac and change my screens, and enjoys sitting back and looking through the morning’s Instagram offerings. I do try and do reading everyday as well, to make sure she is a book geek like me.

Sometimes we head to the park, or go on the swings. Yesterday we did this on the way to Tesco. That Tesco trip where I brought more than I could carry, and had to pile the buggy high and carry Zella home. Which wasn’t a problem…until it started to rain and I had to fashion a covering for her out of the shopping trolley seat cover I have because I don’t want her to get germs. Because for me, the germs in Tesco on the carts are far worse than the germs from the raisins I let her eat off our living room floor. I have also unknowingly taken her to this den of bacteria when she had a viral infection. I'm clearly going for mum of the year. 

Often we go clothes shopping. I often get caught out and spend far too long shopping and socialising in town and am suddenly faced with a screaming babe. I hastily feed Zella the baby snacks and pouches of puree, trying not to condemn myself for not preparing an organic feast fit for The Savoy. At home, dinner times are a happy chatter amidst of baby-led mess; our kitchen tiles’ the loser, splattered with the disregarded and thus flung regurgitations of our child.

And on our favourite days, we hang out with other mums and babies. A year ago, I didn’t know anyone in Birmingham with a young child, but classes and playgroups have grown our circles wide. One mum and her son live nearby so we often meet spontaneously and talk about cloth nappies. Another mum teaches and is full of advice for Steve as well as support as she has carried on full-time breastfeeding. One mum is ten years older, a classically trained musician and a highly disciplined individual; on paper we should have nothing in common, but she makes me laugh hilariously and we have great conversations.

The reason my comment on that post

Seemed to resonate with so many others

Was because I attempted to speak out

Against, what I saw, as an unfair judgment of amother

Breastfed vs Formula

Baby-led weaning vs Purees

Co-Sleep vs Cot

Cloth vs Disposables

Baby carrier vs Buggy

Pacifiers vs Thumbs

Staying at home vs working outside of the home

In our attempt to make ourselves feel better about our choices

Often others are put down for theirs

We draw battle lines and the mama wars begin once again

With angry and judgemental words

The media provoking and antagonising

This fervent fire

A fire that causes another mother to weep

Pushing back the waves of post-natal depression

As at her most vulnerable

One hand cradles her babe

While the other shields her heart and mind

Why do we choose “versus”

Rather than “and”, “with” , “or” ?

I am more than aware that I’m not theperfect mother

I write my daily choices to show they are

Both good and bad

But am learning

Steadily

To rejoice in the fact

I am a mother

With healthy child

Who delights in my face

Who delights in our life

I look at so many of you and think you are thriving

Although you may only see your flaws and failings

But the truth is

We are all doing our best

Serving them best

Teaching them best

Loving them best

And our best is more than good enough

Though we act like these decisions

Are life and death

Denying child a place at Harvard or Oxford

In countries near and far

The abuse of children is far more abhorrent

Than the outcome of these differing views

For my friends

With babes unborn

Uncreated

Unfertilised

Dreams in your head for the future

May you carry the baton

Of freedom in motherhood

And support and love

In the face of this torrential storm ofwords

May we be free from the judgement

Free from the lies

Free the tangled webs of the enemy

That would convince us otherwise

Of the simple fact

You, my precious fellow mother, are doing a phenomenal job.

And as gummy smiles and toddler eyes reveal

That we are succeeding

May we take these words

And be a blessing to others.

Natural

Last December

A seed was sown

A journey began

A new life started

As tiny Zella grew from plum to mango to watermelon then out

Another growth coincided

Changing me from the outside in

I remember the day

Two months short of my 13^th birthday

My mum, aunt and godmother

Gathered busily in the bathroom

Reading box instructions intently

It was my time

My coming of age:

My first relaxer.

