I hear her cry sweep into my dark bedroom, and inwardly I groan. I have stayed up too late, relishing in the blissful independence that night time brings, the cozy comfort of being able to roll about and use my phone with two hands. I have lost hours in a stupid game I cannot play during daylight due to a grumpy baby, needy animals, and too many chores. How did midnight find me so quickly? Where did my "Freedom" hours go? I lie still and quiet next to my gently slumbering husband, half wishing he could take a turn, half wishing she won't wake him up. I let her fuss through a cycle, hoping against hope that she will find her pacifier, feel comforted, and go back to sleep. But the end of a gentle cycle brings on a louder one, and I know if I leave her crying for too long, she will be so awake, her feeding won't lull her back to sleep. So up I get as my husband begins to stir, hurrying to calm her so he can get a full night's rest. He's got his job in the morning. I've got mine all night.
Her room is always so much darker than I expect it to be, despite the string of battery operated apple-shaped lights hanging on her walls. She's ramped up louder than I realized and I scoop her up with comforting coos. Her little hand scratches at my shoulder, but she doesn't lean against me, pushing away, squirming, trying to manuever herself down to where she is the most comforted; with a breast in her mouth. So I hold her firmly and carefully, ignoring my sudden need to pee, and carry her back into my room.
Laying down with her, she makes urgent, noisy demands. I hate this because I know it disturbs her dad and as much as I resent his peaceful REM cycle, I don't want to wake him up. My pjs aren't warm enough to face the cold of the room, but inexplicably the blankets have become so completely twisted, I have no idea how to get under them while lying on my side. I fling one arm out, vainly tugging behind me, as I simultaneously try to maneuver my boob into my daughter's frantic mouth. I focus on the boob to calm her and once she's latched, I'm able to twist in such an acrobatic way that something shifts and suddenly the blankets flop over us as though there was nothing holding them back in the first place.
My dear husband has rolled away from us, snuggled against his pillow, knees bent in front of him, taking the room of two people, leaving baby and me a tiny sliver of bed. Even with the lack of room, he still manages to make his body totally useless to my need for support. If he lay just an inch closer, or rolled onto his back, I could lean my back against his warm strength and be able to relax. But because he's got the knack of keeping my weight off him during sleep so perfected, I am forced to steel my core against rolling into his gravitational pull and away from the baby. This nightly workout should have me toned by the time she starts sleeping till dawn.
Something about my pillow and my arm have made it impossible to just lay my head down, so I bend my elbow and prop my head on my forearm. This does nothing for my comfort level. I begin counting her gasping gulps, hoping she nods off soon. But she cried too long and she's awake enough to begin exploring. I can feel her little fingernails scratching at my skin, pinching any raised skin tag she finds. Her arm flings out and she whacks herself in the head several times, a new trick she's picked up. She pops on and off my breast, enjoying the sensations of learning to control her little body. She bucks and kicks me in the stomach, legs, crotch... her whole body never stops moving, even when she's suction-cupped to her milk-supply. Scratch, scratch, pinch, pull, kick, kick, kick. Her hand finds my shirt and yanks at it a couple of times. I count gasping gulps, readjust my arm, pull the blanket she's managed to kick off back over us, hoping my breathing, my heartbeat, our warmth will lull her back to sleep. Kick, kick, kick. Yank, tug, pull.
She pops of and gasps, finds her pacifier by following the handy cord that keeps it from being lost forever, and pulls it to her mouth. She's just playing with it and making happy cooing sounds. I stroke her head and take this momentary reprieve to adjust my position, jostling the pillow till my neck can rest without feeling like I'm hanging upside-down. She yanks her pacifier out of her mouth and turns back towards me, seeking me out. I help her and she latches again for 30 seconds before popping off and fussing. It's a good sign that she's tapped that side out, so I tuck her against me and we roll over together.
All comfort is once again lost in the scuffle of trying to fit our bodies together, her mouth finding my breast before I can sort out what happened to the blankets that were covering my legs a moment ago, and why the pillow decided to shoot out from under my head. But rolling over has calmed her and she seems drowsier. She moves a little less, still gulping and gasping, but they stretch apart and in a lull, I manage to settle my head on the pillow and snuggle us together as she slowly drifts off at my breast. Her hand has found mind and curled around it, her feet are tucked against my abdomen, and I can hear her beginning to fall into a deeper sleep.
