I don't have time for a real post but didn't want to leave you hanging about Addie's appointment:
It went great. I didn't quite get my miracle--which I'm still holding out for--but got as close to it as possible. The words "excellent progress" and "charting her own course with this syndrome" and "so pleased" were thrown all over the place by a doctor who usually reserves such things. She was pleased, we were pleased, Addie was pleased. Actually, Addie was quite pleased with herself, especially at our celebratory lunch afterward at Blue Mesa when the table of ladies behind us made it their goal to cover her with as much praise and adoration as possible. She was quite the show-off. I loved every minute of it.
Thank you all for praying for us! The nursing strike appears to be fading, my belly is full of Cracker Barrel's chicken 'n dumplings, the children are asleep, and we're relishing a terrific thunderstorm. Life is good.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Not a Point to be Found
It's my favorite kind of day today: rainy, gray, thundering. My parents get really sick of days like this; in Pennsylvania most of their spring consists of gray. But here in eternally-sunny Texas, a good rolling thunderstorm is a rare and treasured--except by Scout, the dog--occurrence. Nothing puts me in a better mood than horrible weather. I love it.
(And speaking of dogs, which I really wasn't, I just read the book Marley and Me, and I do believe it could even make a dog-hater think a dog sounds like a good idea. Which is funny, since the book is about "Life and love with the world's worst dog," but it must give off dog-loving pheromones or something, because when I finished if I not only poop-scooped and brushed the dog for no good reason, I also changed the blurb about me in my profile to shed better light on Scout. Even I, a former dog-disdainer, recognize that I have the world's best dog. So back to the book promotion--there are a few things in there that I wouldn't want to read out loud in front of my dad, but overall it's a great story. I'm a lover of literature; I can get past a few dicey moments if the story is good. I mean even Song of Solomon has some things I wouldn't want to read in front of Dad! And if you disagree with this whole thing, please don't bash me. I've had a hard week and am not up to confrontation. Just be gentle. Or silent. That's even better.)
I'm sitting in my armchair in the corner of our bedroom, looking through rain-slashed windows to our backyard. Our backyard leaves much to be desired. It is basically a rectangle--and not a very big one--of nothing but grass and fence. When our summer comes (with a vengeance) there is virtually no shade, and all living matter bakes. So this year we've decided to do something about it. In about 2 weeks we're spending enough money to make one of us sick to have our patio doubled and a patio cover built. We're also planting several trees (Austrees, the amazing phenomenon in the tree world) and creating new flowerbeds. I'm so excited I think I might not be able to sleep the night before the workers come. I have visions of walking barefoot over our lawn while gazing at flowers and watching our children play happily in the shade. I do realize this is a fantasy; with a 90 pound golden retriever who uses the backyard as his potty, I don't actually walk barefoot back there. But I can pretend.
I'm also excited that my sister-in-law, Janae, is on her way to our house to spend the night. She wants to learn how to crochet, so I told her to come on over and we'll have a party of it. My husband laughs uproariously at the idea, but that's okay; he thinks standing at the edge of a pond holding a pole and trying to catch a fish on it--only to throw it right back in--is fun. At least I have something to show for my hobby when I'm done, and I'm not talking about a farmer's tan. And speaking of fishing, he's in heaven right now: we live within driving distance of both Cabela's and Bass Pro, so he's spending the evening driving to both to spend some time in man-heaven. I can't believe he doesn't want to stay home and learn how to crochet with us.
That's really all that's going on. Whether this post even qualifies as actually being worth reading, I don't know, but it's too late in the evening to pull out a book or other hobby, and so a post it is. I'm waiting for my husband to bring home both dinner and prescriptions before he heads off to stare at fishing supplies, and I'm hoping and praying that the Gentian violet and Diflucan stave off the thrush I think Addison and I have and help her nurse again. I spent some time on the phone with Clemntine today--she's a lactation consultant, which has to be one of the professions I esteem most in the entire world--who gave me much-needed encouragement on the whole nursing strike thing. We think it's a combo of things, but basically Addison will nurse if she's asleep and won't if she's not. If she doesn't come out of this soon, I'm going to lose my mind. And so will my husband, who has to take my phone calls every time I attempt to nurse her. I think he'd appreciate it if all goes back to normal soon. Men don't deal with hysteria very well, you know?
Okay, so I've taken up enough space, especially considering there's absolutely no point to this post. Even my own mother wouldn't read this. Well, she probably would, since she loves me, but she'd definitely skim it.
OH! I just remembered something important! Tomorrow is a key appointment for Addie! We're seeing her geneticist for a major checkup. The last time we saw her was back in September, and Addie was only 4 months old. Now she's almost 11 months and is doing all sorts of fun things--things she really shouldn't be doing according to the doctor--so I can't wait to see what the word is tomorrow. I'm ever the optimist--I'm pulling for an entire recanting of the original diagnosis. I do believe in miracles, you know. So if you hear from me tomorrow, it was good news. If not, then I'll be too busy drowning my sorrows in ice cream. Of course, on that note, ice cream is great for a celebration too. And we just happen to live near a Marble Slab Creamery . . .
Happy Thursday, y'all :-)
(And speaking of dogs, which I really wasn't, I just read the book Marley and Me, and I do believe it could even make a dog-hater think a dog sounds like a good idea. Which is funny, since the book is about "Life and love with the world's worst dog," but it must give off dog-loving pheromones or something, because when I finished if I not only poop-scooped and brushed the dog for no good reason, I also changed the blurb about me in my profile to shed better light on Scout. Even I, a former dog-disdainer, recognize that I have the world's best dog. So back to the book promotion--there are a few things in there that I wouldn't want to read out loud in front of my dad, but overall it's a great story. I'm a lover of literature; I can get past a few dicey moments if the story is good. I mean even Song of Solomon has some things I wouldn't want to read in front of Dad! And if you disagree with this whole thing, please don't bash me. I've had a hard week and am not up to confrontation. Just be gentle. Or silent. That's even better.)