 

For those not versed in afro-politics

And wondering why so much fuss

What the big deal is

Relaxers take those tight, dark, young girl curls

And stretch them into

Straight “big woman” tresses

I looked in the mirrored eyes of straight haired me

And I felt beautiful

Gone, now, were the days of sitting betweenmy mother or grandmothers legs

With comb tugging and pulling resistant curls in intricate plaits

I was now in control

And would have hair like all my other lighter-skinned friends

Who wash and go’d in the mornings

Dutifully I did my time in the hairdresser's seat

The 2, 3, 4 hour process

Of white thick cream

Waiting for the burn

But letting it soak in some more

so that it was super straight

And although I had

bad reactions

burns and bumps

patches that didn’t grow

and awful breakage that robbed half the back of my head of growth

like a dog returning to its vomit

so was my foolishness in going back

For me

It was the only way to be pretty

Sold a lie by

Beyonce

Oprah

Janet

Tyra

That to fit into culture

I had to tame my mane

I took out the essence of my hair

And lost more of the essence of myself

As pregnancy hormones dictates

I gave up the “creamy crack”

Letting the natural roots grow out

And as my baby grew inside of me

And I excitedly wondered about the beautiful curls

that would no doubt come

I looked at my straightened ends

And wondered if I’d ever be able to look them in the eye

How would I encourage them to be natural

To love their own body

To be comfortable in their own skin

To marvel at their God-given wonder

If I was suppressing my own?

When precious babe was revealed as precious girl

Faced with the female perils

Of low self esteem and insecurity

I realised that if I wanted her to be confident in just who she was

Born just perfect

Then I needed to show her me

Just the way I was born

Just perfect

There is this wonder

With afro hair

And its curls and twist

Braids and locks

That makes it unique

And daily I now embrace

And so it grows

The afro puff

The 4c curls

My old hidden now rediscovered healthy mane

Surprisingly more upkeep

Surprisingly educating

Surprisingly freeing

Are

When you look in the mirror at home,

You are fine and happy with what you see.

The problem is when you step outside of the home.

That's where the mirrors reflect something else.

Something other.

Gathered in a room of girls,

Silently competing,

"Fine and Happy" suddenly isn't cutting it.

That skirt you thought was fetch,

Their eyes squint at it, but then smile up at you betrayingly.

You look down,

And its newfound ugliness pierces through you.

And yet again,

That ugly deceiver rears its head

Oh no,

Not envy.

We are aware of envy's danger, it's hold, it's wrath.

We are wise to envy's game and the lies of the grass being greener.

So it sends, instead, the coy and looming face of its partner:

Comparison.

I remember the night,

Months previously,

As I did my far too regular trawl of Facebook,

I saw a mother describe how her bundle had finally cracked it and was getting to sleep at 6:30pm and sleeping through the night.

The words grabbed me.

My sane brain left, and my over achieving mind took over.

It started off being happy and pleased knowing the rest a mother needs,

The difficult season the early days of babies are,

And the relief her soul must feel.

Then like a snake it winded cunningly down another dark path,

One where I, once again, questioned my mothering skills:

"Why cant I get my child to sleep?!"

"What am I doing wrong?!"

"'Am I not a good mother?!"

The path weaves further, leading to an ugly pit:

"Why isn't Zella like that child?!"

That's where comparison grabs you,

To that place where even those you love,

Those most close,

most vulnerable,

Risk being attacked.

If I play that evil game,

With my precious babe at just 4 months young,

Then where will I be in 4 years or 14?!

How bruised and damaged will her self-esteem be??

For isn't the root cause of the too-skinny

Too-fat

Too-stressed

Too-overworked

Too-drugged up

Too-overachieving

Lying naked and stripped at the feet of comparison??

The saddest thing of all,

The true travesty of the situation,

Is that comparison steals your joy.

Steals your now.

Steals the things of beauty,

Laid before you in this moment.

At present, my favourite thing about Zella is the way she is with people.

Long did I imagine, hope and pray for a child who would not just be ok with others,

But revel in the wonder and fun of new people.

As our dear friend came over and sat on our sofa Sunday night

Zella played with her face

Smiled brightly

Burped responsively

Cuddled tightly

And brought more joy to an individual than I ever thought she could as such a young thing.

And as we travelled across the Atlantic

She took her spirit of woo

Of charm

Of love

At the airport check in desk

Sweet smiles to the security guards

Passengers apprehensive about her small life and potential cries

Were enveloped into her grin and giggles

And as each friend in Texas called her name

She reached arms swung wide open

Almost falling into their embrace

To stroke their face and nuzzle close

If I stand in the place of looking at others side-by-side to her,

I miss seeing her as she sits, just as she is, on her own, as her own individual.

