Social Media Do-Over

How many friends do you have? I have 900.

900 is not just some random number. It is the number of Facebook friends I currently have. But let’s be real here. I am not actually friends with all 900 of them. Shoot, Kevin Max from dcTalk is one of my Facebook friends. He and I have never met nor spoken nor even corresponded but years back he sent me a friend request for some unknown reason and I accepted because I thought it was pretty cool.

That happened in a far more innocent time. It was a time when my every Facebook post began with “Amanda Whitehead is…” and I just completed the sentence, when I still remembered my mySpace password, when the most annoying thing I’d come across is another cat meme or someone live tweeting their life on the wrong platform. (Nobody cares that you just bought a shirt, Barry.) Now my Facebook feed is full of stuff I don’t want to see. It overwhelms my mental capacity. It sucks my time. Too often, it craters my faith in humanity.

If you have a Facebook account, it’s really hard to prevent that friend count from ballooning. That’s because Facebook chose a super personal and already widely understood term to describe each connection – friend. The word “friend” carries a lot of baggage. If someone I’ve met at any point in my life sends me a friend request, it feels cruel to decline it because it’s like saying, “I don’t like you.” So I accept. And then I accept those people’s signifiant others because I don’t want to offend anybody. Now I find myself with more “friends” than I could ever honestly have, some of them posting content that ranges from uninteresting or not applicable to downright upsetting, and no clear way of escape short of getting rid of my account entirely. And yes. I have considered the nuclear option, seriously enough that I downloaded all my data not too long ago just in case.

Here’s the thing. Facebook as many of us use it isn’t truly a tool to help cultivate and strengthen friendships. It’s a content management system. It’s a mean, de-humanizing soap box. It’s a disseminator of targeted advertising and disinformation. It’s a networking tool. It’s a dumpster fire. Calling these connections Facebook friends simply guilts me into maintaining and growing the system. I’m tired of it.

Human beings were not made to cultivate and nurture 900+ active friendships. I would argue we also aren’t made to regularly deep dive into the thoughts of 900 people. I do, however, have capacity for content I enjoy. I love looking at beautiful photographs, reading thoughtful articles and opinion pieces, and cracking up at things I think are funny. So I’m changing how I approach Facebook “friendship.” I’m going to keep subscribing to content creators sharing things I enjoy and I’m going to remove connections to those posting things I don’t enjoy. I refuse to bring friendship into it. Hopefully this approach will allow what encourages, nourishes, and makes me smile to shine through.

If not, I still have the nuclear option.

This is 40

So I’m 40 today. I basically abandoned this blog but this day seems “milestone-y” enough to break it out again for a few quick thoughts. I don’t hear the term “over the hill” used all that frequently anymore. Perhaps that’s a relic of a previous generation. Or maybe only my little brother is nervy enough to say it to me. Either way, I’m grateful to be in a place where it doesn’t bother me.

Me with Tigi in Chicago getting breakfast on my 30th birthday

Ten years ago I couldn’t have said that. Gosh, I remember the leadup to my 30th birthday. I was emotional about it. I thought my life was going to be in a wholly different place from where it was at that time, which made me view the milestone as a failure. I dreaded it. I couldn’t stand the thought of being the 30-something who hadn’t done this, didn’t have that, wasn’t a whatever. There was a list in my mind. But you know, I spent the last day of my 20s and the first of my 30s in Chicago and shockingly, nothing earth-shattering happened once I changed decades.

Getting coffee with MacKenzie & Nonie in 2017

What did happen was a renewed determination to take back some control over my life. I began to pursue health, both in a physical sense and an emotional one. The quest for (and constant adjustment of) a healthy diet and inclusion of regular exercise became a priority. I sought after God to root my identity in something other than what everybody else told me I was, then invested time with people who could teach me to love myself as He created me.

The Dynamos (Alissa, me, and Stephanie…Rusty photobombing) after Mamma Mia in 2018

Life is beautiful, friends. It’s also challenging and messy and ugly and exhausting sometimes. And that’s okay. It feels so much better to approach this new decade with an understanding that this journey is just that, a journey, one that isn’t measured in achievements or items marked off my list. These days I’m measuring in moments, in laughter, in frustrated text messages and “I understand” responses, in service, in songs and spontaneous dance parties, in listening, in shared struggles, and in burdens carried for me by those who love me so well. God said in Genesis that it’s not good for us to be alone and I am so thankful for the beautiful souls with whom I’ve been blessed.