I'm sitting in my armchair in the corner of our bedroom, looking through rain-slashed windows to our backyard. Our backyard leaves much to be desired. It is basically a rectangle--and not a very big one--of nothing but grass and fence. When our summer comes (with a vengeance) there is virtually no shade, and all living matter bakes. So this year we've decided to do something about it. In about 2 weeks we're spending enough money to make one of us sick to have our patio doubled and a patio cover built. We're also planting several trees (Austrees, the amazing phenomenon in the tree world) and creating new flowerbeds. I'm so excited I think I might not be able to sleep the night before the workers come. I have visions of walking barefoot over our lawn while gazing at flowers and watching our children play happily in the shade. I do realize this is a fantasy; with a 90 pound golden retriever who uses the backyard as his potty, I don't actually walk barefoot back there. But I can pretend.
I'm also excited that my sister-in-law, Janae, is on her way to our house to spend the night. She wants to learn how to crochet, so I told her to come on over and we'll have a party of it. My husband laughs uproariously at the idea, but that's okay; he thinks standing at the edge of a pond holding a pole and trying to catch a fish on it--only to throw it right back in--is fun. At least I have something to show for my hobby when I'm done, and I'm not talking about a farmer's tan. And speaking of fishing, he's in heaven right now: we live within driving distance of both Cabela's and Bass Pro, so he's spending the evening driving to both to spend some time in man-heaven. I can't believe he doesn't want to stay home and learn how to crochet with us.
That's really all that's going on. Whether this post even qualifies as actually being worth reading, I don't know, but it's too late in the evening to pull out a book or other hobby, and so a post it is. I'm waiting for my husband to bring home both dinner and prescriptions before he heads off to stare at fishing supplies, and I'm hoping and praying that the Gentian violet and Diflucan stave off the thrush I think Addison and I have and help her nurse again. I spent some time on the phone with Clemntine today--she's a lactation consultant, which has to be one of the professions I esteem most in the entire world--who gave me much-needed encouragement on the whole nursing strike thing. We think it's a combo of things, but basically Addison will nurse if she's asleep and won't if she's not. If she doesn't come out of this soon, I'm going to lose my mind. And so will my husband, who has to take my phone calls every time I attempt to nurse her. I think he'd appreciate it if all goes back to normal soon. Men don't deal with hysteria very well, you know?
Okay, so I've taken up enough space, especially considering there's absolutely no point to this post. Even my own mother wouldn't read this. Well, she probably would, since she loves me, but she'd definitely skim it.
OH! I just remembered something important! Tomorrow is a key appointment for Addie! We're seeing her geneticist for a major checkup. The last time we saw her was back in September, and Addie was only 4 months old. Now she's almost 11 months and is doing all sorts of fun things--things she really shouldn't be doing according to the doctor--so I can't wait to see what the word is tomorrow. I'm ever the optimist--I'm pulling for an entire recanting of the original diagnosis. I do believe in miracles, you know. So if you hear from me tomorrow, it was good news. If not, then I'll be too busy drowning my sorrows in ice cream. Of course, on that note, ice cream is great for a celebration too. And we just happen to live near a Marble Slab Creamery . . .
Happy Thursday, y'all :-)
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
On Strike
All right, folks, I need some help. I have a baby on a nursing strike. The breastfeeding support center lady was very calm about it all--of course she is; it's not her child refusing to nurse--and said it's common after something traumatic like a hospitalization. She said to try to feed her, and if she won't nurse, to move on and just not worry about it. She promised me Addie won't starve herself and will nurse when she's ready.
I sure hope she's right.
So if you've breastfed and have any expertise in striking matters, give me all your wisdom! If you haven't breastfed, or, heaven forbid, you're a man, feel free to refrain from giving advice. Unless your bottle-fed baby went on strike, or you're a lactating man. That changes things.
So lay it all out there ladies. Any advice??
I sure hope she's right.
So if you've breastfed and have any expertise in striking matters, give me all your wisdom! If you haven't breastfed, or, heaven forbid, you're a man, feel free to refrain from giving advice. Unless your bottle-fed baby went on strike, or you're a lactating man. That changes things.
So lay it all out there ladies. Any advice??
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
It's the Potato's Fault
I've already made it through the second year with one boy, and I really thought I'd seen it all. From flushing his own head in the preschool urinal at church ("It's like a waterfall Mama!") to discovering the amazing staying-power of Vaseline when rubbed into the carpet and the couch, to jumping into the koi pond in the dead of winter ("I wanted to see the fish up close!"), I figured I could handle another toddler boy. Especially considering this toddler didn't even contemplate walking until he was 16 months old. Grayson defined the word mellow.
Defined. That's past tense, folks.
Something happened when this baby became a middle child. Or maybe it's when he started walking? Who knows; they both happened around the same time. One day he was refusing to budge off his well-cushioned tushy, and the next he was stomping on the kitchen table. He is into everything, just for the sheer joy of flinging. There's nothing more delicious in Grayson's life than a full bookshelf, or stuffed diaper bag, or crammed dresser. Within 15 seconds that kid has completed a search-and-destroy mission with the sole purpose of throwing every item out into the center of the room. I pick up the same messes so many times in one day I've threatened to throw out every single toy and just make him play with dirt.
