in which I became a mother.

I realize this space has been sorely neglected for quite some time - and I also realize that I have written that sentence before. However, this time I have the best excuse that one could ever have for not being present in this space - I became a mother. My life has changed remarkably in the past nearly six months, and I cannot even imagine not having Josie in it now. She has made me a better person and has made me a new person. In fact, the little weight I have on my chest right now is the best feeling in the world, and I feel so incredibly blessed be her mum. I love every single thing about her, and her little face is my favorite sight to see these days.

I wish I could tell you that I would try to write consistently here from now on, but with all we have going on right now there's no way I can make that promise. What I can promise is that whenever I have the time or proclivity to write a little something here or post a photo of our goings-on, I will. This adventure of motherhood is one which I am thoroughly enjoying and I cannot wait to continue down this path. I will update when I can, and I will breathe in every moment of this sweet little girl.

When I'm 98.

My Great-Grandmother Barker turned ninety-eight a few days ago. On Sunday, the Barker progeny gathered in her honor just outside of Charlotte to celebrate her life, legacy, and continuation of her place as matriarch of our family. She was able to say a short prayer before the meal as she sat at the head of the table, while her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, as well as her latest great-great-granddaughter that I carry with me. She is such a testament to our family, and her faith, steadfastness, and determination is an inspiration to all of us.
As part of the celebrations, Aunt Betsy asked us to write an essay about what we would like our lives to look like when we turn ninety-eight--our hopes, dreams, and aspirations. As usual, I took a more creative take on the assignment and wrote a scene of what I would like to imagine my ninety-eighth birthday will look like. I have shared my scene here--being surrounded by family, as Grandmother is, is my biggest wish:

When I’m 98

By Caitlin Barker Foreman

            The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across on the road leading up to the house, the dust has already settled, though the kids have only been gone for a half an hour. I say kids, but really they’ve been grown and had families of their own for years now. I sit on the crisp-white front porch, rocking slowly back and forth, swaying to the sound of the wind in the trees that line the driveway and dot the rolling hills surrounding the house. I look up to the mountains and consider their grandeur—how small am I, how insignificant compared to them. I have lived but for the blink of an eye in light of their stalwart history. The rocking chair creaks in slow time beneath me, and I still hear the echoes of my great-great-grandchildren’s squeals and giggles of delight as they frolicked and played through the well-worn halls of the farmhouse and spilled out onto the lawn and gardens surrounding it filling the air with their joy.

            Today I turned 98 years old. I look down at my hands as they grasp the armrests of my trusty rocking chair and marvel at the change that has been wrought in them these 98 years. I’ve often wondered at the phrase about knowing something “like the back of your hand,” because I certainly haven’t gone through life staring at the backs of my hands enough to recognize them as the years change and wither their once smooth skin. Now these mountains, those I know. I know the smells that come with the first spring rains, and the early budding Dogwoods and Bradford Pear trees. I know the verdant greens that fill the valleys and peaks with beautiful new growth—I even know the constantly changing clouds and the shadows they make on the mountainside in the summer as they float lazily overhead. I know the deep dimples on the cheeks of my beloved in his ever-present smile, and the timbre of his voice as he says he loves me every night before bed. And I know my children. I know the little freckle on the side of my eldest daughter’s nose that has been there since she was a year old, and I know the cowlicks in my youngest son’s hair that still get the better of him some days. It is things like these that I have spent my life memorizing, not the aging skin on the back of my hand, but the glorious blessings with which my Creator has gifted me. More precious than jewels these things are. More precious than the books I have published that allowed me to provide for my family, or the wondrous sights around the world I have seen. Blessed am I in the eyes of the Father, for my quiver is full and my heart overflows with joy.

            I close my eyes and let the spring breeze caress my face— it blows silver hairs pulled loose from my tied-back hair that tickle my forehead.

            “Mama?” says a soft voice that followed the familiar creak of the screen-door opening. “Mama, it’s time to come in.” She comes out and kneels beside my chair—she’s still so beautiful and elegant, the years have been kind to her. She has her father’s dimples. “Happy birthday, Mama. Did you have a good day?”

            “Oh, sweetheart. Every day the good Lord blesses me with is a good day, but yes, this one was particularly fine.” Any day that I am surrounded by my children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great grandchildren is a very good day, indeed.

            “You sure have left a legacy of progeny,” She says with a smile as she stands up beside me as if she knows exactly what I was thinking. “Not to mention a legacy of love. God has truly blessed us by giving us you as a matriarch, Mama. I hope you know how much you’ve inspired all of us— you and Daddy. We love you. Happy 98^th birthday again, Mom.”

