Piano Practicing

Each morning there is a mad dash for the piano. My two eldest want to get their practicing done with as soon as is humanly possible. There have been punches and pinches I'm afraid, and ultimately an assignment of days of who gets to go first. Most mornings I awake to the trill sound of practicing and the reminder that I really do need to get that old piano tuned (since our move!) With three practicers, the piano playing continues well into our morning. Often we hear comments of "listen to me do it super fast" or "I can play this one with my eyes closed." Today was a new one, and it tops the charts. Little E hollered, "listen to me do it without the keys!" He then proceeded to sing the song, without the keys: with no piano accompaniment. That's a practiced talent for you.

Fever

My son has a fever. Not the regularly-fever-scheduled son, but Little E. He's rarely sick, so it seems so sad when he is. He's my one to curl up and go to sleep at the very break of an illness. I love that he is so in tune with his body. He's been throwing up too... not that there's much to throw up anymore, but he has like a 4 minute warning system where he walks over to me, taps me on the shoulder, calmly tells me he has to throw up, we walk slowly to the toilet together where he proceeds to do as he said. Who does that?! So while it's sad and breaks my heart, he is such a good little sickie.

Because of our family's history and experience with fevers, I admit I'm sort of interested in them. What a unique way for our bodies to attempt to neutralize whatever is attacking, weakening or infecting our bodies. It's a response that catches the attention of others, it forces us to rest and slow down, it makes us shiver and tense up, and causes confusion with the state of our body temperature. A fever forces treatment and also, if it persists, gives us reason to seek medical attention; to get the help we need.

A fever is a physical symbol, and I wonder at times what our emotional and spiritual symbols and responses are. We all struggle at different times, and often with those emotional and spiritual weakenings, we attempt to hide or disqualify the fact that we need help or need to rest and slow down. Other times it's apparent: a tantrum (and yes, grown ups have these too), a fit of crying, a total breakdown, or just the inability to act. It's easy to dismiss these responses as "low-grade" and inconsequential. But I'm sure you've all seen a low-grade fever last for days, or else spike at the least opportune time (for a physical fever, this is always at 3am). I hope that as we care for our bodies, we will also care for our inside selves. And watch for the symbols in ourselves, our families, and our friends. Sometimes a bath and a popsicle are helpful for things other than physical fevers.

We'll be taking it easy over here for a bit.

It was a "not a picnic" picnic

Saturday was one of our first gorgeous days here. Almost short weather.

After some yard-saling and Mr. Man installing a new alternator, we decided for an impromptu hike and picnic up in the mountains. A quick stop at the grocery store for some sandwich fillings, sunscreen applied, and we were off.
Just barely up into the mountains, around a bend and suddenly there were dozens of vehicles parked every which way on the narrow pass. The gate was closed. We were a day early. So we joined the other vehicles and parked and started walking. The hills were alive with the sound of music, and the whining of my two year old (who probably should have had an early nap). We made it about a half mile and then found a small bridge by the river to host our picnic.

Everything was delicious. The view and the sound of rushing water was more than relaxing. The tranquility was divine, lemonade was being sipped, when suddenly I heard a low growl. I dismissed it, but as it continued I looked around in every direction anticipating a bear. I asked Mr. Man if he heard it, and he had - it was him humming, which combined with the loud roar of the flowing river, made for a constant growling sound.

Of course the kids wanted to get as close to the river as possible. Which basically means "in" the river.





They cautiously climbed off the bridge and were going from rock to rock. While it was a nice day, there was also snow where we were, so the water was frigid.

They were jumping and getting a little daring when Mr. T fell in up to his chest. The water wasn't deep, but it was fast and cold. He started crying right away, and then we consoled him and talked him through climbing out, getting his wet clothes off and warming up.