Lately he has become convinced that his appendages are detachable. The other day I found him in his highchair with both hands around his own throat, tugging at his head and muttering, "Take head off! Take head off!" I explained that his head isn't made to come off, but when I looked back at him five minutes later, he was still yanking on his head, begging it to pop off.
This morning he climbed into my bed, burying his head under the comforter while leaving his hiney still high up in the air. The baby fat is starting to melt away, so I pinch the rolls on his thighs while I still can. Rolling over, he raised one leg in the air, then reached up and grabbed his foot. With great hopefulness, he asked, "Take foot off?" I smiled and shook my head. Grayson paused, then lifted hopeful eyebrows at me. "Take arm off?" I shook my head again. He studied my face, then tried once more. "Take Mama's head off?" Biting back a laugh, I showed him that my head isn't going anywhere. He slumped back onto the pillow and sighed a heavy, depressed sigh, resigned to a life with his head firmly attached to his body.
I wonder about that kid.
Maybe I can blame it on the potato.
Defined. That's past tense, folks.
Something happened when this baby became a middle child. Or maybe it's when he started walking? Who knows; they both happened around the same time. One day he was refusing to budge off his well-cushioned tushy, and the next he was stomping on the kitchen table. He is into everything, just for the sheer joy of flinging. There's nothing more delicious in Grayson's life than a full bookshelf, or stuffed diaper bag, or crammed dresser. Within 15 seconds that kid has completed a search-and-destroy mission with the sole purpose of throwing every item out into the center of the room. I pick up the same messes so many times in one day I've threatened to throw out every single toy and just make him play with dirt.
Lately he has become convinced that his appendages are detachable. The other day I found him in his highchair with both hands around his own throat, tugging at his head and muttering, "Take head off! Take head off!" I explained that his head isn't made to come off, but when I looked back at him five minutes later, he was still yanking on his head, begging it to pop off.
This morning he climbed into my bed, burying his head under the comforter while leaving his hiney still high up in the air. The baby fat is starting to melt away, so I pinch the rolls on his thighs while I still can. Rolling over, he raised one leg in the air, then reached up and grabbed his foot. With great hopefulness, he asked, "Take foot off?" I smiled and shook my head. Grayson paused, then lifted hopeful eyebrows at me. "Take arm off?" I shook my head again. He studied my face, then tried once more. "Take Mama's head off?" Biting back a laugh, I showed him that my head isn't going anywhere. He slumped back onto the pillow and sighed a heavy, depressed sigh, resigned to a life with his head firmly attached to his body.
I wonder about that kid.
Maybe I can blame it on the potato.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig
You must've prayed! Not just a few hours after I clicked my laptop shut last night, Addie woke up at 2:30 in the morning, ready to play. She started by kneeling in her crib and gnawing on her oxygen tubes. Eventually she caused so much trouble with her oxygen sensor and tubing that the nurse took pity on me and turned off the oxygen. We stayed up for about two hours, her chattering and spitting and yanking off her sensor, me whining and begging her to sleep and laughing despite myself. Finally, after we watched half of Akeelah and the Bee (a wonderful movie, by the way), I told her that our middle-of-the-night playdate was over. She finally settled down, and I didn't pull the covers off my head until 8:30 this morning.
I woke up, looked at her crib, and saw her flashing me her characteristic two-toothed grin. My girl was back! She hadn't really smiled at me since early Wednesday. I would've paid, on Thursday, all my earthly wealth to see her smile. After seeing her new perkiness, the nurse casually mentioned that we might go home this afternoon, and I tried to contain my hope just in case she was wrong. Not thirty minutes later the doctor--my new best friend--said Addie could go home. He broke the 24 hour rule just for us, probably once he found out we were at the mercy of friends to watch the boys for us while Chris was working. Less than an hour later, we were on our way home.
Now that I've taken a bath, kissed my boys, and read the mail, I'm taking a nap. Addie has decided to make up for all the sleeping she didn't do in the hospital, and I'm happy to oblige. Gray is sleeping, and Caiden is in a trance in front of the television. I've never been happier to be in my own home, surrounded by my children, toilet paper that isn't scratchy, a good dog, and no trace of any machine that beeps at will.
Thank you for praying--so many of you care about this sweet little girl, and she'll probably never fully appreciate that fact, but I will. And thanks to those of you who are here in my non-computer life. You brought food and snacks, bought my boys milkshakes and created sidewalk chalk murals, called and emailed, brought me groceries, and came and picked me up from the hospital today. Crummy things like a hospital stay with a sick baby always end up reminding me of the same two things: God is good, and so is my life.
And on that note, I'm going to take a nap.
I woke up, looked at her crib, and saw her flashing me her characteristic two-toothed grin. My girl was back! She hadn't really smiled at me since early Wednesday. I would've paid, on Thursday, all my earthly wealth to see her smile. After seeing her new perkiness, the nurse casually mentioned that we might go home this afternoon, and I tried to contain my hope just in case she was wrong. Not thirty minutes later the doctor--my new best friend--said Addie could go home. He broke the 24 hour rule just for us, probably once he found out we were at the mercy of friends to watch the boys for us while Chris was working. Less than an hour later, we were on our way home.
Now that I've taken a bath, kissed my boys, and read the mail, I'm taking a nap. Addie has decided to make up for all the sleeping she didn't do in the hospital, and I'm happy to oblige. Gray is sleeping, and Caiden is in a trance in front of the television. I've never been happier to be in my own home, surrounded by my children, toilet paper that isn't scratchy, a good dog, and no trace of any machine that beeps at will.