My face is so close to her face... I can smell her sweet breath. I pop her relaxed mouth of me and tuck my bits back into my shirt, but now she's snuggled in my arms and she's so warm and soft. How has her hair grown so quickly? I rub my lips back and forth against the softness. She's still bald compared to some babies, but she's got more hair than she ever had before. I can just make out the curve of her face from the glow of a streetlight filtering in through my blinds. Such a sweet round little face.
It's just me in this moment. My husband is snoring contentedly and my daughter is sailing to dreamland. It's just me and her heartbeat and her sweet smelling breath. The resentment I had for her daddy getting to sleep while I nursed my little wiggler melts away, and I'm left with a prideful feeling of selfishness. He may not have the same responsibility, but neither does he get to reap these little rewards. I am overwhelmed with joy.
She moves a little and I put her pacifier in her mouth. She immediately relaxes again. She's so little. I can fit her against me so perfectly. But she's also so much bigger than ever. 7 months old. It's felt like no time at all. And it's felt like forever. I can't believe there was a time when I slept through the night and didn't get to hold this warm, soft, sweet-smelling bundle against me for a few moments of joy. My heart swells with love. Do I have to put her back in her crib? Her hair is so soft. And her body is so snuggly. Can't I drift off with her right here, tucked against my tummy?
But she twists a little and lets out a quiet fussy noise, and I know we both sleep better on our own, So I nestle her against me and, with my whole core, I crunch up in a smooth and fluid motion, holding my breath so I don't grunt. Moving a sleeping baby is a dangerous game, but I have been doing this multiple times a night, every night, since she was 5 months old. It's a skill I have almost perfected.
When she's relaxed like this, she feels like she weighs nothing and I could hold her all night long, but I carry her into her always-too-dark bedroom and lay her down in her crib. Her arms flop up around her ears and her head turns to the side. She won't move until she begins to wake up for her next feeding. I tuck her blankets around her and kiss my hand and touch her little head with it. I don't think it matters how many times I do this, I'm always so overwhelmed with love when I see her sleeping so peacefully. I did this. I think to myself. I took a fussy baby and put her back to sleep. It's a pretty cool feeling.
I return to my room and lay down. I'll fall asleep quickly. It's been a long day that was proceeded by a long night and a long day before that. This won't be the last time I have to crawl out of bed to calm my fussy child. But for now, I'll get some well-deserved sleep.
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Tuesday, March 20, 2018
Adulting
This new "millennial" word that means "Doing the things adult people do". Driving. Working. Getting out of bed. Showering. Paying bills. Not spending all your money on fast food and makeup. The type of things we looked at our parents doing and ignored just how much effort went into those every day routines.
I graduated 8 years ago. That didn't turn me into a grown up. I got my license and my ears pierced at 19. I was still not feeling "grown up". I have been married for almost 4 years. That didn't really turn me into a grown up. The moment I got pregnant... I felt a little older. Not grown up, exactly, but on my way. And then, in the blink of an eye, holding my baby after the most traumatic experience of my life... I was grown. I had become an adult. And unlike all my fears and worries and lazy nature had warned me... I wanted it. I wanted to be an adult person doing the adult things. Driving and working and waking up and taking care of someone else day in and day out. I wanted to know everything about this little person and be the most important. It was the most daunting idea... and the most satisfying reality. There is no way to prepare someone who doesn't understand what that feelings like. You really have to experience it.
My life before giving birth was easy, leisurely. I enjoyed (for the most part) staying home all day, basking in my stuck-ness, my happy-to-be-lazy idleness wrapping me in a bubble of ignorance. I was so scared to lose it. Now, I wouldn't go back for all the world.
I get up every day with my daughter, feeding her, changing her, welcoming her to the day. I take care of my dogs, my cat, my new bird. I wash laundry every Monday and Thursday (for such a tiny person, my laundry has doubled). I cook meals and prepare packed lunches for my husband. I have begun taking quiet time during her naps to focus on God and my own creativity. I have set goals, and every week I put together a To-Do list that I have consistently gotten done. Not just easy things like washing the dishes, but big jobs that I have put off for far too long, like organizing the garage, and going through my craft room.
I owe a lot of my motivation to a book I've been following called "The Artist's Way" which is about recovering your creativity through the work of the Lord. It's been an amazing boost to my productivity. And for the past 4 weeks, I have been crawling into bed at night happy, productive, and sore. I have even begun exercising again.
