{"id":3173,"date":"2015-10-08T12:18:39","date_gmt":"2015-10-08T11:18:39","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/omily.me\/?p=3173"},"modified":"2015-10-08T12:18:39","modified_gmt":"2015-10-08T11:18:39","slug":"thuis-in-dorp-gabriel","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/omily.me\/en\/thuis-in-dorp-gabriel\/","title":{"rendered":"At Home in Village Gabri?l"},"content":{"rendered":"

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\"villagegabriel\"<\/a><\/p>\n

The arrival in the village?of Gabriel’s birth was a pleasant experience. Except for the pain. Weird, isn’t it? I really don’t like pain!<\/p>\n

He was born at hom with the help of the world’s best midwife, who had helped my mom with the birth of one of my little sisters as well. I loved it. Apart from, I repeat, the pain.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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My second baby was just as cute as my first. But the honeymoon feeling was missing. With a very busy husband and a very active little toddler, there wasn’t very much time.<\/div>\n
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And so it happened that soon, Mike left behind a crying wife at the door every day when he left for work. I kid you not. Every day.<\/p>\n

And it was more weeping then crying. It was a very pretty picture, actually. One of those melancholy ones.?A glass door with greasy fingerprints. Most often, there was a gray, drizzly sky, because it was winter. A man in a thick black coat who gave everyone a ‘hug and kiss’ in the cold verandah. A mama who, if it was a good day, had already had a chance to brush her hair, wearing a sad face. The door that closes, the tears that already were there or that came now. A little papa-fan screaming at the window and a mama who stands there with a baby and probably already some spit on her clothes. Romantic, I tell you. And then 11 hours to get through.<\/p>\n

Generally, my mood wasn’t much improved by the time he got home at night. Because I had not been able to get done what I wanted to get done and I needed a whole lot more sleep to ever feel even slightly rested.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I wanted to get back my life pre-babies. All I had ever wanted to be was a mother, I thought.?And now, all I was ever going to be was a mother.?It seemed. I didn’t much like that prospect. Now, all I wanted to be was to not be a mother.<\/div>\n
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All at once things started coming up, things I had previously not thought of as being over all that much. Mission trips, friend trips, further studies…<\/div>\n
I wanted to stay at home with my children, I had always planned to stay home with my children. But it only now dawned on me that that also mean that I would never be able to do these things. And so they became more important, because the gras on the other side of the fence is always lusher, greener and fresher.<\/div>\n
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This post is part of a series:<\/a><\/div>\n
\"compassion-bloggers-motherhood\"<\/a><\/div>\n<\/p>\n

<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<\/p>\n

The arrival in the village?of Gabriel’s birth was a pleasant experience. Except for the pain. Weird, isn’t it? I really don’t like pain!<\/p>\n

He was born at hom with the help of the world’s best midwife, who had helped my mom with the birth of one of my little sisters as well. I loved it. Apart from, I repeat, the pain.<\/p>\n

My second baby was just as cute as my first. But the honeymoon feeling was missing. With a very busy husband and a very active little toddler, there wasn’t very much time. And so it happened that soon, Mike left behind a crying wife at the door every day when he left for work. I kid you not. Every day.<\/p>\n

And it was more weeping then crying. It was a very pretty picture, actually. One of those melancholy ones.?A glass door with greasy fingerprints. Most often, there was a gray, drizzly sky, because it was winter. A man in a thick black coat who gave everyone a ‘hug and kiss’ in the cold verandah. A mama who, if it was a good day, had already had a chance to brush her hair, wearing a sad face. The […]<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[112,140],"tags":[],"yoast_head":"\nThuis in Dorp Gabri?lAt Home in Village Gabri?l - Omily<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"noindex, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Thuis in Dorp Gabri?lAt Home in Village Gabri?l - Omily\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"The arrival in the village?of Gabriel’s birth was a pleasant experience. Except for the pain. Weird, isn’t it? I really don’t like pain! He was born at hom with the help of the world’s best midwife, who had helped my mom with the birth of one of my little sisters as well. I loved it. Apart from, I repeat, the pain. My second baby was just as cute as my first. But the honeymoon feeling was missing. With a very busy husband and a very active little toddler, there wasn’t very much time. And so it happened that soon, Mike left behind a crying wife at the door every day when he left for work. I kid you not. Every day. And it was more weeping then crying. It was a very pretty picture, actually. One of those melancholy ones.?A glass door with greasy fingerprints. Most often, there was a gray, drizzly sky, because it was winter. A man in a thick black coat who gave everyone a ‘hug and kiss’ in the cold verandah. A mama who, if it was a good day, had already had a chance to brush her hair, wearing a sad face. 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