Thank you for praying--so many of you care about this sweet little girl, and she'll probably never fully appreciate that fact, but I will. And thanks to those of you who are here in my non-computer life. You brought food and snacks, bought my boys milkshakes and created sidewalk chalk murals, called and emailed, brought me groceries, and came and picked me up from the hospital today. Crummy things like a hospital stay with a sick baby always end up reminding me of the same two things: God is good, and so is my life.
And on that note, I'm going to take a nap.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Still Here
Well, we're still here. The nurse told me today that Addison has to be off oxygen and maintain her sat level for 24 hours straight before we can be sprung. We were hoping to wean her off tonight, to begin the 24 hours, but her numbers so far aren't high enough to take her off the oxygen. At the risk of sounding ungrateful, I'm tired of being here. I know a few days isn't a long time, but I miss my boys and just want to take my girl home.
Please pray, specifically, that her numbers will come up tonight, so we can start our 24 hour period and come home. We've had to ask favors of various people to watch the boys, and besides missing them, I feel bad knowing our friends are having to take care of them. Also, Addison is starting to feel better, which is a huge praise, but that also means she's not quite so content to just sit in my lap. That makes for very long days. And as you can probably tell from the tone of this post, my spirits are flagging. If I knew what day we were going to go home I'd feel better. Since I don't have any idea, I'm feeling a little discouraged.
I guess that's it for now. It's late, and her monitors are going off, so I'm going to venture out to find a nurse and then go to bed.
Thanks, y'all. :-)
Please pray, specifically, that her numbers will come up tonight, so we can start our 24 hour period and come home. We've had to ask favors of various people to watch the boys, and besides missing them, I feel bad knowing our friends are having to take care of them. Also, Addison is starting to feel better, which is a huge praise, but that also means she's not quite so content to just sit in my lap. That makes for very long days. And as you can probably tell from the tone of this post, my spirits are flagging. If I knew what day we were going to go home I'd feel better. Since I don't have any idea, I'm feeling a little discouraged.
I guess that's it for now. It's late, and her monitors are going off, so I'm going to venture out to find a nurse and then go to bed.
Thanks, y'all. :-)
Friday, March 23, 2007
Greetings
from the hospital, Internets! (to borrow the term from BooMama)
We're still here today. I've come to appreciate the smaller things in life, after having used hospital handsoap to wash my face today and a paper towel to dry it. I'm also going to be incredibly thankful for rocking chairs that rock without squeaking, beds that have real mattresses, and bathrooms whose toilets do not harbor germs unknown to me. Hospital life stinks.
That said, I've also come to appreciate paramedics who allow me to use my cell phone on the ambulance, emergency personnel who can get an IV running with only one stick, nurses who are compassionate, helpful, and quiet in the night, and doctors who appreciate that a baby who sucks on her fingers needs her IV out so she can do just that. We've been in this hospital before, when Caiden had surgery as a baby, and it's a terrific place to be--if you have to be in one at all.
Addison is doing okay today. She still feels really crummy. Bridget told her husband last night after visiting us that she didn't realize how sick RSV can make a baby until she saw Addie. My normally very active baby girl has done nothing but slump in my arms the last two days. She's pretty uncomfortable and is still running a fever and needs oxygen, but she hasn't developed pneumonia, only bronchiolitis, so that's good.
The doctor says we'll have to wait on little Miss Addison to know when we can go home. She has to be able to keep her sats up without oxygen, and we haven't even tried it yet. I'm hoping for tomorrow, but not expecting it. Either way, she is in good hands, and we're just glad our pediatrician acted so quickly.
New thanks today: to my sweet sister for ice cream, magazines, and her good company last night. To Bridget, who stated that she had to come visit, since it's a regular routine that whenever one of our kids is in the hospital, she comes by with Diet Coke and conversation. I won't even tell you how many trips she has made--and I have made none to her, since her kids are the picture of health. I'm not bitter though. :-)
Thanks also to my mom who let the world know we needed someone to help with the boys today so Chris could come see his princess and give me a break! Moms are good like that. And to Kristen, who not only assists my husband all week long, but today gave up her only day off to watch the hooligans. Kristen and Daniel, you are a big-hearted couple. We love you guys. And lastly, thanks to the Hand in Hand ministry at our church for calling today. Are you sick of having to call us yet? :-)
(Is this the longest update ever, or what?? Sorry--brevity is not a gift I possess.) One of the good things about hospitalizations and the like is the outpouring of love and support we always receive. Between our church family, which also encompasses all of our dear friends, as well as our true family, we never feel alone in the midst of a crisis. And now we have a blogging family! What a blessing y'all are!!
I'm doing great. Other than wearing my pajamas, not having taken a shower in three days, and dearly missing my boys and my bed, I'm feeling fine. I have some good books, lots of Diet Coke, and a baby who can't get enough snuggling. Life is good.
Thank you for praying--keep it coming. We can use all we can get!
"Talk" to you tomorrow,
Sarah
p.s. One last thank you--to Dr. Sara for calling Erin. What a good friend you are!!
We're still here today. I've come to appreciate the smaller things in life, after having used hospital handsoap to wash my face today and a paper towel to dry it. I'm also going to be incredibly thankful for rocking chairs that rock without squeaking, beds that have real mattresses, and bathrooms whose toilets do not harbor germs unknown to me. Hospital life stinks.
That said, I've also come to appreciate paramedics who allow me to use my cell phone on the ambulance, emergency personnel who can get an IV running with only one stick, nurses who are compassionate, helpful, and quiet in the night, and doctors who appreciate that a baby who sucks on her fingers needs her IV out so she can do just that. We've been in this hospital before, when Caiden had surgery as a baby, and it's a terrific place to be--if you have to be in one at all.
