Throes of insecurity

If there's anything I hate doing, it's self-promotion. But that seems to be a necessary part of getting, say, a part-time job as a writer.  Sooooo (blush/stammer/cough)... I began a Facebook fan page, which you can like here. If you do, indeed, like me. ;) Or if you have indeed ever liked anything I've written.  Or if you like liking things and clicking buttons, this one's for you.

Short rant on my own ignorance: I don't know exactly what this will or won't do for me.  I know nothing about what I'm doing here in "Blogger," and often fear I'm committing a slew of faux-pas... Posts too long, too short, too frequent, too infrequent, too... something.  I mean besides the fact that I blog about my entire personal life under a title some people (i.e. most of my relations) would find outlandishly offensive. (I'm just being literal, really people.  Wanted a catchy title, you know?  Sigh...)

I'm trying to Tweet.  I'm stumbling through Stumbled Upon.  I'm googling blogging tutorials.  I've written to other, bigger bloggers for tips.  No dice.  Cannot yet access the secret knowledge of blogdom, hmmm.

I fear I've kinda estranged some friends (okay, I _know_ I have), since I do a lot more talking here than I do in "real life."  Like one close childhood friend said to me, having read TLC: "Clearly, we are VERY different people."  And I didn't think we were quite so different...

Ouch.

On the other hand, I've gained much more than I've lost.  That, in and of itself, is a priceless outcome of my time here: the support from you (okay that unintentionally sounded like a PBS appeal).  But really, the kindness from my blog fam during this loss has been overwhelming.

I want to thank you again for grieving with me, for remembering and honoring an unborn baby I loved.  It has been a tremendous blessing to be able to share Pepper with you.... something I can't do in the day to day business of living, where people either don't want to talk about sad things, or I can't bring myself to speak, or I do and then they say something dumb like (and I quote): "You buried her? That's so weird."

I really appreciate everyone who has just let me talk (and talk) (and talk) when I'm going there.  Like I do here. :D  I love it that no one here has changed the topic to the weather (oh yes, it's actually been done... more than once.)  I love and thank you all for it.  And for reading ramblings posts like these...

Anyway, to get back to blathering about my insecurities: it doth appear that, on the Feast of the Transfiguration, I posted about a toilet.  I clean forgot.  What kind of a Christian Catholic am I? <wring hands here>

A hopelessly distracted one.  Far from the days when daily church attendance reminded me of what I should be celebrating.

Sigh.

And I'm not saying I'm jealous, but the convent I checked out as a teen?  A large group of women just entered it, vowing their lives to the service of God.  And gosh, peace, quiet, and prayer seem so swell right now.  Again, not that I have any wistful thoughts or anything, but I lived for awhile there in Nashville and these women are fantastic.  They make their own long white habits, and play volleyball in them and laugh and carefully eat pasta with red sauce.  And then they pray together in the evenings like this:

I miss them.  I'm thinking a lot, these days, about all the ways my life could have been different....

I know it's mostly because I miss her.  Like crazy.  So much that it's hard to sleep again.  So much that I feel like I'm back in April, not wanting to be alone and just as much wanting to be alone.

It's difficult to face the cold and stark reality of no baby this month.  I know I have four other girls.  That somehow does not affect it at all.  Not an iota.  And, I suppose, this is normal.

My husband is on red alert that Phase II of my NFP chart this cycle (or the white baby stickers for Creightonites) will be a doozy.  Still undergoing testing, tons of bloodwork left to do (tests beget more and more tests it seems), some concerning symptoms but... frankly "want baby NOW" is the predominant message from my loss-obsessed brain at the moment.  Not that any of that makes sense, but it just is...

I'm happy for her.  I'm miserable for me, right now.  I can't wait for this month to be over, but yet I'm not prepared for the summer to end.  At all.  Or for homeschooling.  I'm so uncharacteristically unready for a year I'd thought would be so, so different from the one facing me.

Thank you for your prayers.  I would have had her any time now, which is why I'm having a sulk.  I'm wondering when her real birthday would have been... which day to do this commemoration stuff I feel led to do.  Nothing really special I guess, just visit her site, release balloons, get some windchimes, order a headstone... stuff like that.  Must change my computer's cookies or crackers or whatever: it keeps sending me sales on headstones.  "Buy two, get one free!"  "Add another name to a stone for just $19.99!"  Okay so I made that last part up but I do get ads...

I'm taking mini escapes.  Like biking for miles and hours with my brother.

Also, been going line dancing with my other siblings.  Even though my only former connection to country music is that my parents used it as bedtime music when I was three, and only stopped because they realized I'd been crying myself to sleep from the sad songs about lost dogs and broken trucks.  But hey, I blame my sister for getting me into it, my sisters-in-law for buying me boots, and anyway it's exhilirating to be moving fast and in time with lines of people.  (For those of you unfamiliar with line dancing: think of a thousand riffs on "Electric Slide" and you've pretty much got it.)  It's fun and feels quite cool, though I probably look like a duck with untied shoes. Most of the time, I'm just gleefully bouncing around, trying to follow along, earnestly seeking to avoid kicking or being kicked, stomping or being stomped upon.

Very oddly... I feel a special connection to her there, always dancing solo (since Dan watches the kids while I go.)  The first time I went line dancing, back in January, she was there with me.  Alive and well and with me.

So now when I'm learning a new dance, I always ask her to dance it with me.  And it might seem odd but I think she helps me with the steps.  When I'm dancing, I can feel some of her boundless joy.  Kinda feels like I'm spending time with her.

"Your love has given me great joy and encouragement..." Philemon 1:7

Edge of the comfort zone

Prelude: I'm writing surrounded by five yelling children (picked up a cute extra), who occasionally lean over me to drip a messy snack onto my keyboard or call for assistance with finding a toy.  Yo Gabba Gabba is blaring as a useless decoy in the background.  This is about my least favorite way to try to accomplish anything.  But the post must go on, for no reason other than writing helps me think, though getting paid to do this at some point would be swell.  Feel free to send me leads anytime.  :)

So back to my return trip: had a smashing time in DC with the coolest sisters-in-law there are, and then was taken to Union Station for my non-eventful bus ride to Port Authority Terminal NYC.  Non-eventful, that is, until it became clear to the ladies of Long Island that their bus driver had taken the wrong turn, and was hopelessly circling Manhattan.