Not minutes later Little E made a climb to a rather dangerous position and the water pushed him off and down. He was completely submerged. Mr. Man tried to talk him into standing up so the rushing current couldn't push him as easily. He stood and was muttering something incomprehensible, because he was so upset.
Finally it came out that he had lost one of his shoes... a floating hiking sandal. We spent the next little bit finding odds and ends of warm clothing in the bin in my van to warm up the freezing boys, as well as march up the river to see if we could rescue the shoe that was so important to Little E. A fisherman a mile down had seen it go by ten minutes before we arrived - it was a fast current. Little E was safe, even his glasses were unharmed, yet he remains steadfast on how he hates the river that stole his shoe. We thought about posting the remaining shoe on ebay: a shoe with a story, but it has seen better days and promptly found the trash can on our arrival home.


It was quite the adventure.

We finished the day with a long nap for The Toddler while the older kids attended a birthday party and Mr. Man and I worked on the ancestor wall. (It's not finished, but here's a sneak peek.)

Yesterday, the day the gate opened, we returned to pick out a campsite for Memorial weekend. It will take more than a closed gate, potential bear growls, snow, and a shoe-robbing current to keep us away.

A Birth Story

A few short weeks after I birthed my second baby I suffered from mastitis. As I was in the throes of fever and hot flashes, I hallucinated that our small apartment was filled to the brim with infant car seats – containing infants. I recovered from my infection quite quickly, but the visions of babies did not cease. I could often clearly see these babies, so clearly, that I would ask Mr. Man if he too could see them. He couldn’t. He suggested I was over-tired. I was. But I also had a huge desire and craving for another baby.

Soon the visions ceased, and I found myself with a toddler, a newborn and pregnant.

Much transpired during that pregnancy. That baby never met my dear Opa, but brought me much comfort as I bid my final farewells and then shook with agony at his funeral barely able to toss a flower onto his lowered coffin.

Having had a c-section and an induction, I had never gone into labor on my own. I was dilated to a five for almost two weeks prior to my delivery, and so I waited to know when (at any moment) the time was ripe and ready for my new little one to make his entrance.

One night, after hours of somewhat regular contractions, we made our way to the hospital. I was measured and monitored and sent on walks around the corridors, but of course the contractions stopped upon arrival to my sanctuary of deliverance. We were sent home still pregnant.

The next day was spent running to and fro. My little sunbeam had a primary activity, my visiting mother and I had a lunch date, and we finalized several errands, hoping there would be little time left to complete anything last minute. When Mom suggested we go to Russell Stovers for chocolate of some sort or another and I declined, it was my first inclination that something was not normal. We hurried through Michaels – another sign. And I just wanted to be home in my rocking chair. Mr. Man took the two kids to a cousin’s birthday party, while my Mom and I stayed put watching “Cheaper by the Dozen” and timing contractions. Seven minutes apart. Five minutes apart. Three minutes apart.

Mr. Man came home, the kids were tucked in, and I was struggling. I was now laboring in the bathtub, breathing hard and screaming for him to come when the hard contractions hit. My Mom was nervous and constantly asking, “shouldn’t you guys head to the hospital now?” It was the day before Mother’s Day, and Mr. Man still had preparations to make. He hurried to the grocery store and, I believe, the florist as well. When he came home, I inquired about our departure as well. Mr. Man always makes me lasagna for Mother’s Day, and he had noodles to boil. In between layers, he ran to the tub or wherever I had wandered to stop and pant. Finally there was bleeding, a call made to the doctor, and we grabbed our bags and relieved my mother of her anxiety. I didn’t realize at the time, but apparently Mr. Man was still worried that we would once again be sent home, and really didn’t feel like being embarrassed once again.

On the drive to the hospital the contractions were less than a minute apart.

I was gritting, and squinting and barely able to breathe when we arrived and as they hooked me up to an IV Mr. Man finally believed that this may actually be it. When they checked me and I was a nine, we knew the time had come. Less than an hour and a half later, I was almost ready to push my little one out into the world when suddenly his heart rate dropped drastically. The seconds that followed were fleeting, but full of meaning for me. As I watched the heart monitor religiously, I saw and accepted that my time with this child may actually be coming to an end. I ached, I mourned and I acknowledged that my baby was going to die. As soon as I turned him over to the Lord, the doctor and nurses rushed in and with the help of modern medicine took that baby from me. He was removed from inside me, to be placed in my arms. Alive.