Addison is doing okay today. She still feels really crummy. Bridget told her husband last night after visiting us that she didn't realize how sick RSV can make a baby until she saw Addie. My normally very active baby girl has done nothing but slump in my arms the last two days. She's pretty uncomfortable and is still running a fever and needs oxygen, but she hasn't developed pneumonia, only bronchiolitis, so that's good.
The doctor says we'll have to wait on little Miss Addison to know when we can go home. She has to be able to keep her sats up without oxygen, and we haven't even tried it yet. I'm hoping for tomorrow, but not expecting it. Either way, she is in good hands, and we're just glad our pediatrician acted so quickly.
New thanks today: to my sweet sister for ice cream, magazines, and her good company last night. To Bridget, who stated that she had to come visit, since it's a regular routine that whenever one of our kids is in the hospital, she comes by with Diet Coke and conversation. I won't even tell you how many trips she has made--and I have made none to her, since her kids are the picture of health. I'm not bitter though. :-)
Thanks also to my mom who let the world know we needed someone to help with the boys today so Chris could come see his princess and give me a break! Moms are good like that. And to Kristen, who not only assists my husband all week long, but today gave up her only day off to watch the hooligans. Kristen and Daniel, you are a big-hearted couple. We love you guys. And lastly, thanks to the Hand in Hand ministry at our church for calling today. Are you sick of having to call us yet? :-)
(Is this the longest update ever, or what?? Sorry--brevity is not a gift I possess.) One of the good things about hospitalizations and the like is the outpouring of love and support we always receive. Between our church family, which also encompasses all of our dear friends, as well as our true family, we never feel alone in the midst of a crisis. And now we have a blogging family! What a blessing y'all are!!
I'm doing great. Other than wearing my pajamas, not having taken a shower in three days, and dearly missing my boys and my bed, I'm feeling fine. I have some good books, lots of Diet Coke, and a baby who can't get enough snuggling. Life is good.
Thank you for praying--keep it coming. We can use all we can get!
"Talk" to you tomorrow,
Sarah
p.s. One last thank you--to Dr. Sara for calling Erin. What a good friend you are!!
Thursday, March 22, 2007
An Update
Hey Ladies! (And of course you few, faithful men who read my blog!!)
Thanks to all of you who spread the word and prayed for Addie today. We are in the hospital, and she's doing better this afternoon. This morning was scary--and it takes a lot to scare this mama now! But her fever and breathing seem to be under control now, so we're all feeling better. I don't know how long we'll be here, so I'll send out periodic updates when I can. Thank you Bridget for keeping the boys this morning, to Janae and Kristen for retrieving my car and watching the boys this afternoon, and to Kristina for never failing to bail us out when we need it! Having friends and family I can count on always makes times like these easier!
Please keep up the prayers, and I'll keep up the updates!
Love to all of you,
Sarah
Thanks to all of you who spread the word and prayed for Addie today. We are in the hospital, and she's doing better this afternoon. This morning was scary--and it takes a lot to scare this mama now! But her fever and breathing seem to be under control now, so we're all feeling better. I don't know how long we'll be here, so I'll send out periodic updates when I can. Thank you Bridget for keeping the boys this morning, to Janae and Kristen for retrieving my car and watching the boys this afternoon, and to Kristina for never failing to bail us out when we need it! Having friends and family I can count on always makes times like these easier!
Please keep up the prayers, and I'll keep up the updates!
Love to all of you,
Sarah
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Just Like Jesus
Chris told me the other night that as he was putting Grayson to bed, Gray reached his little chubby hands up to Chris' face and patted his stubbly cheeks. "Like Jesus," he said.
It's my prayer that as our sons grow up in our home and under our love, they'll continue to find Jesus in their daddy.
And I pray that someday, when Grayson tucks his own son into bed, little hands will reach up into the darkness and catch hold of his face. "Like Jesus, Daddy. Like Jesus."
That's the reason we do what we do. Getting a glimpse of the hoped-for result early on is an added blessing.
It's my prayer that as our sons grow up in our home and under our love, they'll continue to find Jesus in their daddy.
And I pray that someday, when Grayson tucks his own son into bed, little hands will reach up into the darkness and catch hold of his face. "Like Jesus, Daddy. Like Jesus."
That's the reason we do what we do. Getting a glimpse of the hoped-for result early on is an added blessing.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Patience
If there's anything in this life that should have a warning label attached, it's Galatians 5:22-23, the Fruit of the Spirit passage in the Bible. In bolded capitals, it should say, "Don't pray for this unless you really want it. Because if you want it, be prepared to be pruned."
Living in Texas has given me great skills as a pruner. Crape myrtle trees abound here. They're hardy little things; neither drought nor furnace-like temps will kill them off. They're easy to care for; other than water them occasionally and prune them, you don't have to do anything, which is why we have five in our yard. The pruning, however, is not for the faint of heart. There's actually a technical term: "crape murder," which basically means you chop off all branches except the very top ones each fall. Somehow instead of killing the tree it makes it taller and fuller.
Yesterday I sat at the dining room table with a mug of coffee and the Bible and read the fruit of the Spirit passage. Then, in a moment of naivety, I prayed for some patience. And then the heavens opened up and laughed. Today I woke up to a sick baby. I called our babysitter, Kristina, and asked her to come early so I could take Addison to the doctor. On her way to our house she got stuck in traffic, so to keep from being late, I had her meet me at the pediatrician's office, where I handed off the two boys for her to take to the park. Addison and I waited for a very long time while flu and RSV tests were being run. I take that back--it wasn't that long, but Addie is not a patient patient. It just felt long. The RSV test came back positive, and since she also has bronchitis we had to wait for multiple prescriptions to be written. I took the kids home and left them with Kristina and lunch so I could go pick up the prescriptions and run a few errands.