(Me, bored and taking self-portraits in hopelessly circling bus):

"Are you KIDDIN' ME??!!" was the most printable of the comments made from this stalwart band of females who knew their city thoroughly and realized, beyond a doubt, that the hapless driver was dead wrong in his GPS programming decisions.  I should have taken a video of the crowd around the poor man, who looked penitent and terrified as women alternately shouted new directions at him and offered profanities and hand gestures to the traffic on his behalf.

In the end, we were an hour late.  I had missed my connecting bus at 10 PM.  The next bus I was informed, without apology, was at 7:30.  AM.  The one accomodation I was given for the complete lack of the second leg of a full trip I'd pre-purchased was a $10 meal voucher which was useful from 6:30 AM on.

I was unhappy.  I was scared.  Port Authority boasts the most aggressive panhandlers I've ever seen, who seem to outnumber security by at least half.   As I walked with a lady and her four children who were in the same predicament I was, we were accompanied by people alternately asking for change and swearing at us for no apparent reason.  One gentlemen had told us (rather firmly) to ask for information at a certain kiosk, and when we decided to go a different route we were followed by him, insisting he did not like how we were "disrespectin'" him.

With 18% charge left on my cell, I called my husband. (The "Greyhound" bus had turned out to be an "Eire" bus from the early 90's, with no cup-holders or seat pockets, shades instead of tinted windows, and most assuredly no outlets to charge devices.)  When you're panicky and lost, Dan's about the best person on the planet for a solution: he can find a way to get from point A to point B from just about any start point.  In more than one continent too.  There's got to be a way to market this ability... :)

"Okay Katie, go out to the subway.  Take it to Grand Central Station.  The last train to New Haven is leaving in about 10 minutes."  It was almost midnight.

Growing up, my dad wasn't keen on my mom driving around the block solo after dark.  I have some such residual hesitance in my blood.  And growing up, "Grand Central Station" was an expression meaning "insanity."  Such as, "Kids, you coming in and out the door like that makes me feel like I'm in Grand Central Station."

I had never actually seen "Grand Central Station."  But I was about to.  Alone, and after midnight.

Deciding whatever awaited me on New York's subways was preferable to finding a corner of filthy carpet to sleep on in the current zoo, I bid farewell and blessings to the family I had been with, gave them my voucher, and ran like mad to catch the next subway, dodging a couple guys muttering to themselves, luggage bumping behind me.

It's hot, muggy, and dirty in the subways.  Like a lot.  Using what I taught my own girls about approaching strangers (i.e. the only time I shamelessly stereotype), I just kept looking for safe-looking people to ask for advice.  Where do you get a ticket?  Like this?  Which train? Oh thank you...  I found an aspiring filmmaker who talked to me about her fictional film about a drug addict until she abruptly said, "Oh! Here's your stop! Jump off and go left!"  And then she and the subway was gone in a rush, and I was left on an empty, dimly lit platform, far underground, alone with my luggage.

Lord, I know you are helping me find the edge of my comfort zone these days, but golly gee.  Really?  But hey, I made it.  Found the right escalator, found a young couple to follow, found Grand Central Station to be immense and beautiful (not at all what I expected, I had imagined it more as Port Authority) and anything but busy, an abandoned marbled hall.

I made the last train by four minutes.  It was an old one, and jogged and shook aggressively down the tracks. I knew I wouldn't sleep with all the racket, so I just sat there numbly, purse on the seat beside me.  Until I woke up to "Newww Haven."  And no purse.

Dan and four sleepy kids were ready for me with our mini van at 3:30 AM.  I canceled the cards in the morning, chalking up the cash I lost to almsgiving, since I hadn't had time or courage to do any while lost in New York.

Traveling alone.  Writing a blog.  Losing a baby.  This has definitely been the year of going to my edge, and trying to become a better person in the process...

Thank you Lord for Your guidance and protection, Your presence with us every step of the way as we encounter our depths and heights.  Without You, there is nothing.  With You, we have everything: every strength we need, every grace we require.

"Let all who take refuge in You rejoice."  Psalm 5:11

Ouch

I am currently typing while a tiny portion of my back feels red hot... I got stung _again_.  This has been a banner year for me and bees... apparently the year to face my greatest fears.  Let's see, I can check off death, bees, heights and flying (will be hopping on a plane the end of next month.)  I feel about done with this, and now feel behooved to avoid ocean swimming since my other phobia is sharks (yes I religiously IGNORE "shark week"...) what's the name of that fear?  Hmm... Geleophobia, there we are.

I needed a laugh... there were no bees involved in the making of this film.  :)

While helping my husband rebag (yes, REbag) copious amounts of leaf and lawn detritus from regular, inferior Home Depot lawn and leaf bags into narrow, paper, annoying city approved leaf bags... anyway, I somehow uncovered some venomous insect's dwelling and he most rudely flew up my shirt to tell me about it.

Owwwwwwwwww!!

But I'm okay now, swallowed two benedryl and Advil, denying the woozy feelings and just gonna do this blog post till the end.  And the end is right about now.... because this hurts and makes me feel weird and I can't write well when I hurt and feel weird so I'm going to have a pout.  This is where I grab an ice pack and sulk on the couch while watching reruns of SNL. 

Till tomorrow my friends...

(Searching for evil bee scripture... ah yes...)  "They swarmed about me like bees, in the name of the Lord I cut them down."  Psalm 118:12  Mwa ha ha!!!Current happy thought?  Killing bees!!  Will deal with my love of agriculture tomorrow; for now I will indulge my happy anti-bee fantasies...  Good night!  Owww...  Where's the chocolate...

Seeking escape

I made a big mistake.  In hindsight, that is.  I made darn sure that, unlike with my other five pregnancies, I would not be traveling or "going on vacation" while preggo.  No sir.  Done with that.  

My first pregnancy I was maneuvering overnight trains in Italy, in whatever is Italian for "just abova cattle class." My second pregnancy, I drove down to Florida with a one year old to sing at a wedding during an active hurricane season.  In all the subsequent pregnancies, I've driven down to VA at least once to stay with inlaws, one of whom was friendly enough to call me selfish for sleeping in when I was 8 months pregnant.  While visiting her.  In July. With limited a/c.  But I digress...