I cannot and will not compare myself to another.

And I most certainly cannot and will not compare my child,

my kin, my babe, fruit of my womb,

To any other.

I will not buy into that silent lie,

That breeds bacteria of discontent.

She, just the way she is,

Like husband, just the way he is,

Like me, just the way I am,

Is more than enough.

Just right.

Complete.

These words will I speak into her,

Over her,

Through her,

With her.

"Zella, you are fine and happy, just the way you are."

Poop

I've never been one to do things in order.

I can distinctively remember being in one of my favourite places in the world, Whole Foods grocery store in Arlington, Texas, perusing the aisles, when they caught my eye.

Steve and I had been married little over a year when I came home declaring that I had found "it." The items that we did not need at all, but I tried in vain to tell him we needed to buy in advance:

The nappies we were going to use with our baby.

Previous to that fateful store trip, I had never been particularly interested in cloth nappies. I'd always thought of them as old fashioned, bulky, stinky...but you know me: put something in bright colours and make them sleek and fashionable, and I'm all up in its grill.

Roll on three years, lots of convincing of a husband, immense researching of the site, testing out at The Baby Show, and one gorgeous princess later, and we are avid users of gNappies: gParents, cloth nappy people, the hippies who buy disposable inserts to go in them that we then add to our compost heap for extra roughage.

Feel free to come over in the summer to sample veggies fertilised by Zella.

It will be better than when we served salad to a guest last year, and we discovered we served her an earwig.

Rather than the simple throwing away of disposables, after each change, time must be spent in a more labourious cleaning up job.

As I leant over the bath last night, showering off the mess, the colours swirled amidst the waters, revealing more of my very self.

Cloth humbles me.

I take the soiled, wet, stained garments, and with bare hands scrub, rub, and make new.

Regardless of how I feel, how the day goes, I have to put the effort in; laying aside my self to provide for my child's most intimate need.

This mess is none of my doing, but it is mine to sort out.

My pride must consistently and constantly be pushed to the edge, as I endeavour in the dirtiest job in my house (besides the bins).

And I needed this.

I need to be humbled.

I need to be put in my place.

I need to know there are others needs beyond my own.

I need to know that I'm not above anything.

I need to be reminded that there is more than "me" in this world.

I need that quiet time of pondering to evaluate who I really am throughout the day.

Do I think that everyone should use cloth nappies?

Yes, because landfill sites are filling up, nappies create a lot of waste, it can save you lots of money, they are great with sensitive skin babes, and there are some really awesome options out there.

Will everyone?

No, and that's ok because each family needs to make the choices that works best for them, and that's the way it should be.

Do I think everyone needs to be humbled?

Definitely.

Consumerism rages.

The customer is always right.

We push and fight and wrestle to be top dog.

Not realising the importance of the worker bees.

We all need a place of self-reflection.

A place to serve others.

A time when we aren't first, second or even tenth.

By the nappy bucket

with soap suds and poop

is mine.

Where is yours?

Beautiful Responsibility

She doesn't scream, but I still hear her

Hand sucking in crib

Voice quietly and aimlessly chattering

When picked up, arms envelope my neck

And sudden head bobbing begins

So sudden, head clatters with my lips

I taste blood in my mouth

My body feels tired

Wondering why I have forsaken

Our favourite time of rest

Clammy fingers reach up towards my neck and fall in submission

As large gulps begin

The wild animal is tamed

And so I lie

For ten

Or twenty

Or thirty

Too often more than 60

Minutes with

No words

Just her heavy breathing

Cutting through the silence of night

Minutes with

The quiet knowledge

That to her

This twilight exploration

Is like manna from heaven

Full fat organic goodness

Her only way to survive

Without me,

she is weak

A responsibility that shatters my selfishness

Breaks my wants

Shows me so much of unfailing love of Father God

Physically, you tire me

Spiritually, you revive me

The burp rudely juxtaposes the silence

Your mouth accidentally drips its excess

Head flops over my shoulder

Body waves white flag

As slowly I lay you back down

My beautifully exhausting responsibility

{written in 30 mins during a 5am feeding session. feeding zella hasnt always been an easy journey...thankful that I have come to the place where I can celebrate it}