And then the heavens of patience-forming frustrations opportunities unleashed. I went to the post office. And waited forty minutes in line while the postal workers moved in slow motion. After mailing packages and buying stamps, I went to the bank. And waited in line. Then my bank business took about 30 minutes longer than I'd anticipated. I drove to the fabric store to pick up one measly yard of ribbon. And waited in line. Behind a woman with 18--no exaggeration here--bolts of fabric to be measured. Wal-Mart was next, and as I drove I asked myself how badly we needed wet wipes and milk. By this point Kristina said Addison had woken up and needed to eat, and I was nowhere near finished. I shopped for the entire week as fast I could, only to wait in line at the checkout, where a very nice but very relaxed checker moved like molasses.
Scratching "groceries" off my list, I sped to the pharmacy to pick up all the prescriptions. This time I was actually first in line, until a girl pulled up to the next window and had so many questions the entire pharmaceutical team had to stop and help her. Then back to the post office to mail the last package. And of course I stood in line again. By this point I was grinning, albeit more out of deranged exhaustion than goodwill. The lady in front of me got so bent out of shape at the slowness of the people in front, she finally stalked out, fuming the entire time. I watched her go, wondering what she would've done if she were living my life at the moment.
Finally--finally--I drove to the last errand before heading home. All I had to do was drop off a check at the front office. I walked in, and as the Lord is my witness I promise you I knew I was in for it the moment the lady at the desk saw me. She literally brightened as if company had come to town, and then she began talking so much and so fast she put Caiden to shame. I am not lying when I say she not only somehow got my middle name out of me, but also my age, as well as hauled out an 8 x 10 wedding picture of her daughter and went on to tell me what size dress her daughter wore, what she does for a living, and how frustrated she is that her daughter and son-in-law have been married six years and are yet to produce a grandchild. I tried not to stare at the clock above her head, but in between nods and "Ahas" and "Mhhhmmms," I remember thinking I'd been trapped and would never, ever be allowed to leave the building. As she launched into her own childhood memories--and all this from a virtual stranger!--I started backing toward the door, jingling my keys. Eventually she let up, probably as my eyes glazed over, and I fled for the car.
I pulled up to a house with a hungry baby, a van full of thawing groceries, and the knowledge that I was going to have to write a check to the babysitter twice as much as usual. And I didn't even go anywhere fun.
So now I'm sitting in my chair, surveing a scene of absolute destruction in my house. Breathing treatment supplies, puzzles, baby toys, stuffed fish, popcorn kernels--everything is everywhere, and I still have to summon enough energy to make dinner and administer medication, baths, and love to the kids before bedtime.
I've decided that I'm willing to forego character development. Being pruned stinks. The next time I sit down with my Bible and a mug of coffee, forget the fruit of the Spirit; I'm praying for something else. Like rest.
Living in Texas has given me great skills as a pruner. Crape myrtle trees abound here. They're hardy little things; neither drought nor furnace-like temps will kill them off. They're easy to care for; other than water them occasionally and prune them, you don't have to do anything, which is why we have five in our yard. The pruning, however, is not for the faint of heart. There's actually a technical term: "crape murder," which basically means you chop off all branches except the very top ones each fall. Somehow instead of killing the tree it makes it taller and fuller.
Yesterday I sat at the dining room table with a mug of coffee and the Bible and read the fruit of the Spirit passage. Then, in a moment of naivety, I prayed for some patience. And then the heavens opened up and laughed. Today I woke up to a sick baby. I called our babysitter, Kristina, and asked her to come early so I could take Addison to the doctor. On her way to our house she got stuck in traffic, so to keep from being late, I had her meet me at the pediatrician's office, where I handed off the two boys for her to take to the park. Addison and I waited for a very long time while flu and RSV tests were being run. I take that back--it wasn't that long, but Addie is not a patient patient. It just felt long. The RSV test came back positive, and since she also has bronchitis we had to wait for multiple prescriptions to be written. I took the kids home and left them with Kristina and lunch so I could go pick up the prescriptions and run a few errands.
And then the heavens of patience-forming
Scratching "groceries" off my list, I sped to the pharmacy to pick up all the prescriptions. This time I was actually first in line, until a girl pulled up to the next window and had so many questions the entire pharmaceutical team had to stop and help her. Then back to the post office to mail the last package. And of course I stood in line again. By this point I was grinning, albeit more out of deranged exhaustion than goodwill. The lady in front of me got so bent out of shape at the slowness of the people in front, she finally stalked out, fuming the entire time. I watched her go, wondering what she would've done if she were living my life at the moment.
Finally--finally--I drove to the last errand before heading home. All I had to do was drop off a check at the front office. I walked in, and as the Lord is my witness I promise you I knew I was in for it the moment the lady at the desk saw me. She literally brightened as if company had come to town, and then she began talking so much and so fast she put Caiden to shame. I am not lying when I say she not only somehow got my middle name out of me, but also my age, as well as hauled out an 8 x 10 wedding picture of her daughter and went on to tell me what size dress her daughter wore, what she does for a living, and how frustrated she is that her daughter and son-in-law have been married six years and are yet to produce a grandchild. I tried not to stare at the clock above her head, but in between nods and "Ahas" and "Mhhhmmms," I remember thinking I'd been trapped and would never, ever be allowed to leave the building. As she launched into her own childhood memories--and all this from a virtual stranger!--I started backing toward the door, jingling my keys. Eventually she let up, probably as my eyes glazed over, and I fled for the car.