So been there, done that.  And this time, when I discovered the two lines, I made darn sure I wouldn't leave this house till the fall.

I still haven't moved.  In all of our last minute desperate attempts to find a way to get away, I've been foiled.  By April, the time shares we typically use were booked up for the summer.  Even when I've attempted to get the first week of September before we really give up on summer, it hasn't worked.

I've never wanted to be pregnant more.  I've never been so terrified of that idea.  I've never been so desperate to get away from it all.  From the room she would have been in.  From the bed that still has ginger chews and Zofran in the little drawer.  From the shower where I've watched my belly shrink.  (Never thought I'd be sad about something like that.)  I don't even understand why today is a "sad" day, but from the moment I woke up, it just was.  Probably because I'm leaving Phase 1 on my NFP chart.  Bleeding now would have meant she was on her way.  Bleeding now just means she is gone.

"My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the Lord; 

my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God." Psalm 84:2

Addendum:  So I tap out the above tearjerker, shove the laptop towards my husband with a mumbled, "I hope I'll feel better now," and wander off to redo my makeup.  He read it, picked up the phone, and called our time share company just one more time.  Last night, there was nothing available.  But today, right after I'd written this, there was a beautiful two bedroom place, close to both destinations my husband and I wanted (I wanted lakes, he wanted mountains) in Bethel.  Familiar with any Hebrew?    That's just too cool...



God... thank You.

Der Bienen

"Mom, I wewly have to go potty!!"  This was the third time my preschooler had informed me of this breaking news at a potty-free park.  The most secluded bush was clear across the very large fenced-in playground .  Carrying my toddler (who was optimistically singing, over and over "Ashes, ashes, we all fall down," her favorite part of the song) while pulling my potty-eager child on the other hand, shouting "I'M GOING POTTY!  I'M GOING POTTY!" I slipped into "nirvana mode" (i.e. focusing on nothing), trying hard to ignore any disapproving glances from other moms who guessed the planned desecration.)  Scooting behind a rhododendron, I told Cecilia, "Okay, you're going to pee on the ground like a squirrel!  Just hold on to my arm..." 

 "WHAT??? I AM NOT A SQUIRREL!  I DON'T WANT TO GO POTTY ON THE GROUND!  MOMMY! WHERE'S THE REAL POTTY?" 

The child has one volume sometimes...  but she succeeded.  We survived.  But while exiting the playground, just in the small space created when a shoe flexes as you walk, a bee flew in and stung my foot.  I squealed, jumped, popped off the shoe.  "Mommy you threw a BEE away!  Silly Mommy..."  Stupid bee.  Well, maybe stupid me... see the photo from yesterday's post?  Obviously my choice of clothing tempted the bee beyond its power of control.  Who to blame... hmm...

Hobbling now, I carried bag, baby, and kid in tow, pausing to look at a dog they liked, the stinger unfortunately going deeper with every step.  I made it to the van, belted them into car seats, handed out juice boxes to buy myself time, had a look at the damage and realized that I am now part bee... as in, with swelling, there was no way I could get all the stinger out now.  I scraped at it with my health insurance card (if anything should have worked, it was that, right?) and tweezed and grimaced and gave up and applied ice.  Well, applied the side of my iced coffee anyway.

Sometime later, after realizing that--in all the excitement--I had forgotten about a dentist appointment, and following a phone call about it with a secretary who acted rather like a female canine, I realized I felt sick.  Flu-like symptoms.  Being a busy mom, I decided to drink more water.  It was only when the nausea hit hard while driving my kids home from soccer, and feeling like I was going to pass out, that I realized I needed more than extra water.  After making it home, my husband gave me two benadryl... and I felt 100% better in 20 minutes.  Which means, if I'm doing the math right, that I have a mild allergy to bee venom.  Fantastic.  I will add this to my growing list of medical marvels.  

I'm better today, and enjoying the rain, sadistically hoping the bees are getting wet somehow... I've always disliked and feared them.  So afraid that my mom had to put masking tape over the picture of a bee in my dictionary as a kid.  When I was two, I decided to pet a bumblebee (I'm told) and was stung on the hand... so the bee terror has existed ever since I can remember.  When I ran crying inside because "there's a bee out there," I was always told, "Don't bother them, and they won't bother you."  Which has turned out to be abundantly untrue.  How have they stung me?  Let me count the ways!

• Stung in the face while walking in the woods (hornet was flying one way, I was heading the other)
• Reaching up to fix my hair, bee on barrette.  I was in a college class.  I shrieked.  The professor, the dear Dr. Marshner, said, "Madam, are you terrified of that creature?" He picked up the nearest guy's backpack, slammed it onto the bee on my desk; the class roared with laughter, while he continued teaching as though nothing had happened.  This was probably the most entertaining time, followed by this close second
• Sitting on a bee that was between couch cushions.  While with a date at a formal dance.  Oy.

I think this is the only other time... Never had a reaction before.  This was a honeybee; besides the hornet, the rest were yellow jackets.  Huh. Go figure.  

Obvious moral of the story: ladies, beware your choice of clothing this summer.  Animals and insects may not be able to control themselves.  :)  

Oooo I get to look up a Bible verse on bees: "Compared to most flying things, a bee is very small, but the honey it makes is the sweetest of foods." Sirach 11:3 Hmm.  And their sting is a big pain in the... well, one might add that, for realism... just saying. :)

May Day

I'm tired.  The steroid treatment is over for my swollen hand and I kinda miss the overdrive if I'm being honest...  Instead of burning through more household piles in an organizing frenzy last time I found myself kid-free, I instead caught myself still sitting in my mini van, vaguely observing my gluten-free neighbor doing yard work while I ate a muffin.  She has had the nerve to get super-skinny.  I feel I've lost the unspoken over-sized-tee-shirt camaraderie we once shared from across the street.  Sigh.