I feel like an adult. Maybe not quite like my mom yet, who is a role model of self-motivation, hard work, and keeping busy. But I am like me. As an adult. Happy, efficient, and very content in my little chores.
I've even left the house by myself. (well, with my little Ducky-girl!) A tremendous feat for me. I was so crippled by anxiety and depression when I lived in Guam with my honey... A great deal of that fell away once we moved back to the states. (I don't know if it was knowing I could drive to see my folks, or the air, or my own bizarre brain, but I was so grateful to be released from anxiety's strangling grip.) But now I feel like I can do anything. I've even joined a MOPS group and made friends!
Anyway. My point was... I've been adulting a lot lately. And it feels SO. Good.
I graduated 8 years ago. That didn't turn me into a grown up. I got my license and my ears pierced at 19. I was still not feeling "grown up". I have been married for almost 4 years. That didn't really turn me into a grown up. The moment I got pregnant... I felt a little older. Not grown up, exactly, but on my way. And then, in the blink of an eye, holding my baby after the most traumatic experience of my life... I was grown. I had become an adult. And unlike all my fears and worries and lazy nature had warned me... I wanted it. I wanted to be an adult person doing the adult things. Driving and working and waking up and taking care of someone else day in and day out. I wanted to know everything about this little person and be the most important. It was the most daunting idea... and the most satisfying reality. There is no way to prepare someone who doesn't understand what that feelings like. You really have to experience it.
My life before giving birth was easy, leisurely. I enjoyed (for the most part) staying home all day, basking in my stuck-ness, my happy-to-be-lazy idleness wrapping me in a bubble of ignorance. I was so scared to lose it. Now, I wouldn't go back for all the world.
I get up every day with my daughter, feeding her, changing her, welcoming her to the day. I take care of my dogs, my cat, my new bird. I wash laundry every Monday and Thursday (for such a tiny person, my laundry has doubled). I cook meals and prepare packed lunches for my husband. I have begun taking quiet time during her naps to focus on God and my own creativity. I have set goals, and every week I put together a To-Do list that I have consistently gotten done. Not just easy things like washing the dishes, but big jobs that I have put off for far too long, like organizing the garage, and going through my craft room.
I owe a lot of my motivation to a book I've been following called "The Artist's Way" which is about recovering your creativity through the work of the Lord. It's been an amazing boost to my productivity. And for the past 4 weeks, I have been crawling into bed at night happy, productive, and sore. I have even begun exercising again.
I feel like an adult. Maybe not quite like my mom yet, who is a role model of self-motivation, hard work, and keeping busy. But I am like me. As an adult. Happy, efficient, and very content in my little chores.
I've even left the house by myself. (well, with my little Ducky-girl!) A tremendous feat for me. I was so crippled by anxiety and depression when I lived in Guam with my honey... A great deal of that fell away once we moved back to the states. (I don't know if it was knowing I could drive to see my folks, or the air, or my own bizarre brain, but I was so grateful to be released from anxiety's strangling grip.) But now I feel like I can do anything. I've even joined a MOPS group and made friends!
Anyway. My point was... I've been adulting a lot lately. And it feels SO. Good.
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
Rolling Over
It's been quite a wait for my daughter to roll over. She may have done it earlier, but it was unsupervised, and caused her to fall off the couch. (Twice). Right around the time that it seemed like rolling over was going to happen any day, she got an ear infection and started acting dizzy for about two weeks. After that, her attempts to roll over stopped.
It's frustrating as a mother to be constantly be bombarded with "Oh had she done (insert any number of "should be doing's" here) yet?" Because there's no way to force your child to develop any faster than she will. Oh, there is plenty you can do to stunt your child. And if your child hasn't reached a milestone in a timely manner, it's so easy to point the finger and say, "You aren't doing this. You have tried that. You're relying on this other too much." You begin to feel as though it really is something you're doing.
In my case, though... I honestly have been doing all I can. I give her plenty of tummy time. I watch her. I never leave her alone on an elevated surface (anymore). I have been waiting. Every day that went by between 5 and 6 months, I felt helpless and guilty. She didn't roll over.