            My eyes fill with tears at her words. God had blessed us, beyond all measure, but I know that it is me who is the one truly blessed. She begins to help me to my unsteady feet as her husband comes out onto the porch bearing my walker—I hate that thing, but I can’t get around without it. Before they help me inside, I turn my head for another glance at my mountains. The sun has begun to set and casts a beautiful golden light on the newly green trees gracing the familiar face of those mountains. I smile to myself as I’m helped inside. Here’s to another year full of joy, family, and God’s unfailing love.

Forty-six

There are days when the birth of my daughter still seems forever away. And then there are days when things are put into perspective and I realize how close I really am to holding her in my arms. Forty-six days.  Forty-six until my due date, so give or take a week or so on either side and I’ll be looking into the eyes of my firstborn child. It is so surreal for me still to know the truth of that, to feel her squirming around inside me constantly, knowing that she is there and growing and so very mine. It’s surreal, and then at the same time it is so right and good, and I rejoice at the blessing of carrying this child for nine months in preparation of being her mother. Mother. I am a mother. This title is one that frightens, excites, and incites all at the same time. Frightening because I fear I’ll fail miserably, exciting because of the exhilarating knowledge that this baby was made especially for Jeremy and me, and inciting because I am compelled to be the best mother and wife that I can be to my new little family of three.  I will cherish the remainder of the time I have to be just me and her together, and Jeremy and I as just husband and wife, and I look forward to the time when this baby deems herself ready to make an appearance with joy and hope.

Last week on Valentine's Day at 32 weeks.

birthdays - both present and future.

Entering my thirtieth week with the knowledge that in ten short weeks I could be holding my little girl in my arms has been pretty surreal—kinda like this entire process actually. I still can’t properly picture it, but as the time draws nearer my joy and excitement grows larger and more profound. God has blessed Jeremy and I beyond words with the existence of this wee bairn, and I pray that I am ready—and if not ready, then prepared to be the best that I can be—to be her mother. Jeremy and I have begun getting up just a little earlier in the mornings. We roll out of bed, brew a pot of coffee and settle side by side on the couch as the morning light filters in through our living room window. Jeremy then reads the Bible out loud, usually a chapter from Psalms, and a Proverb for the day of the month we’re on (since there are 31 chapters), and then a passage from the New Testament as well. We began in Ephesians, and are into Philippians now. We’ve also begun praying together each morning, and I cannot express how beginning my day that way has improved my attitude and my overall demeanor for the impending day. Sharing this time together has enabled Jeremy and I to grow in ways that we had not before, even in five years of marriage, and help prepare us to be the mother and father for our little huckleberry that we were created to be. We pray for her every morning, and we pray that we are up to the task of raising her up in the way she should go. I am overjoyed about this new chapter in our lives, and am so excited to see what else is in store for us as we go forward and take on these new roles.

Also, today is the birthday of my first ‘baby’, our Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Cael, turns five today. We got him when he was three months old, and since then he has been a constant source of love and joy in our lives—the kind that only a loyal and loving dog can bear. So happy birthday, Cael!

Both of my wee ones. :)

coffee and comfy pants.

There are some days when you wake up that you just know the day is already a goner. You’ve woken  up late, nothing seems to be going right with your hair, your wardrobe, or your time management for the morning, except—blessedly—the coffee maker and its lovely aroma of fresh brewing coffee that is the single shred of hope that might turn the day around. But then you remember through the aroma and half-laid plans of sitting around in your comfy pants reading in the dim light of a rainy morning that it is a work day, and you are still running late.

Work. Blerg.

Women have fought for the right for an equal workplace and an equal opportunity to hold a credible vocation, and I sincerely appreciate and value the true sacrifices of women’s suffrage throughout the years. However, sometimes I wish I was expected to just stay home and tend to the household and just be a mom. I’d be completely content with that, and I don’t think that makes me any less a woman or advocate for women’s rights. It’s just as much a choice today—and a valid one at that—to make the decision to stay home with the children and be the stay-at-home mom. Besides, I don’t imagine my days as merely sitting around in my comfy pants reading—the option being there for pockets of time however does sound nice.

Perhaps if I was doing something that I loved I would have less of these kinds of mornings. But then again, what I truly want to do still involves having the option of waking up and deciding that some time with a mug of coffee or tea in curled up on the sofa in comfy pants and a good read is doable. I want to write. I want to write and make something of this gift and passion that I have been given. I want to be able to support my family and provide for them with my writing, and have a little on the side for exciting trips and the occasional frivolous splurge. So, I suppose, that my occasional discontent in my current state is borne of the desire to be doing what I feel I was created to do. I want to create. I will create.