So as you can see, I've been busy.  Started the weekend off at Dave and Busters, also kid-free, attending a function called "Grill the Priests."  An awesome open-forum event where the crowd could ask anything they wanted about Catholicism from a panel of brave priests.  Sold out, packed event room.  Afterwards you could play arcade games with a Dominican in full garb while everyone whispers comments.  Wicked cool.  :)

On the not so great side, a favorite tree in "my" playground across the street is being terminated... seems Earth Day was sooo last week.  :S  More negative playground news: it seems I lost my necklace ("the" necklace) at a playground in... another state.  This has been a perfect excuse for online Mother's ring shopping whenever I miss it now.  Hoping to get all my kids' birthstone on a ring a tad too small for my finger--maybe one I kinda have to jam on--so there isn't a chance of it coming off and getting lost...

One positive playground note: a motherhood milestone was passed with my preschooler used a porta-potty for the first time! She did not touch anything disgusting, nor did she panic that "the toilet wasn't flushed."  Proud of her.

Those of you checking in for actual news will notice, no doubt, that I have not given any.  This is because I have none yet.  On May 1st, as scheduled, with a wonderful friend watching my kids and my wonderful husband taking a day off, we sat in the self-same office I'd been in in March (the one with the kinda creepy Ann Geddes babies emerging from sunflowers) and was told the following:

"Pathology isn't finished with the autopsy results from your D&E yet.  I'm sorry.  But don't worry, they still have slides of the brain, liver, kidneys, heart, and everything else.  They just aren't finished yet."

You can just imagine my "relief" at this non-information after a week's sleep full of odd nightmares like: "Perpetua died because you consumed too much mayonnaise.  Those are the autopsy results.  In future pregnancies, please refrain from the consumption of condiments."

I was assured I would be called when results were in, apologized to for the office keeping an autopsy review appointment when no autopsy results were available, and told to expect a call "soon."  I went home and dug in the freezer for the "Chocolate Therapy" a very dear friend had given me for just such an occasion.  Mmmmm.

Then this morning, as I was contemplating how to communicate my "non news" in this post, the phone rang with "OBGYN" on the caller ID.  Now, I had been planning my writing in the place I write best: the shower.  But this phone call was probably "the one," so I jumped out, grabbed my phone, lost my grip on it, fished it out from a puddle on the floor, frantically patted it with my towel, and said "Hello?!?" while trying to shut the shower off.  I was in "pre-rinse" stage.

"Is this Katherine?"  Cue screaming 1 and 3 year old at door.  "Yep, it's me."  I pull the door open, hoping I could quiet things down quickly.  A very dangerous diaper was drooping around little knees.  Swearing interiorly, I grabbed wet wipes and laid out fussing toddler on the towel I was supposed to be standing on.  With no other option, I tapped "speaker on."

"We have the pathology results.  The doctor would like to discuss the findings with you, and make sure you have your genetic blood work done prior to..."  Wiping furiously, I looked up at Cecilia, who was admiring herself in the mirror.  "Mommy, you are wery wet!" she loudly proclaimed.  "Mommy, you have soap on your arm!  Mommy!!! You have nothing o..."

I tossed a towel I had grabbed for myself over her head, and she roared in delight at the new game. "Speaker off." 

"Ha ha, I'm so sorry.  Please go on."

Felicity was upset not to be part of the game, and her wails necessitated a call back several hours later, after an 8 minute wait, to reschedule what May 1st was supposed to be.  Now, it's May 8th.

Groan. 

To go along with my little playground theme: this is exactly how I feel about finding out:

I want to know, because maybe I could fix something for the future for my own health or, possibly, for another baby should I be so blessed.  But that would mean I could have fixed something, possibly, for her.  Either way, this is going to be hard, and I'm not looking forward to it.  Either way, I'm definitely finding out, despite certain family member's encouragement not to.  I want to know everything I can about this child, whatever it is.  Especially with all this fuss and turmoil to get the information.

"Not knowing" is not terrible meanwhile, though, not really.  Trying to remind myself of that.  When I was in church choir as a teen, we sang this song once...  I haven't heard it before or since, but the words struck me.  It's loosely based on Scripture, written by Dan Schutte... who is not exactly my favorite songwriter, :) but the words give me something to think about during this time.  Here's the refrain:

Holy darkness, blessed night,
heaven's answer hidden from our sight.
As we await you, O God of silence,
we embrace your holy night. 

Basically, while I'd sure like to know more, I don't need to know everything right now.  But I'm glad He does. 

For your further entertainment, I'm attempting to attach a link here.  The song's pretty.  The words are profound at times.  The crucifix is apparently backlit by a Dreamlight... a kid's toy that changes colors every minute or so.  Still... :)  Enjoy if you will:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6NWR08ts_w&feature=player_detailpage

Lost and found

"She's three.  Well she looks five, but she's three.  Light pink shirt, jeans, blond ponytail, about this tall.  Crown face-painted on her forehead."

Eager to help, wringing her hands, my fellow mom-at-arms looked blankly at me as she tried to recall such a child. 

I sighed, "She needs a belt.  She keeps flashing Hello Kitty underwear."

Instantly the mom perked up, "Oh I just saw her!  She was playing over there at the water painting with my son.  Five minutes ago.  But oh dear, she's not there now..."

Clutching Felicity on my hip, who kept chirping, "C C!  R U?  CC! R U?"  I struggled to catch a glimpse of Cecilia, who had disappeared in the multitudinous mass of children under the silk scarf tent at the "Big Backyard" section of the zoo.  I glanced at the woeful face of the older child I had asked to "stick to your sister like glue while I chase the baby."  Distraction had prevailed, and Cece had vanished.

Looking both Annemarie and Claire in the eye, I said simply, "Cecilia's gone.  Find her." And they ran. 

I should probably be describing a very emotional scene.  I was amazingly calm.  Though I mean yeah, I ran around yelling her name, attracting the attention of hundreds of nearby parents and children, and alerting the zoo authorities who were suddenly looking like they finally had something exciting and super important to do. 

A girl barely out of her teens strode towards me brandishing a walkie-talkie.  "Okay, I've got the description: Hello Kitty shirt..."

"NO no no, pink shirt, blue jeans, blond ponytail, Hello Kitty underwear... hey never mind that part.  She has a crown painted on her face!  Really, I think that's quite distinctive..."

As she barked my descriptions into her device, I saw over her shoulder three figures pacing towards me from the Treehouse section.  Two tall, and one short and smiling.  A crown painted on her forehead. 

Despite the appropriate consequences and reasonable scolding that I administered, I'm not completely confident I got my message through.  Cece stills insists, "Mom, I'm not lost!  Just having a great time!"