I pulled up to a house with a hungry baby, a van full of thawing groceries, and the knowledge that I was going to have to write a check to the babysitter twice as much as usual. And I didn't even go anywhere fun.
So now I'm sitting in my chair, surveing a scene of absolute destruction in my house. Breathing treatment supplies, puzzles, baby toys, stuffed fish, popcorn kernels--everything is everywhere, and I still have to summon enough energy to make dinner and administer medication, baths, and love to the kids before bedtime.
I've decided that I'm willing to forego character development. Being pruned stinks. The next time I sit down with my Bible and a mug of coffee, forget the fruit of the Spirit; I'm praying for something else. Like rest.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Running
The first time I ran a mile straight, I threw up. I've always prided myself on not being competetive, but I know deep down that it's a delusion. I was in the sixth grade, and our resident fastest runner at the time was a girl named Jenny Heigel. Or something like that--I can still see her face, but my junior high yearbooks are in a keepsake box in my mother's basement, so let's pretend her name really was Jenny Heigel.
She was fast, and everybody knew it. As our P.E. class toed the start line, something in me snapped. She shot out from the line, and I followed hard after her. We both finished in just under 6 1/2 minutes, her feet only a second quicker than mine. The difference, of course, is that she was on the track team and had actually run a mile before. I had not. I threw up. She did not. Of course I did it where she couldn't see me; nobody needed to know that I won second place by sheer determination, not athletic prowess.
I'm not athletic by nature. I kicked a goal for the other team when I played second grade soccer, and I caught a fly ball square on the forehead the summer of my sixth grade year. My dad still really gets a kick out of that. If I want to make him cry, forget wedding pictures of him giving me away; one mention of that fly ball will have him laughing to tears. And my time on the junior high track team (a by-product of my speedy one-miler) was cut short once I realized that every single practice resulted in me throwing up. Athletic, I am not.
But I started running when my first child was about a year and a half old. I can't remember what the catalyst was that made me start, but it was love at first step. This time I don't try to beat anybody (except for the 70 year old man who was slightly leading me in a 5K; I almost wet my pants by the time I crossed the finish line, but I did beat him), and if I run a mile under eight minutes I worry about my heart beating itself right out of my body. I've tried to explain my love for it to people who don't run. It never works. They just shake their heads and call me things like "glutton for punishment" and "self-mutilator."
I'll tell you what I like best about it, and it's not that my legs get leaner or that my abdomen is flatter (because neither of those would be true): I get to run away. And how many times have I threatened that very thing to my husband and children? If I really ran away, I'd have to take my car and wallet and phone and purse. Oh, and my laptop. And of course I'd feel guilty and miss my family and all that. When I run, all I take is the dog. And even he is optional. We take our first step, and it's like flying, albeit a heck of a lot slower. But I feel like I'm flying. There are no diaper bags, no wet wipes, no sippy cups or car keys. No strollers. No sticky toddler hands. No obligations, expectations, no chatter. It's just me and the dog, and when his ears flap in the wind, I feel as light as air. I take curves in the road, hop curbs, sprint between street signs. I feel free.
Hebrews 12:1 says, “Therefore we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.”
I’m not sure there is anything in my life that better illustrates this than running. Of course, my version would say something like this:
“And since we mamas are constantly surrounded by such a swarm of infants, toddlers, and preschoolers, let’s dump all the diaper bags, sippy cups, and double strollers, as well as the temper tantrums and sibling rivalry, and run three miles because it’s the only thirty minutes we’ll have to ourselves all day long and it might, just might, save our sanity.”
That’s not quite what the author had in mind. It is, though, the reason why I’ll set my alarm clock for 6 a.m., don a ski mask, and run in 23 degrees. Or wait until 9 p.m. and run in a sweltering 98 degrees. Or pack my running clothes to take on vacation. I didn’t understand the allure of running when my life was relatively unhindered. It was only once nearly every second was taken up by meeting others’ needs that I felt the desire to get out, away, unhindered. And the beauty of it is that the more often I do it, the faster I get.
That Jenny Heigel was onto something.
She was fast, and everybody knew it. As our P.E. class toed the start line, something in me snapped. She shot out from the line, and I followed hard after her. We both finished in just under 6 1/2 minutes, her feet only a second quicker than mine. The difference, of course, is that she was on the track team and had actually run a mile before. I had not. I threw up. She did not. Of course I did it where she couldn't see me; nobody needed to know that I won second place by sheer determination, not athletic prowess.
I'm not athletic by nature. I kicked a goal for the other team when I played second grade soccer, and I caught a fly ball square on the forehead the summer of my sixth grade year. My dad still really gets a kick out of that. If I want to make him cry, forget wedding pictures of him giving me away; one mention of that fly ball will have him laughing to tears. And my time on the junior high track team (a by-product of my speedy one-miler) was cut short once I realized that every single practice resulted in me throwing up. Athletic, I am not.
But I started running when my first child was about a year and a half old. I can't remember what the catalyst was that made me start, but it was love at first step. This time I don't try to beat anybody (except for the 70 year old man who was slightly leading me in a 5K; I almost wet my pants by the time I crossed the finish line, but I did beat him), and if I run a mile under eight minutes I worry about my heart beating itself right out of my body. I've tried to explain my love for it to people who don't run. It never works. They just shake their heads and call me things like "glutton for punishment" and "self-mutilator."