The option of coffee and comfy pants on a work day is not beyond my grasp. For those two things are more than compatible with sitting down in front of a computer and weaving worlds and stories together with the written word. J

cultivating creativity.

Yesterday marked three months until the due date of this precious baby girl growing within me. Three months. That’s no time at all, is it? She has definitely made her presence known through kicks, jabs, and general rolling around these last seven or so weeks, and as she grows, my awareness of her and my joy and anticipation grow along with her. This is starting to get very real, and very exciting.

I’ve been reading in the mornings as I eat my breakfast andthe aroma of brewing coffee wafts through my kitchen a book by Madeleine L’Englecalled Walking on Water, which is anexploration of the relationship between faith and art, and what it means to bea Christian artist. It’s been a beautiful journey of realization, critical thinking,and rediscovery of things I’ve long known but recently forgotten. One thingthat she speaks about and has particularly struck me is the importance of a child-likeimagination and the truth found in story and myth. To soon are we told to putaway ‘childish’ things and grow up to realize the ‘real world’ of cold science.We are taught to doubt and turn our noses up at outrageous ideas like unicorns,dragons, selkies, and faeries. What a tragedy it is when a child turns in hisimaginings, closes them up in a box never to be opened again, and learns todoubt what he cannot see. The attitude of some that say “Let not this childpollute his mind with fairy tales, let us teach him of the ‘real’ world,” isone that strips the child of his creativity, of his very childhood. Of courseit is important to teach our children of the reality of this world, and of itsdangers and snares, but not at the expense of or rather than fairy tales thatteach and bring wonderment to our children’s minds.

Having studied folk and fairy tales for a Master’s leveldissertation, as well as the culture in which they have long been perpetuated Ihave come to understand that to tell fairy tales to our children is not to lieto them. It is to broaden their perspective and engage their imaginations toteach them the truths that lie inherently in so many of those tales and songs.I want to teach my daughter to see the fantastic in the mundane, and see beautywhere is it unexpected. I want her to see mountains and wonder what adventuresmight lie in wait there, whether dwarves live under them or dragons keep ahoard there. I want her to wonder whether faeries are real as she walks througha silent forest as the sun filters through the leaves. When we take her to thebeach, I want her to remember the stories about selkies and mermaids andimagine that she sees them beneath the waves or sunning themselves on thoserocks out there. There is so much to be gained from story-telling andimagination, and I want her to have every opportunity to experience thosethings and engage in the magnificent high-creativity that comes with achild-like wonderment of the world.

My mother told me when I was young that the tops of fallen acornswere vessels that faeries used for their cups and plates at their feasts andparties, and if I collected the very best ones and put them under my pillow atnight, they would come to take them and leave a token of thanks in their place.I would spend hours collecting the delicate things, reveling in the knowledge thatsomething I did could somehow help the faeries. I felt important, and Iimagined the beautiful creatures with their gossamer wings making merry arounda table set with cups and plates that I had collected for them. I wasadmittedly a little bummed when I realized that it was my mother who took theacorn tops from my pillow when I slept and left coins in place of them, but Iwould never trade those hours collecting and imagining nor the world I held sodear in those moments. Those memories are some of my favorites. I want mydaughter to have an abundance of those memories. I want to encourage her toimagine worlds and beings no one has ever seen, and to share in those worldswith her.

“In art we are once again able to do all the things we haveforgotten; we are able to walk on water; we speak to the angels who call us; wemove unfettered among the stars.” –Madeleine L’Engle

“In our society, at the age of five, 90 percent of thepopulation measures ‘high creativity.’ By the age of seven, the figure hasdropped to 10 percent. And the percentage of adults with high creativity isonly two percent! Our creativity is destroyed not through the use of outsideforce, but through criticism, innuendo, by the dirty devices of this world. Sowe are diminished, and we forget that we are more than we know. The child isaware of unlimited potential , and this munificence is one of the joys ofcreativity. Those of us who struggle in our own ways, small or great, tricklesor rivers, to create, are constantly having to unlearn what the world wouldteach us; it is not easy to keep a child’s high creativity in the late years ofthe twentieth century.” –Finley Eversole, in The Politics of Creativity

I intend to try, and I intend to cultivate the creativity ofmy daughter, and all of my children, so that they remember that they are morethan they know. We are made in the image of our Creator, therefore we arecreators ourselves.

                                                             Reading together as a family. Starting her off right with The Lord of the Rings.