You'd probably say the same, huh Pepper?

Missing out on meteors

"Moscow was leveled this morning!  Taken out by an meteor!  And an asteroid may hit us at 2:48 this afternoon!  Just didn't want you to worry if your neighborhood starts exploding, we're not at war: it's just a space rock.  Get the kids in the basement."

I sighed.  My week is busy.  My life is full.  Packed with appointments and errands to run.  I had failed to schedule in an apolcolypse.  Based on the extended family member who was relaying this information to me on my cell phone as I headed out the door, I had reasonable hope the veracity of the claim left much room for survival of our species.  Still, even as I rolled my eyes and hung up, I found myself edgy.  And consequently annoyed at said alarmist, well-meaning family member. 

I have a few of these people in my family.  Usually the one who sends the forwards of impending doom is an elderly female in-law.  Her most recent disappointment--that I'm aware of--included the lack of a celestial body crashing into D.C. last December.  (She had planned to move based on this obscure prophecy.)  And I believe she stills smarts over how we all managed to pull through Y2K as well as we did.  To her great credit, she had filled her swimming pool with fresh water for the use of the neighbors during the expected mayhem of 2000, and convinced several family members to darken the doors of confessionals for the first time in years.  So I guess, all is truly well that ends well.  Though she has most recently informed us, in the direst of terms, "I know who the future pope is... but I'm not sure God wants me to tell you."  ???

We seemed to have survived the whirling of the planets so far, and Moscow--while distressed by the visitations of flying space objects--still stands. As does California, which saw a nearby meteor zoom by.  I am struck by the fact that, while we all naturally want to know why God allows tragic natural disasters, that we aren't as impressed when He spares us from them.  For instance, while there were hundreds of injuries from exploding glass from the atmospheric disturbance, no deaths were reported from the Moscow meteor incident.  I think that's pretty incredible.  God has a plan for us, and I'm grateful my day has not involved flying space objects. 

What has my day involved...  I mean my head's not always in space here... Well, it's school vacation week, so I have all four of my beautiful ladies at home with me.  I tried to be "Awesome Crafty Involved Mom" this morning, and did origami and some cooking with the girls, producing a quiche that was really a frittata since an extra two cups of cheese was grated in through sheer girlish enthusiasm.  (No of course they won't eat it.)

While preparing to wash the bowls, I realized the sink was seriously plugged.  Like, hopeless.  Like it had scoffed at the Pinterest recipe of vinegar and baking soda you are thinking of mentioning to me right this very moment, and also Draino, and "snaking," and was not even slow seeping any more.  Just nothing.  This became somewhat apparent to me when the sink became a fountain during the dishwasher rinse cycle. 

I resigned myself to wait for the plumber, and ran a bath for my two little ones, grateful we had at least that drain working.  That is, until baby relieved herself in the tub, significantly.  Removing the protesting baby from her unique potty attempts and calming the toddler yelling, "Yuck!  Oh BABY!  Eww!"  I cleaned the disaster, and meanwhile had the older girls bring their leftover cereal bowls so I could rinse them in the still working bathroom sink.

In the midst of my cleaning attempts of the tub, a spoon fell from the bowl I held and slipped into the actively flushing toilet bowl.  It's gone.  I've tried to retrieve it... telling you how is really TMI, but take my word for it, I tried, screaming naked, half-washed babies nearby. The half full part is that the toilet works so far...  Fishing for hope from the plumber while he fixed my kitchen sink "Any chance the spoon will just go through?  Please?"  He grinned and said no, but it was an easy fix: we just had to remove the toilet and tip it and we'd find it.  No problem.

Again, thank you Lord for protecting us from asteroids.  Please give me the patience to carry the little crosses I have.  :) TLC

"When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him?"
                                                                                                                                       Psalm 8:3-4

Sufficient to the day

Yesterday morning when I awoke, I was certain of four things:

1. I had just dreamt I was drinking white wine out of an Aveeno baby shampoo bottle.
2. I was actually coming down with a cold; my throat felt like sandpaper.
3. My three-year old was scheduled for dental surgery in 40 minutes.
4. I had overslept.

But I did not yet know, with absolutely certainty, who the president was going to be for the next four years.

I did what any of you would have done under the circumstances.  I burst out of bed, calling on my sleepy progeny for help, wakened my poor husband (who had similarly overslept) to have him dress my unsuspecting preschooler, and jumped into the shower.  Chatty daughter in tow, I flew into the mini-van, raced carefully to the hospital, and convinced my daughter she liked the new blue pj’s and would soon recover her princess shirt. Carrying my sternly pouting child into op, myself dressed in white and a blue pancake cap, I held her chubby, bewildered, suddenly masked face on the operation table and looked into her eyes with what I hoped was a reassuring way.  “It’s okay.  Mommy’s here.  I love you.”  I stroked her cheeks while she succumbed to the anesthesia; one long muffled scream, one quiet sob, a couple whispered “Mommy?” then her eyes rolled back and she was out.   Dazed, I wandered to the chapel, barely remembering to rip off my white paper jumpsuit before doing so.  After half an hour, I tried to get a bagel at the café, realized they were cash only, located the lobby, located ATM hidden in lobby, returned for bagel and decided my baby might like a banana, a fruit cup, and some pudding too when she woke up, bought them all, realized the cashier had no bags, balanced all small items in my hands, and found post-op waiting room.  Then I called my mother.

“Mom, she’s fine.  Who’s the president?  Oh.  Yeah, I was afraid that might be true about OH.  Oh my.  Oh well…” 

I was then treated to my mother’s ever calm and rational view of stressful situations: how she was going to go underground when authorities came to euthanize her when she turned 70, and she had a sewer cover picked out for this eventuality.  She told me the secret signal I would have to have when I visited her there.  How we as a nation got what we deserved.  How she was still quite upset with me for consenting to general anesthesia for my daughter’s four cavities.  How I really should have extracted the problem teeth myself using string and a rolling pin. 

As I waited with the two verbose Italian men who were grumpily anticipating their wives’ recovery from colonoscopies, I had time to reflect on the four things I knew now.