My beautiful family playing today at Fenner Nature Center

Especially my husband (who balances me so beautifully and always makes me feel like he thinks I’m the most amazing person God ever created) and my sons (who bring such immense joy into our world)…if I can love you three well, and continue faithfully navigating together the path God has laid out for us, I’ll consider myself a successful 40-something.

I love you, all my dear ones. Thank you for being part of my life during these first 40 years. I’m excited to see what’s in store in the years to come!

Home Sweet Home

It’s 16 degrees outside. I’m sitting in the Honda in a Biggby parking lot using their internet because we don’t yet have wifi at home. The baby is asleep in his car seat and the oldest is happily watching Finding Nemo. Hey…gotta seize the moments whenever and wherever you can!

We’ve been back in the Mitten now for four weeks and it has not gone as we’d expected. I could go into a lot of detail but instead I’m gonna just hit the highlights. Four hours before the moving truck arrived from Florida, our plans for where we would live for the next seven months or so fell through. It involved a dog and a lot of hives on Phineas. Plenty of people pitched in, helping us return the moving truck, store our things, putting us up, and generally being selfless, but we were solidly nomads for a couple of weeks and candidly, not in a place financially to really do anything about it. But then…community.

One of the big reasons we returned to Michigan was our people. Having lived here pretty much forever, we had relationships deep and wide. We were in crisis. Unbeknownst to us, our friends stepped up and in the span of just a couple of days they located an apartment for us and gathered funds together to cover our security deposit as well as rent for the next seven months.

Guys. My eyes flooded with tears when I was surprised with this news. I was such a mess Chad assumed something horrible had happened, but it wasn’t too long before he was ugly crying right alongside me. So here we are, not squatting in somebody else’s house but with our own space, right where we’d hoped to land. God’s plan is so. much. better.

This is why we are designed and intended to live in community. We are supposed to take care of one another. We are supposed to love one another. This life is not meant to be lived in utter independence and isolation. So now we sit in our cute little apartment just soaking in the physical manifestation of the love our community has for us. It’s almost overwhelming and it’s a feeling I’d like to hold onto forever.

A Year of Sunshine

It’s the morning of your first birthday and as I sit here typing you’re asleep on my lap. I wonder…of the 8,760 hours that made up your first year of life, how many of them were spent like this? Quite possibly half. I didn’t think to count.

It’s overwhelming at times. You love nothing more than being held and I’m your number one pick. We tried setting sleep schedules and being consistent, but your first year was filled with so many journeys…Orlando in April, Michigan in June, July, August, October, and December and Georgia in November. Even today on your first birthday we fly our last scheduled flight, moving home to Michigan from Florida. Each journey brought us further away from those norms until we finally just leaned into it. There wasn’t any point in trying to set parameters when they were disrupted every three or four weeks.

We do what we must to get rest.

You’re my lap baby. My Tula tyke. My last baby, unless God really surprises us. From the start of your life you’ve been a peace bringer. When you sleep in my arms I’m forced to slow down. To breathe. To sit in a dimly lit room and be with you. How much longer will I be able to cradle you like a baby? When will you get too big? How many more hours do we have left this way, before you outgrow my lap entirely?

Your dad and I endeavor to enjoy every season we have with you and your brother. The future holds such wonderful discoveries as we learn what interests you, where your passions lie, what your sense of humor is like. So while I look forward to every new season and attempt to appreciate each season as it happens, allow me one moment to snuggle you closely and remember what your year as a baby was like. Don’t mind those drops falling on your fuzzy head…I’m just mommy-crying over here.

I am forever grateful God chose me to be your mama. I love you, sweet Solly Bear.

Sunset, Sunrise

You made the moon to mark the seasons, and the sun knows when to set. -Psalm 104:19

Over a year and a half ago, I crafted a blog entry announcing our move to Florida. In that post, I wrote that it wasn’t a goodbye to Michigan, but merely a “See you later.” My Michigan friends, later is now.

We have been here in Florida since July of 2015 and in that time experienced some wonderful moments, from good times spent with the people of Lift Church to the birth of our precious youngest son, Solomon. Some things last for a lifetime and others last for a season. As the Psalmist wrote, the sun knows when to set, and the sun is setting on our time in Florida.

Today, while I lead worship at Mount Hope Church in Lansing, knee-deep in tech week for Mount Hope Church (Grand Blanc)’s production of Scrooge, Chad announced to the Lift Church congregation that we would be leaving. The major projects he’s working on all wrap up at year’s end, so our last Sunday will be January 8, 2017. That week, as Solly turns one year old, our family will move home to Michigan where Chad will begin a long-term subbing position at Okemos High School. He plans to return to teaching full time in the fall. He misses his students, co-workers, and the Okemos community quite a bit.