Birth is a miracle.

We both suffered from infections, but with no lasting effects.

I held my new little one and offered prayers of gratitude for that sacred privilege. It was, I believe, the best Mother’s day gift I could ever hope to receive.

Of course, Mr. Man brought me my lasagna in the hospital. And that seemed pretty wonderful as well. I can’t believe that baby is about to turn six, the day before Mother's Day.

The Bread of Life

I strongly believe that new mothers need all the help and support they can get - whether it's their first baby or fifth. Having gone through severe postpartum depression, and also some wonderful new mother experiences, I know how much a meal, a call of concern, and even a pile of laundry done and folded can help. I try to do what I can for the new moms around me, because it's usually easy to do, but I remember the impact.

Lately we've been making a few extra meals to dole out and it's interesting to me how much my children are impacted by this. Little E keeps asking "WHY" we have to be so kind, and not quite understanding why someone who has a new baby would need a meal. I explained the utter exhaustion, the mix-up between night and day and he still doesn't quite get the whole newborn tiredness. Someday he will. Miss J has delighted in making cookies to give. But yesterday was the first time Mr. T got involved.

The receiver wasn't a new mother this time, but an older woman who had undergone some rather evasive tests and not so friendly health issues. When I mentioned this to him, it seemed to hit home for him and he right away understood that we needed to bring her dinner. He helped with most of the preparation for the soup we were making, but his real participation was in the bread. He made french bread all by himself. When it got down to rolling out the two loaves, I showed him how with one, and he did the other all by himself. Next he painted them carefully with egg yolk, sprinkled sesame seeds on and baked them. He was so proud of his loaf, and wanted to be sure that we kept the one I rolled out, but gave the one he made all by himself. It turned out beautifully and smelled divine.

When it was time to deliver, I left the other three kids in the car so as not to overwhelm, but Mr. T walked up holding his loaf with the biggest smile I've ever seen. He told them he had made the bread, and was congratulated for his help, so I inserted that he really had done it all by himself for his first time. French bread is apparently a favourite in their home, and he was thanked profusely. He also got to witness pain, and recognize the gift and relief he was giving. Their last name was written on a wooden plaque outside their home, and Mr. T repeated it on the way home, so excited that he had made bread for them. He could not stop smiling and could not get over how good he felt. Even Little E noticed, and asked "Do you REALLY feel good inside?" Mr. T delivered an optimistic response and Little E then turned to me asking, "Can I help make the bread next time?"

Of course. That's what life is all about.

In The Midst

I've been all about new and scary (for me) adventures lately.

I met with an advisor, had my health screening, got a new student id, jumped through a bunch of hoops, registered for classes [sigh], and I even voted for my first time last night.

All in the midst of the constancy of my regularly scheduled life.

Every time I'm on campus I have butterflies. It's nerve-wracking but also a sort of addicting reaction. I can't stay away.

Voting was sort of a let-down. They didn't even need my fresh off the press voters card OR identification of any sort - tell me is this legal? It was just a small election, and I attended the information night, read up on the facts and was ready to vote. I took Miss J with me and the milestone was unfortunately anything but monumental. No butterflies per say. It will be interesting to see the results of the election, since everyone else voting with me had to be at least twice my age and probably had no clue about the education policies that were being voted upon, or else no longer care about elementary schools.

I'm excited for this new adventure of going back to school, but also scared to death. While it goes against any motivational thought and quote, I would much rather not try than try and fail. But I'm going to try and I hope I'll succeed... because I am tired of just having a bunch of credits under my belt. It's about time I earn a degree. In the fall I'll be taking math and physics - so help me! I'm going to need boosts now and again, I'm most likely going to cry now and again, and I really am going to need a huge support system cheering me on, never once questioning that I can make it. So if you think I can't do it, don't tell me, and don't even talk to me about my schooling. I don't need any other doubts than my own.