1. We had not just elected a new deity.  (I took some unsuccessful pains to convince a couple individuals of this fact prior to the elections).  God was the same yesterday, as He was today, as He would be till 2016… yep, 2016, and infinitely beyond that. 
2. God was not alarmed.  Nor surprised.  Nor despairing.  Nor panicked. 
3. Many of my friends were going to be alarmed, surprised, despairing, and panicky.
4. God, as the ultimate Weatherman, had a hand in the election results.  For instance, people’s perception of Obama’s help during Sandy caused the incumbent’s ratings to rise… 

I also had a strong sense that we are going to get through this, by God’s grace, one day at a time.  Not counting one horrible possible outcome at a time.  Not figuring out how we are going to manage socialized health care and limited religious freedom, then taking those two probable problems in one smooth instantaneous mental leap to the worst case scenarios (which we humans are so adept at imagining): widespread martyrdom of Christians and religious leaders, mandatory euthanasia, the enforced gay marriage of every adult, the prohibition of chocolate…. That we should not head for the sewer covers yet.  That today certainly had enough dental trouble of its own.

Thomas More is my all-time favorite saint.  I love that he was a husband and father, an educated lawyer, a writer, and a man of wit and wits.  And no, the play A Man for All Seasons didn’t hurt my favoritism either.  As a government official, he was at the front lines when Henry VIII started the protestant ball rolling.  Faced with a king (not a term president, a lifelong monarch) going increasingly mental with wives and power, he did not immediately count himself doomed, though his doom was likely and in the end inevitable.  Rather, he tried to find a way to operate as a man of conscience despite the cultural climate.  In the end, as a leading statesmen of scrupulous morals, it did cost him his life.  But he was level-headed and sane in the crisis, as he successfully protected his family and tried to find a way to avert disaster.  He didn’t panic, but many conservatives are, with much less cause than More. (Click here for more info on More.) Historically, Obama is unlikely to be the worst thing that ever happened ever.  We are still very blessed, very fortunate, to be Americans… hopefully we can extract the baby from the bathwater here…

While waiting beside my daughter’s cot with instructions not to wake her, I inspected her IV, oxygen mask, and steadily beeping monitor, blotchy face, and fresh ether smell, silently cursing all fruit snack companies that made chewy sweet things my daughter adored.  Sighing, I took her hand, reading the ever-helpful post op instruction sheets.  I was not to force food on her in the next 24 hours.  I was to start her with a liquid diet.  She would be dizzy, so crowded bouncy houses were contraindicated for the afternoon.  Caillou, however, was strongly indicated.  (Groan.)  Fevers, convulsions, and comas were bad, and should be noted immediately as such.  Feeling the weight of such new wisdom, I activated my smartphone Facebook capacity to read the feedback.  

Frequent word occurrences included the following: prison, horrible, Obama horrible, election horrible, end of freedom, firing squad, end of healthcare, usherance in of the new Hedonistic States of America (okay there was only one occurrence of that one.)  Several other posts beginning with, “I’m taking a break from Facebook because I can’t stand everyone talking about how bad everything is” followed by a detailed description of how bad everything was.  Close second most-frequent post to this was “I’m taking a break from Facebook because I can’t stand so many people celebrating; I don’t know how you can judge me when you just elected the antichrist.” Quite a few “May God help us all” or similar deck-of-Titanic sentiments.  And least most popular post was, “Hey, I just fried homemade corned beef hash” and a truly alarming picture to go with it.  (General note: photos of what you just cooked rarely communicate—at all—that these dishes are actually appetizing.  Pots of soup, stuffing, yeah… it don’t look good, really.  Please desist.) 

Meanwhile, group hug everyone!  Group hug… squeeze!  There.  God has guided his people through far stormier seas. 

“Mommy… my princess shirt…”  My daughter groggily came to, lurched forward in a daze, and shakily started to rip every lead from her body.  I hailed the nurse, who rushed in to distract my daughter with a cherry Popsicle.  I resisted a sudden urge to ask how a red-dye-40-frozen-corn-syrup-stick was truly going to help her recover.  Instead I chose to focus on her comfort.  Cold.  Wet.  Sweet.  I helped her into her princess shirt, watching sticky drops fall unnoticed onto it from her melting pop as she gazed blearily at Toy Story 5 ½.

Maybe it feels like God just handed our increasingly ill country a red-dye-40-corn-syrup President.  Or at least allowed us to grab it ourselves as a nation.  But I’m seeking to remember that our Father loves everyone in this nation.  That God loves Obama, who is not beyond hope of salvation.  Neither is this country.  That God works all things for the good of those who love Him, and many Americans still do.  That sometimes maybe it’s better to drug up the patient and perform messy surgery than to rip the offending tooth out directly.  That if anyone can bring good out of this mess, it is our Divine Physician.

My little one is snoozing now.  Okay duh, it’s 2 in the morning… I’ll be editing this much later I’m sure.  (As before mentioned, it’s sleep or write sometimes.)  My kid ate like a horse today.  She played whenever Caillou did not amuse, but fortunately only fell off of one chair and ran into one wall.  She’s going to be okay.  But her beautiful face, inside her huge smile, is some serious bling.  In my hesitation to make the right treatment decision, two of her poor lower molars were too far gone for regular fillings.  Instead, two stainless steel crowns peep out from between her white pearly teeth. Oh my friends, I cringe as I can hear the gasps of my fellow moms now.  Particularly my mother-in-law.  “What HAPPENED?!?  Oh, poor baby!”  And my girl, blissfully unaware and proud of every part of her small body, will reply, “Oh I not a baby.  I a BIG giwl!”  And she will scamper off while I will have to launch into my personal discovery of the evil of allowing gummy fruit snacks.  The crowns aren’t pretty, but they’re healthy. 

Maybe Obama’s affects will prove the same, in the long run.  I hold on to hope. Meanwhile, this ain’t the Douay-Rheims, but I this translation speaks directly to my fears today.  I will hold onto hope.  –TLC

“Do not be over-anxious, therefore, about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own cares. Enough for each day are its own troubles.” Mt. 6:34

P.S.  I’m still going to celebrate my birthday.  So if you don’t like the upcoming Inauguration Day, join my party in spirit.  I’ll be dining on kid-made cake and opening school-craft gifts and generally being grateful for life.  Then and till then, oremus pro invicem!