God has used this year and a half to refine, refocus, and reprioritize. We are journaling what He’s spoken so we can keep it before us as we return to life in our home state. To those at Lift who took us in and treated us as family: thank you. We pray the Lord blesses you as you have blessed us. To those in Michigan who’ve missed us: see you very soon!

The BS of Parenting

Somewhere in the middle of the night, my dear husband tried to hand off our five month old. His efforts to settle our sweet offspring had failed. Being the loving wife I am, I growled, “Well, what do you want me to do about it?” Then I got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and came out saying, “You’re poo pooing all of my plans!” What plans? Probably the plans to solve all the world’s problems. Thanks to Chad’s poo poo we’ll never know.

Naturally I have no recollection of this exchange.

You see, it’s been over six months since I last had a night of uninterrupted sleep. Solly may only be five months old but you know I wasn’t sleeping those last weeks of pregnancy. I was waking overnight to pee, blow my perpetually congested nose, attempt to find a comfortable position, get a snack, or simply sit owl-like on the couch, awake for no good reason. Third trimester glory right there.

Here’s the truth: the first twelve months of parenting are about survival. It’s a swirling vortex of sleeplessness, teething, diaper changes, laundry, growth spurts, developmental leaps, feedings, mood swings (both baby’s and parents’), and drool (hopefully just baby’s). You tackle one day at a time, doing whatever gets you to bedtime…or just the next chunk of sleep you can manage to snatch. It’s nothing but BS.

What? I meant Basic Survival. Natch.

We’re in the trenches with Solly. It is no joke. He is adorable, sweet, and lovable. He is also challenging. This being our second, we were surprised how much of the BS stuff we forgot. It happens pretty quickly once the infant stage ends. This is a necessary phenomenon; if it all remained crystal clear, parents may not sign up to repeat it. While only children are totally fine, if every family just had one kid eventually the human race would die off.

There’s a bit of a problem with that forgetfulness, though. We can lose the grace new parents so desperately need. Luke 23:34 ought to be the theme verse for the BS of parenting. “Forgive them, for they (have a helpless infant at home and therefore are so exhausted they) know not what they do.” (That’s from the AAT, Amanda’s Amplified Translation.) It’s for this reason my husband and I have committed to the following maxim: for the first year of a baby’s life, parents get a free pass. Cranky? It’s probably just BS. Inflexible? BS. Irrational? Snippy? Fallen off the face of the earth? You got it…BS.

Admittedly my timing is little self-serving since we’re not quite halfway through the Solly year of BS. Partly I want to plead for understanding and empathy in case my hubby or I do or have done something that offends or makes no sense to you. I also write now because it’s fresh and real and for our future selves, I want to set a reminder to extend that same grace to future new parents, no matter how their particular brand of BS manifests.

Every kid is different so the BS of parenting may be unique for each family, but if we can all agree to assume the best of one another – especially new parents – it’ll make all shades of BS a lot easier to handle. Then all of humanity, new parents, veteran parents, and non-parents alike, can raise their voices together in a grateful chorus celebrating babies, parents, the continued existence of humanity, and the varied BS skills we employ!

Pregnancy Following Miscarriage

It was the day after Easter when the labor cramps kicked in and the thing so many pregnant mothers dread began – I was losing our baby.

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month. Until this year I didn’t know such an awareness month existed. I had no reason to know; I had never experienced such a loss. This year is different. This year there was our Smooch.

Most of you know I am currently pregnant. We’re expecting a son this January. People assume he is our second child, but they don’t know about the little one we lost earlier in the year. They don’t know about our doctor being unable to find baby’s heartbeat. They don’t know about the emergency ultrasound. They don’t know about the blood draws so HCG levels could be measured. They don’t know about the bleeding, the contractions, the guilt, the grief, or the sadness. Why? Because nobody talks about this stuff.

Now, here I am pregnant for a third time and the invitation to worry is strong. Thanks to the loss of Smooch there’s a cloud that stalks this pregnancy experience. That little doppler tool now not only checks for baby’s heartbeat, it increases mine. Until our 20-week ultrasound a large part of me didn’t feel safe anticipating a new child. I have no journal chronicling this pregnancy because I can’t imagine wanting to read it later. It’s not that things are much different physically from the first time around; it’s that they’re wholly different emotionally.