Losing

My babes are sleeping, but I cannot

I feel as if I live in this place of constant frustration

Of constant wrestling between two polar opposites

Of constant emotional battle where I never win

I know the unconditional love of Father God, his forgiveness and blessings

Yet my Bible remains so often unread, its life-giving words shut off to my heart

I stare at my beautiful baby girl, eyes bright with wonder and joy, loving my time with her

But haunted repeatedly by news stories, fears and worries, that any moment the enemy could snatch her away from me

Enjoying the freedom of staying at home with my princess, wondering about serving in the community, training so I my photos would pay

Yet wondering if it is mere whimsy, an idyllic life far from my reach, and I need to grasp the financial stability of returning to the formal grind of my previous work

Having the low-key, no worries option of renting, and knowing that my home doesn’t define me

But plagued by seeing more and more friends on property ladder, and wondering if we will ever climb its rungs

My heart cries out to write and write, and dreams of a future, a career, inspiring with pen, bringing life with words

Yet it seems just that, a dream so far away, a joy that can’t rise to the surface on long busy days.

Buts and Yets stutter my growth

As an adult

As a wife

As a mother

They stop me from enjoying where I am

And the future looms its dark cloud over me

I remain restless

I feel exhausted

I wonder if it will change at all

Or am I resigned to a life that just feels this torn

In the losing middle of tug-of-war

Why can’t I be satisfied and just enjoy where I am, who I am?

When will I fully understand,

It is what it is?

When will I rest?

When will I win?

Dear Baby Miller

Dear Baby Miller,

Hey Cheeky!! I’ve toyed with in-vitro names for you such as “Buddy,” “Munchkin,” “Lil’ Mill,’” “Poopsie”… But given your penchant for kicking incessantly, constantly resting on my bladder and your crazy timing into our lives, I think “Cheeky” is the best name for you!!

Madea, your maternal grandmother (who despises being called a “grandmother”), had a special nickname for us. In the early days of our marriage, she called us “Posh & Becks” in homage to our celebrity status and behaviour. You will be pleased to know however that we are not following in their footsteps in regards to naming you after the place you were conceived: It’s bad enough that Birmingham will be on your birth certificate as place of birth. Mummy hopes that doesn’t cause too much prejudice in your later life.

This is one of mummy’s randomly favourite pictures of us together:

Date Night at the German Market

That’s your daddy, looking like an Abercrombie model advertising a BBQ. One day mummy will show you pictures of what daddy looked like at university and you’ll realise that mummy is a miracle worker, able to see potential behind a mass of ginger curls and baggy clothes. It will also explain to you why it takes so long for the family to get dressed up to go out.

And that’s me, your mummy, the one with the eclectic fashion sense (part hobo-part style icon) and the tendency to consistently bite off more than she can chew. I expect your extra-curricular activities and holiday schedule will reflect that same ethos.

Now, for that rare brief two-minute period of the day where mummy is serious and doesn’t make an inappropriate joke, this photo tells you three things about your new life:

1. There will be adventure.

Whether to this German Market, theme park, Texas, a canal, or even to the shops; there will always be a crazy story, a fun time and an experience that seems so outrageous, your friends will think you’ve made up.

2. We bring light.

We desire to shine brightly, stand strong, be different and draw people to examine their lives in its intended fullness with Father God, out of the darkness.

3. You will need to exercise lots as we LOVE food.

A lot.

But hopefully you’ll be annoying just like us and have an incredible fast metabolism so you can eat whatever you want and stay thin.

See, I told you I can’t go more than two minutes.

Cheeky, you are loved more than you know.

(Regardless of the screams of agony you have heard from me during morning sickness, muscle pain, PGP, potential pee-pee infection, costochondritis, and blood tests mummy has had to endure to keep you established and comfortable in your Hilton-esque abode.)

We can’t wait to meet you.

(and see who wins the bets re: the ginger afro)

And though the house is a mess and we’re a little nervous, we are so very ready and so excited for your arrival. On September 13th. Just in case you were unsure of the date.

Love,

Daddy & Mummy

The ones that keep poking you and shouting loudly when you sleep.

xxx

Ps. If you can sleep through the night from the first week, we’ll buy you a car for your 18th birthday.