Crooked lines

Well then.  (Sigh. Stretch.)  God can still write straight with crooked lines.  Chin up. :)

"We put our hope in the LORD. He is our help and our shield." Psalm 33:20

Don't ruin my birthday

I have more to lose than most if the elections do not turn out well tomorrow. My birthday is on Inauguration Day.  And I have had far too many birthdays ruined with poor election results.  So I trust my readers are all going to do their part at the polls tomorrow.

Here’s where I’m going to attempt my first links… bloggers more experienced than I have given more reflection on this issue than I have had time and mental space for, so I am here going to link two rather opposite Catholic perspectives for your consideration, in case you haven’t seen them yet:

http://www.ncregister.com/blog/john-zmirak/he-spilled-his-vote-upon-the-ground

http://redcardigan.blogspot.com/2012/10/zmirak-and-price-and-shea-oh-myor-post.html

I appreciate the humor of Zmirak in general, and had the opportunity to work for him at one time.  But I can see the dissenters point of view as well, since I have several close friends and some relatives who are Ron Paul supporters; I have heard those arguments for almost a year now. (And I also have friends and relatives who are Obamaphiles, naturally.)

My own two cents, for what it’s worth between doing the dishes and sorting the laundry over here, is that I am going to place my one vote—the only weapon I have other than prayer right now--where it can best fight the worst evil, as best as I can detect that evil.  I will hope another election will have less dramatic issues at stake and Catholics can once again more freely consider third party candidates without raising hackles and ruffling feathers amongst our own kind. 

Please join me in prayer for these elections, and may indeed the best man win, or the better man, or at the very least, the least evil one.  And my birthday can be celebrated in peace.  –TLC

Most Holy Trinity, we put the United States of
America into the hands of Mary Immaculate in
order that she may present the country to you.
Through her we wish to thank you for the great
resources of this land and for the freedom which
has been its heritage. Through the intercession
of Mary, have mercy on the Catholic Church in
America. Grant us peace. Have mercy on our
President and on all the officers of our government.
Grant us a fruitful economy born of justice and
charity. Have mercy on capital and industry and
labor. Protect the family life of the nation. Guard
the precious gift of many religious vocations.
Through the intercession of our Mother, have
mercy on the sick, the poor, the tempted, sinners—
on all who are in need.

Mary, Immaculate Virgin, Our Mother, Patroness
of our Land, we praise you and honor you and
give ourselves to you. Protect us from all harm. 
Pray for us, that acting always according to your
will and the Will of your Divine Son, we may live
and die pleasing to God. Amen.

Dear Mother, please grant the conversion of our country

and a very happy outcome to the elections.
We fly to your patronage,
O holy Mother of God;
Despise not our prayers in our necessities,
But ever deliver us from all dangers,
O glorious and blessed Virgin.

Imprimatur, Patrick Cardinal O’Boyle, Archbishop of Washington, 1959,

for public consecration of the United States to the Immaculate Heart of

Mary;  renewed by U.S. Bishops, November 11, 2006

“And he said to them: You are they who justify yourselves before men, but God knoweth your hearts; for that which is high to men, is an abomination before God.” Luke 16:15

My Scariest Things

On a day that looks at the dark side of things:

My Scariest Things

Potty training running late Sunday morning,

Sitters that cancel without any warning

(Who knew that Advil was so habit-forming?)

Washing baby, earring goes down the drain,

These are the things that drive me insane.

Pediatric enemas, nasal syringes,

Playdates where toddlers go on munchkin binges,

Coffee runs out; from work, husband is late:

There are the days I am tempted to hate… ®

® When the dish drops,

When the clocks change,

And baby wakes at four,

I simply remember my scariest things

And that I could feel… bad more!

Standing on high chairs, and carts while out shopping,

Caillou’s voice whining without ever stopping

Gastroenteritis of kid on top bunk

These are the things that put me in a funk. ®

On the plus side, I am forever grateful none of my scariest things involve war, gunfire, explosions, or starvation.  We are so blessed.  Happy All Hallow’s Eve everyone!  -TLC

“Mind the things that are above, not the things that are upon the earth.” Col. 3:2

Parenthood: The Perfect Storm

It’s my favorite season of the year.  Heat yielding to coolness.  Blue skies. Falling leaves. Pumpkin pie.  And hurricanes. 

Well, they’re really an afterthought, right?  Like you're planning this amazing party, you’re all excited, and somewhere along the line you realize you are just going to have to invite your crazy uncle, or your mother-in-law, and it changes everything.  Just like parenthood does. 

Currently I’m joining thousands of East Coasters anxiously watching the approach of Hurricane Sandy.  (And if you’re not on the East Coast, think of whatever your region’s pet cross is: wildfires or earthquakes or droughts or tornadoes—not sure how you manage those, they scare the Pinterest out of me…)  We’re facing the cross of the east.  Biting nails and stocking pantries.  My mind swirling in counter-clockwise patterns, I just jumped out of bed at midnight because I couldn’t sleep, and now was finally the time to start writing.  I mean I’d planned for years to write a blog, and suddenly I have to… because the stress I’m feeling over this “perfect storm” strongly reminds me of something else.  Parenthood.  Boom.  There it is.

Standing on a diving board.  That’s the typical description I give of “preparing” for parenthood.  You’ve climbed the steps, walked the plank, and you’re just standing there, toes on the edge.  Looking down.  Wondering how cold the water is.  If it’s as far away as it looks.  If you’re somehow going to go in the water all wrong, like sideways or over-rotate and hit the ledge below or something, and really get hurt and look like an idiot to boot. And you don’t know until you jump in.  Many adults stand there for years.

I was kinda pushed in, but I’m sure I’ll tell you that story later.  For now, all eyes are on the swirling mass of white on the Atlantic.  Where will it hit?  When?  How hard?   All the locals are thinking that.  I just came back from the Mart de Wal (yes, I refuse to say it, it’s a love-hate relationship, very complicated, get into that later), and you could see these questions in everyone’s eyes as they bought the last minute things they think they’d need.  Like batteries, Cheetos, and five games from Red Box.  I happened to go with my ten-year old daughter, and somehow you’re always ridiculously brave when you’re with your kid.  “Let’s yell, ‘Grab all the milk and bread you can hold!!  AGHGHGHH!'”   I love the big goofy smile that spreads over her face when I’m a big goof.  And I get goofier when I’m nervous. 