I'll tell you what I like best about it, and it's not that my legs get leaner or that my abdomen is flatter (because neither of those would be true): I get to run away. And how many times have I threatened that very thing to my husband and children? If I really ran away, I'd have to take my car and wallet and phone and purse. Oh, and my laptop. And of course I'd feel guilty and miss my family and all that. When I run, all I take is the dog. And even he is optional. We take our first step, and it's like flying, albeit a heck of a lot slower. But I feel like I'm flying. There are no diaper bags, no wet wipes, no sippy cups or car keys. No strollers. No sticky toddler hands. No obligations, expectations, no chatter. It's just me and the dog, and when his ears flap in the wind, I feel as light as air. I take curves in the road, hop curbs, sprint between street signs. I feel free.
Hebrews 12:1 says, “Therefore we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.”
I’m not sure there is anything in my life that better illustrates this than running. Of course, my version would say something like this:
“And since we mamas are constantly surrounded by such a swarm of infants, toddlers, and preschoolers, let’s dump all the diaper bags, sippy cups, and double strollers, as well as the temper tantrums and sibling rivalry, and run three miles because it’s the only thirty minutes we’ll have to ourselves all day long and it might, just might, save our sanity.”
That’s not quite what the author had in mind. It is, though, the reason why I’ll set my alarm clock for 6 a.m., don a ski mask, and run in 23 degrees. Or wait until 9 p.m. and run in a sweltering 98 degrees. Or pack my running clothes to take on vacation. I didn’t understand the allure of running when my life was relatively unhindered. It was only once nearly every second was taken up by meeting others’ needs that I felt the desire to get out, away, unhindered. And the beauty of it is that the more often I do it, the faster I get.
That Jenny Heigel was onto something.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
The Fort
I lost Caiden today. Although I consider myself a generally responsible mother, this seems to happen often. I turn around, and he's gone. The house was quiet, which is typically a bad sign in the middle of the day. We're lucky if it's quiet in the dead of night. The other day I woke at 2:30 a.m. to find an Army-clad five-year old, helmet, rucksack and all, climbing on the counter in search of a snack and a vitamin. I’ve got to teach this kid how to tell time.
So I searched. His bedroom? No luck. Upstairs? Nobody. The bathrooms? Nope. Feeling slightly frantic, I glanced at the outside doors to make sure he hadn't gone visiting. Flashbacks of a two-year old hauling his blanket down the street in a thunderstorm went through my mind. There's nothing like answering the door to the neighbor you've never met, who's dripping wet and handing over your errant toddler. Those are the kinds of things you swear will never happen while you're childless yet seem to occur frequently once you've had children and subsequently lost all childrearing philosophies.
Then I remembered It, in all its glorious majesty, towering in the family room: The Fort. Every week when I go to my mom's group to regenerate brain cells lost after a week of full-time mothering, the babysitter builds a stellar fort out of barstools, kitchen chairs, and every blanket in the house. The fort takes up the entirety of the family room and makes it impossible to sit on the couch, but I leave it up for the day knowing it makes two little boys deliriously happy. There aren't many things that are free that can assure me of at least an hour of entertained children. The fact that it requires no work on my part is even better.
I lifted a corner—the vintage butterfly quilt, which is a dubious choice for a boy’s fort -- and there he lay, sound asleep. A Curious George was clutched under each arm, and his head was propped on the gigantic stuffed fish my brother and his wife thought would be a charming Christmas present. As if anything five feet long is charming. We are the proud owners of two such fish, and I fully intend on paying Dan and Janae back when they have their own children. I hope Bass Pro sells life-sized stuffed marlin by then.
I did what any good mother would do. I breathed a quick sigh of relief, snapped a few pictures, and tiptoed out of the room, thankful for his impromptu nap and the sweet gift of an hour of complete, utter silence during the day. Because I never know if I’m going to need to fix a snack at 2 a.m. Thank God for forts.
So I searched. His bedroom? No luck. Upstairs? Nobody. The bathrooms? Nope. Feeling slightly frantic, I glanced at the outside doors to make sure he hadn't gone visiting. Flashbacks of a two-year old hauling his blanket down the street in a thunderstorm went through my mind. There's nothing like answering the door to the neighbor you've never met, who's dripping wet and handing over your errant toddler. Those are the kinds of things you swear will never happen while you're childless yet seem to occur frequently once you've had children and subsequently lost all childrearing philosophies.
Then I remembered It, in all its glorious majesty, towering in the family room: The Fort. Every week when I go to my mom's group to regenerate brain cells lost after a week of full-time mothering, the babysitter builds a stellar fort out of barstools, kitchen chairs, and every blanket in the house. The fort takes up the entirety of the family room and makes it impossible to sit on the couch, but I leave it up for the day knowing it makes two little boys deliriously happy. There aren't many things that are free that can assure me of at least an hour of entertained children. The fact that it requires no work on my part is even better.
I lifted a corner—the vintage butterfly quilt, which is a dubious choice for a boy’s fort -- and there he lay, sound asleep. A Curious George was clutched under each arm, and his head was propped on the gigantic stuffed fish my brother and his wife thought would be a charming Christmas present. As if anything five feet long is charming. We are the proud owners of two such fish, and I fully intend on paying Dan and Janae back when they have their own children. I hope Bass Pro sells life-sized stuffed marlin by then.
I did what any good mother would do. I breathed a quick sigh of relief, snapped a few pictures, and tiptoed out of the room, thankful for his impromptu nap and the sweet gift of an hour of complete, utter silence during the day. Because I never know if I’m going to need to fix a snack at 2 a.m. Thank God for forts.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
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