My sister really eased my worry, sending me plenty of articles and personal testimonies of mommies saying their babies didn't roll till 9 months... some claiming their babies never rolled over and went straight to sitting up. Articles that should put my worry to rest. But really, as a mother... well, really, as a woman... oh hell, as a HUMAN PERSON... We find it so much easier to focus on all the negatives and no matter how much I told myself (and other's told me) it was ok and that she would roll when she was ready, I still couldn't feel good knowing she hadn't reached that milestone.
She sits up like a champ. She's almost 7 months old and she can keep her balance, lean forward and backwards, reach for things and happily watch me from a sitting position, very fairly tottering and falling over. In articles I had read, they encouraged me that even if she was late to roll over, it wouldn't stunt any of her other milestones. In fact, being early in something has a much higher indicator that the next milestone will be pushed off a bit.
So I finally let my mind rest. But it was one of those things hovering in my mind, one of the first things I would bring up if anyone asked about her, and something I would spend hours on end watching for, willing it to happen. "Do it for Nana's birthday... Do it for mama's birthday... Please Lord let it be today so I can stop THINKING about it, and worrying!"
But stubborn and content, she remained firmly on back or belly, happy to smile at whatever was around her, never trying to wiggle, reach, or move towards an ever so distant toy.
An early Saturday morning brought a wiggly giggly, wide-awake girl and I was up before 8 to surprise my husband with breakfast in bed. She bounced in a bouncer, lay on the floor, sat in the high chair while I cooked, cleaned, and puttered. I laid her down for a nap and scrubbed the kitchen floor. I wrote. I read. She woke up. I felt hot and sticky and gross from all my labors. It was 2 in the afternoon now and I had been "on duty" since... well, who am I kidding, I'm always on duty. So I decided to take my baby girl down stairs to hang out with daddy while he played video games so I could soak away the tension from a long-put off workout that had practically crippled me the day before.
Lounging in the bath, breathing in the delightful scent of a lavender bath bomb, I relaxed into the fire-hot water. I always expect a bath to take an hour tops, but soaking away the aches and pains of a productive week usually stretches into a rather embarrassing long doze in feathery bubbles. I hear my husband come bounding up the stairs and he bursts into my little indulgence with a blast of air that now feels cool to my overly-warmed, dampened skin.
"Uh... You might wanna get out of the bath." He says in an odd voice.
"What? Why?" I ask, thinking to myself, It's too soon! The water is still warm and I had her ALL morning!
"Evie just rolled over." He looks excited, but also concerned, as if this is not completely happy news. "I mean. I think she did. I mean, she was on her tummy when you put her down, right? Yeah. She's on her back now."
"What??? No way!!" I grin back. "Let me just wash my hair and I'll get out! Go back to her! I don't like her being downstairs by herself."
He closes the door behind me and I am caught up in a thousand thoughts as I scrub at my hair. Maybe he's wrong! Maybe he's confused. Maybe he flipped her over and forgot. How could she have done it now... when I am completely unavailable? All that waiting... and I'm finally ok! I can relax! She's DONE it!
As I rinse the conditioner out, I flip stopper so the tub can drain and leap out of the tub, dashing to get dressed. I finish pulling on my clothes and I hear footsteps, the bedroom door opens, and there's my love carrying my itty bitty.
"She did it again." He grins. "I actually saw her do it this time. She did it so fast. I almost missed it."
For the rest of the day we kept her happy so she could be on her tummy to show me her roll. But she only did it one more time, and I missed it again too. I saw the tail end of it. But not the actual flip.
I'm still waiting to see it. She's spent hours on her tummy since that day, but not a single roll. But now it's more hopeful anticipation, and less terrified worry that I screwed her up.
Even now, she happily cooing on the floor next to me, with no indication that she'll roll. But I'm not worried. I am so proud of her.
It's frustrating as a mother to be constantly be bombarded with "Oh had she done (insert any number of "should be doing's" here) yet?" Because there's no way to force your child to develop any faster than she will. Oh, there is plenty you can do to stunt your child. And if your child hasn't reached a milestone in a timely manner, it's so easy to point the finger and say, "You aren't doing this. You have tried that. You're relying on this other too much." You begin to feel as though it really is something you're doing.
In my case, though... I honestly have been doing all I can. I give her plenty of tummy time. I watch her. I never leave her alone on an elevated surface (anymore). I have been waiting. Every day that went by between 5 and 6 months, I felt helpless and guilty. She didn't roll over.