I want to connect with this baby, but it’s so much more difficult than it was with my firstborn. I have to work around the scar of miscarriage.

I was pregnant with Smooch for eleven weeks. For some reason, development did not properly progress and we lost the little life of our second baby. If this is not something you’ve experienced it can be very difficult to understand. So much of it is invisible to those on the outside. There is no funeral, many people didn’t even know there was a pregnancy, and in the midst of it few parents have the energy to put words to the experience. But for those who must walk this road the loss is quite visible. It is tangible. It is felt both emotionally and, at least for the mother, physically. I know the moment I was no longer carrying Smooch. That moment will be with me forever. Likewise, the memory of these lost lives linger with their families. These children deserve to not be kept secret.

My dear friend Lacey started a family necklace for me when I got married. There is a leaf with our anniversary date, a leaf with Phin’s initials and birthdate, and now a tiny heart to represent our Smooch. I look forward to adding a leaf with new initials and a new birthdate this coming January; mostly because it means our baby will be here, but partly because it means we know he was born safely. He made it.

Scratch that – WE made it.

Going Grey

It’s a fight I’ve been engaged in for over a decade. I was still a teenager when I found my first silver strand and the logical response at that time was of course to yank it out at the root. My hair is extremely thick, I reasoned…who cares if I tear out a few here and there? Sadly, into my 20s the little boogers continued to multiply in spite of my regular removal of their compatriots. I never really said anything about it to anyone but my mom, who gently reminded me that my dad went grey at a very young age.

My dad’s last name is Whitehead…guess we know how that family name originated.

Soon a friend from church choir who was studying at Douglas J convinced me to get highlights. Fairly quickly we advanced to all-over color and I faithfully kept it up for years. It looked good! We played with various tones…chestnut, auburn, brown with golden highlights, even a year or so of black with indigo highlights on just the right side of my head. It was fun to change looks and for the most part I could forget about my Whitehead roots.

In my 30s I got married and pregnant. Once the baby arrived it became more and more difficult to motivate myself to go get my hair colored. It’s tough to get out of the house with a newborn, no matter how accommodating the situation! I also noticed the grey we were covering seemed to be more plentiful and aggressive; regrowth was noticeable just two weeks after a color. I was tired of the frequency, the cost, and of using babysitter time to sniff chemicals for three hours. On a whim I googled something about greying in your 30s and found How Bourgeois. This girl makes grey look so good! I began to seriously contemplate giving up the dye.

After about a year of going back and forth, I missed a scheduled hair appointment and couldn’t get another one until three or four weeks later. Again I contemplated aloud the grey hair thing and my husband encouraged me to go for it. “You can always go back to color if you don’t like it.” With his full support, I made the decision. The last time I dyed my hair was February 27. I was growing out the grey.

Rather than drag out the process to mask what I was doing or to keep my length, I decided to let it go long enough so I could get a cute pixie cut and then lop off the color. The date of the big chop was set for July 2 and we had four months of growth to work with. There are still bits of color left on my head that will be trimmed off over the next couple of haircuts but for the most part, I’m now grey. My hair is shorter than it has ever been and my curls are on hiatus until I begin to grow them out again. For now, I’m enjoying the change, the uniqueness of my color (just try and get your faux granny hair to look like this, kids!), and the freedom from having to keep up the dye.

Beauty is available at every age and in every color. Embrace it!

Moving Forward

The theme of the last few years has been sweeping change. Apparently once Chad and I got together, God decided it was time to unfold some dreams rapid-fire style. We got engaged, married, then pregnant in the span of about six months. Once Phin was born I transitioned out of full time ministry and into stay at home motherhood. All this time, God was speaking to Chad about the future and what he was hearing was so exciting he was rather antsy to see it come to pass.

For a few years now Chad’s felt like his time as a teacher was winding down. His passion for creative ministry within the church was growing. He waited, serving both Okemos Public Schools and the church faithfully and with great excellence (I can say that un-objectively because he actually won an excellence award this year). Well friends, another part of the vision has come to pass. An opportunity for Chad to move into creative arts full time has been presented. Steve Bradshaw, a wonderful friend we met during his time with the Assemblies of God Michigan District, is pastoring again. He replaced a retired pastor in a mid-sized church, relocated his family, and invited us to join him with Chad as his Creative Arts Minister.

In Venice, Florida.