“I’m being a chicken,” I announced to my husband in lieu of good night tonight.  I had just had him reread me the litany of how storms work, and how this one would involve falling water and swaying trees, and no I did not (actually) need to purchase life-jackets and a raft. Which I was tempted to do. He really is such a smart guy. (I mean, he married me, after all.)  He is also one of the rare human beings who, without any formal training, could handily predict the weather, design a road, or give you directions from exactly where you are right now as you read this to absolutely anywhere, usually without consulting anything at all but his cerebral cortex. 

But back to my temptation towards flotation devises: Before motherhood, hurricanes were way fun.  I’d help my dad make big x’s with masking tape on all the windows.  (To this day, I’m not sure what this was supposed to do really… perhaps hold some pieces of glass together for an exotic craft project should the window get blown in?  I dunno).  But it was fun.  And we’d get out all the old Advent candle nubs out of the shoe box above the stairwell, and the hurricane lamp, and pray for a power outage so we modern children could have FIRE just like Little House on the Prairie and maybe school would be canceled.  (For dad that is; he was a teacher.  We were homeschooled, so the point was rather moot on that.)  But now… I’m a mother hen, and my chicks are small, and need to stay dry.  And fluffy.  Storms are not fun anymore.

A friend of mine is expecting her first.  (Child that is, not hurricane.)  I always tell an expectant mom, “I’ll pray the labor goes beautifully!”  (And then I always pray right away, for fear I forget; hate when I promise to pray for something then forget later…)  And she always gives an earnest, “Yes!  Thank you!  Please do!”  Because it’s scary.  And even when you’re pregnant, and you know something serious is on the radar, you still wonder where will it hit?  When will my water break?  And how hard is this all going to be?

And sometimes, it’s beautiful and wonderful and a piece of cake and a lark and oh-my-gosh can’t wait to do this again without the epidural!  Or sometimes, the experience is more like mine.  But either way, your life is changed forever.  Irrevocably.  And while you may miss some aspects of the mysteries of the diving board, you never regret actually being in the water.  Though sometimes it’s perfectly okay to hold on to the side to take a breather. 

If you’re a parent, you’re saying “blah blah blah” already.  Because you know.  But if you’re not yet, and are on the edge, and thinking about it, and planning, and wondering, and waiting and… seriously, jump already.  J  Or at least I’d encourage you to try, unless there’s a valid reason for postponing the whole kid experience of course.  Like if you aren’t actually married, or there’s a great hardship, or if tragically the pool is not an option at all.  And no, not because misery loves company.  But because our children need… company.  We have a population shortage in so many countries.  Closer to home, we are depriving ourselves of what really, really matters in life, if you’re married, and just (just) waiting.  I find it so tragic when couples wait, and then try to become parents too late. 

Because in general, “being prepared” is a fallacy. All the milk and bread in the house is not going to help if the tree near our driveway falls on our leased mini van.  Which it totally better not do, cause I would be seriously put out about it for a least a week.  But my point is, like for Sandy here, you just can’t fully and perfectly prepare for parenthood, any more than you can prepare for swimming when you’ve never been in the water.  So c’mon in!  The water’s fine.  Most of the time.  Except when the toddler has a stomach bug and your husband’s away, and you’ve slept three hours and the stove is broken.  But diving in is always worth it all.

Which takes me back to today, and good ole’ Sandy.  I am so grateful for the times we live in… yes, there’s plenty of problems, but really!  We’ve got ourselves a beautiful half-filled glass here.  Wunderground gives us fair warning that this hundreds of miles large storm is coming (pardon me a moment, must retrieve my paper bag) and mostly what to expect when you’re expecting a hurricane. We can virtually hold hands really through all the storms of life now, texting, Facebooking, etc… I remember the one time I was in a storm cellar and would have loved to reach out to the world outside the thunderous tornado that loomed above, and now we can. Just recently I got a friend’s post from a storm cellar with her kids (and yes it all ended up okay).  What a consolation to be able to type, “I’m here alone in the dark right now; think of me and say a prayer!” I’m hoping this blog can be kinda like that, cultivating the knowledge that we are never alone in our storms, whatever they may be.  And yes, mine currently involve children and diapers and nursing.  J

If there’s a lesson to any storm, it’s that we are small, and God is immense, and the winds and the sea obey Him.  Here’s my favorite storm prayer, attributed to St. Bridget—(I first read it in the Pieta prayer book.)  It is elsewhere attributed to St. Maximilian Kolbe.  In any case, I didn’t write it, and it seems to “say it all,” so here goes, I mean, In nomine Patris, etc:

Jesus Christ a King of Glory has come in Peace.†  God became man,†  and the Word was made flesh.†  Christ was born of a Virgin.†  Christ suffered.†  Christ was crucified.†  Christ died.†  Christ rose from the dead.†  Christ ascended into Heaven.†  Christ conquers.†  Christ reigns.†  Christ orders.†  May Christ protect us from all storms and lightning†  Christ went through their midst in Peace,†  and the Word was made Flesh.†  Christ is with us with Mary.†  Flee you enemy spirits because the Lion of the Generation of Judah, the Root David, has won.†  Holy God!†  Holy Powerful God!†  Holy Immortal God!†  Have mercy on us.  Amen.

As for this baby blog (as in wee little newborn blog, not blog exclusively about babies, or weather for that matter) thanks for reading!  I will strive to be mildly entertaining and at times borderline inspiring should you choose to return.  I will further pledge to avoid preachiness—cuz Lord knows that would be an absurd mistake—while also sidestepping heresy, schism, apostasy, and plagiarism, as far as my half-a-master’s in theology, common sense, chronically sleep-deprived state, and limited spiritual prowess allow.  I plan to write as often as my sieve-like memory and multiple children allow.  I’m sure you’ll keep me accountable.  Oremus pro invicem! - TLC

Parting thought: I'm finding that the context of Mark 4:41 has a lot more “punch” if you aren’t reflecting on it in the living room, or even before a painting of the scene.  Instead, go (mentally) to the storm at sea, hear the howling gale, taste the salt spray slapped in your face by the furious waves, watch the roiling ocean and the bending trees on the shore and think with the awe of the apostles, “Who is this . . .that both wind and sea obey Him?”