My sister really eased my worry, sending me plenty of articles and personal testimonies of mommies saying their babies didn't roll till 9 months... some claiming their babies never rolled over and went straight to sitting up. Articles that should put my worry to rest. But really, as a mother... well, really, as a woman... oh hell, as a HUMAN PERSON... We find it so much easier to focus on all the negatives and no matter how much I told myself (and other's told me) it was ok and that she would roll when she was ready, I still couldn't feel good knowing she hadn't reached that milestone.
She sits up like a champ. She's almost 7 months old and she can keep her balance, lean forward and backwards, reach for things and happily watch me from a sitting position, very fairly tottering and falling over. In articles I had read, they encouraged me that even if she was late to roll over, it wouldn't stunt any of her other milestones. In fact, being early in something has a much higher indicator that the next milestone will be pushed off a bit.
So I finally let my mind rest. But it was one of those things hovering in my mind, one of the first things I would bring up if anyone asked about her, and something I would spend hours on end watching for, willing it to happen. "Do it for Nana's birthday... Do it for mama's birthday... Please Lord let it be today so I can stop THINKING about it, and worrying!"
But stubborn and content, she remained firmly on back or belly, happy to smile at whatever was around her, never trying to wiggle, reach, or move towards an ever so distant toy.
An early Saturday morning brought a wiggly giggly, wide-awake girl and I was up before 8 to surprise my husband with breakfast in bed. She bounced in a bouncer, lay on the floor, sat in the high chair while I cooked, cleaned, and puttered. I laid her down for a nap and scrubbed the kitchen floor. I wrote. I read. She woke up. I felt hot and sticky and gross from all my labors. It was 2 in the afternoon now and I had been "on duty" since... well, who am I kidding, I'm always on duty. So I decided to take my baby girl down stairs to hang out with daddy while he played video games so I could soak away the tension from a long-put off workout that had practically crippled me the day before.
Lounging in the bath, breathing in the delightful scent of a lavender bath bomb, I relaxed into the fire-hot water. I always expect a bath to take an hour tops, but soaking away the aches and pains of a productive week usually stretches into a rather embarrassing long doze in feathery bubbles. I hear my husband come bounding up the stairs and he bursts into my little indulgence with a blast of air that now feels cool to my overly-warmed, dampened skin.
"Uh... You might wanna get out of the bath." He says in an odd voice.
"What? Why?" I ask, thinking to myself, It's too soon! The water is still warm and I had her ALL morning!
"Evie just rolled over." He looks excited, but also concerned, as if this is not completely happy news. "I mean. I think she did. I mean, she was on her tummy when you put her down, right? Yeah. She's on her back now."
"What??? No way!!" I grin back. "Let me just wash my hair and I'll get out! Go back to her! I don't like her being downstairs by herself."
He closes the door behind me and I am caught up in a thousand thoughts as I scrub at my hair. Maybe he's wrong! Maybe he's confused. Maybe he flipped her over and forgot. How could she have done it now... when I am completely unavailable? All that waiting... and I'm finally ok! I can relax! She's DONE it!
As I rinse the conditioner out, I flip stopper so the tub can drain and leap out of the tub, dashing to get dressed. I finish pulling on my clothes and I hear footsteps, the bedroom door opens, and there's my love carrying my itty bitty.
"She did it again." He grins. "I actually saw her do it this time. She did it so fast. I almost missed it."
For the rest of the day we kept her happy so she could be on her tummy to show me her roll. But she only did it one more time, and I missed it again too. I saw the tail end of it. But not the actual flip.
I'm still waiting to see it. She's spent hours on her tummy since that day, but not a single roll. But now it's more hopeful anticipation, and less terrified worry that I screwed her up.
Even now, she happily cooing on the floor next to me, with no indication that she'll roll. But I'm not worried. I am so proud of her.
Tuesday, March 6, 2018
Acting on Acting
Acting, drama, theater... this has long been one of my greatest loves and biggest passions. I believe it started from watching musicals at my nanny and poppa's house as a child. This lead into being directed by my older sister for silly little plays for my parents and their friends. We did ballet and tap dance and assorted small parts in plays for my Home School program. But I stopped trying when I went to "real school", never putting myself out there for judgement, always volunteering for the smaller parts in plays.