Whaaaaat?! (I assume that’s what you’re thinking…it was what we thought at first too!) Chad lived in Florida for two summers during his time employed at Disney World. I visited frequently during my time on staff at Mount Hope as Pastor Dave hosted a number of Church Planters Schools and Leadership Interchanges in St. Pete Beach. Neither of us ever dreamed we’d move there. But when we started talking with Steve and his wife Mary Beth, when we visited the church, we knew it was the right move.

This is a very bittersweet time in our lives; we are excited for the future while mourning the leaving. We have a marvelous community here in Lansing. We have family here, along with many people we love dearly and a church family we adore. Our hope is to simply expand our community to include Venice while maintaining strong connection with our Michigan loved ones. As we prepare for this big transition we ask for your prayers for wisdom, favor, and simplicity.

In closing, here are a few FAQs related to our move:

1. When’s the big move? Chad’s first day on staff is July 29; our move will happen sometime the week prior.
2. What are you doing with Chad’s house/the condo? We still aren’t sure what we’re doing with our two (count ’em, TWO) houses here in Michigan but are researching all our options.
3. Creative Arts Minister? What’s that? Chad will be responsible for all things creative at the church. It’s a new position for this particular church so he has the privilege of building the department from the ground up, recruiting, training, and releasing people to flow in their creative gifting.

Michigan folks, we love you. Remember this isn’t goodbye, it’s only “see you later.” Trust me, I’m saying that as much for myself as I am for anyone else. Here’s to moving forward, into new adventures!

Whatever it Takes to Get By

Heads up: this post is about breastfeeding. I don’t want to freak anybody out, so I figured I’d spring it on you right off the bat.

Before I became a mom, I fell into the “I support breastfeeding, I just don’t want to see it” camp. Then I had Phineas.

We struggled to feed Phin in the early months of his life. He was labeled by a specialist as “failing to thrive” (a diagnosis we refused to speak over him ourselves), he needed a lip and a tongue tie revision in order to suck effectively, and by the time we figured all this out my supply was so low I had to nurse him at least 15 times a day. Do the math on that one, folks. 24 hours in a day, and remember even mamas try to sleep here and there. I couldn’t miss a feeding for fear it would hurt my crippled supply. I was also pumping to encourage my body to produce more, which I supplemented right back to Phin. We gave him a couple bottles of formula daily. We tried early introduction of solids that left him writhing in pain with terrible gas because his body wasn’t ready to process them. There were doctor visits, weight checks, and hours spent with a lactation consultant. We kept a borrowed infant scale in our bedroom to regularly weigh him and make sure he was gaining. When we missed the mark, we were devastated. It ruled our lives for months.

With that schedule, if I wanted to go to church, get my hair cut, or simply get coffee with a friend, I had to make peace with the fact that I’d need to nurse Phin outside our home. In some instances I was able to find an empty office or some other more private place to get the job done, but that wasn’t always the case.

We dropped some serious coin on paraphernalia to make nursing in public more discreet. I found the fancy (and expensive!) nursing tanks most effective. I could layer them under my clothes and get him to latch with minimal exposure. Nursing covers, which you’d think would offer maximum discretion, did me wrong. They lulled me into a false sense of security, allowing Phin to rip them off and leave me more exposed than ever. Of course, this was just how things were for us. Every mom/baby pair is unique.

Firsthand experience with an issue can often change your position. When I see a nursing mom in public, even if they’re not as covert as I tend to be, I assume the best. We mamas are just trying to do whatever we can to raise healthy children. Never once while I nursed in public did I think, “Wow, I’m really sticking it to those puritanical folks offended by public breastfeeding.” You know what I was thinking? I’ve gotta feed my son. Most mamas aren’t doing it to make someone uncomfortable or make a political statement. They’re just trying to feed their children and still live their life. They’re doing whatever it takes to get by.

I’m the mother of a little boy. I want to raise him to be a supportive husband and father, just like his daddy is for us. Part of that involves teaching him about the human body and helping him not to be ashamed or grossed out by God’s grandest creation. Should an older Phineas one day witness a nursing mother, I hope I’m brave enough to use it as a teachable moment.

The path we walk often dictates our passions. When people poke fun, bash, or mock moms who I know firsthand are doing a very taxing service for their baby, it’s personal because I am that mom. We struggled and fought to breastfeed our son, and our success was hard-won. I share our story not to change anyone’s mind about the issue, but rather to encourage empathy. When you see a mama nursing in public, consider the fact that you don’t know everything about her situation and extend a little bit of grace instead of judgment.