But then came high school. My older sister was in drama, and since she was a senior and I was a freshmen, drama was the only class we could take together, so I took it with her. And I fell in love with acting for real in that class. Maybe it was the teacher. Maybe it was the group. Maybe it was the fact that I seemed to have a knack for it. I took drama through all 4 years of high school, basically taking over the teaching side of the class my junior year, after our teacher left and was replaced by a man who clearly didn't want to do it. My senior year was the first time we took on full plays, though, and for both, I was cast in perfect roles, and flourished center stage as Winnefred in Once Upon a Mattress. Oh I loved it. It was my happiest accomplishment.
I took a drama class in college too, it was actually the first and only class I took my first year of college. I was riddled with anxiety when I started college and it took me a long time to warm up to going. That drama class was so much fun. But it was the only one offered. And so, that ended my acting career.
I did volunteer to teach drama at an elementary school, and that satisfied some of my artistic longing. I wrote plays and directed little children. It was wonderful and granted me a certain amount of accolades from parents and friends who appreciated my writing.
But I moved and no longer had the connections a community allows.
I have often looked back on the times when I was able to express my inner artist child on stage and I miss it. It's the type of longing that feels silly. There is no place for grown, plus-sized mothers of average talent to satisfy the joy of acting in the real world. I had become convinced of this, ignoring my desire to act, and just pretending it doesn't exist.
But then my friend took me to a play by a local community theater. And as they acted out Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, I was in awe... rocked to my core... Here, standing in front of me, were my people. I felt it with every bone of my body. I could fit into this little troupe. I could try.
Maybe I won't get in. Maybe my fears and doubts are correct, I'm not good enough, I'm too fat, I'm not talented... But to hell with all that... The fact is, for the first time in a long time, I see a light at the end of the tunnel. I see a tiny glimmer of hope. Even just for one audition, I can once again stand on stage and act.
Am I riddled with fear? Hell yes. Would it be easier to just watch the plays? Yes. Will leaving my baby so I can act be hard? You betcha. But I can feel God in this opportunity, telling me to rely on Him. To use my creativity. To try. Try. Do it. Just get out there and give it a shot.
God gives you the opportunities... the rest is up to you.
But then came high school. My older sister was in drama, and since she was a senior and I was a freshmen, drama was the only class we could take together, so I took it with her. And I fell in love with acting for real in that class. Maybe it was the teacher. Maybe it was the group. Maybe it was the fact that I seemed to have a knack for it. I took drama through all 4 years of high school, basically taking over the teaching side of the class my junior year, after our teacher left and was replaced by a man who clearly didn't want to do it. My senior year was the first time we took on full plays, though, and for both, I was cast in perfect roles, and flourished center stage as Winnefred in Once Upon a Mattress. Oh I loved it. It was my happiest accomplishment.
I took a drama class in college too, it was actually the first and only class I took my first year of college. I was riddled with anxiety when I started college and it took me a long time to warm up to going. That drama class was so much fun. But it was the only one offered. And so, that ended my acting career.
I did volunteer to teach drama at an elementary school, and that satisfied some of my artistic longing. I wrote plays and directed little children. It was wonderful and granted me a certain amount of accolades from parents and friends who appreciated my writing.
But I moved and no longer had the connections a community allows.
I have often looked back on the times when I was able to express my inner artist child on stage and I miss it. It's the type of longing that feels silly. There is no place for grown, plus-sized mothers of average talent to satisfy the joy of acting in the real world. I had become convinced of this, ignoring my desire to act, and just pretending it doesn't exist.
But then my friend took me to a play by a local community theater. And as they acted out Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, I was in awe... rocked to my core... Here, standing in front of me, were my people. I felt it with every bone of my body. I could fit into this little troupe. I could try.
Maybe I won't get in. Maybe my fears and doubts are correct, I'm not good enough, I'm too fat, I'm not talented... But to hell with all that... The fact is, for the first time in a long time, I see a light at the end of the tunnel. I see a tiny glimmer of hope. Even just for one audition, I can once again stand on stage and act.
Am I riddled with fear? Hell yes. Would it be easier to just watch the plays? Yes. Will leaving my baby so I can act be hard? You betcha. But I can feel God in this opportunity, telling me to rely on Him. To use my creativity. To try. Try. Do it. Just get out there and give it a shot.
God gives you the opportunities... the rest is up to you.
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