merry christmas

And, yes I tried to color-coordinate for pictures - which worked fine until firstborn's love of the Vikings decided to show through. Oh well, merry Christmas to all and to all a good night. Including the Vikings.

never too old

As I get older and older (and still not acting my age), I am realizing that there are some things that I will never be able to do again. Like wear spandex (not that I wanted to anyway). Or pass the wrinkle test. Or walk by a kid without trying to straighten his mussed-up hair. Or run a mile (not that I wanted to anyway.) I will never wear a bikini again. I will never get excited to stay up till midnight on New Year's Eve. And I will probably never downhill ski again (not that I wanted to anyway.)

Thankfully there really are some things that you just can't outgrow. Like the smell of a newborn baby. Or skipping rocks. Or playing Wii. Or cartoons like Tom & Jerry. Or learning new technology like text messaging, digital cameras, Facebook and the remote for a new TV. I also won't outgrow algebra (even though I really, really tried.) Who knew that knitting would require math? (16x + 2 = 66) In other words, I need yarn that knits up at 4 stitches per inch. Or if I adjust any pattern, then I'm not only figuring out stitches per inch but also rows per inch and will need to adjust both to get things to work out right - yarn size and needle size are frustrating variables. And it's all math - regardless of how many times I try to get around it.

So far, I haven't got too old for hugs and kisses, no matter how sloppy or stinky. I'm young enough to climb ladders and chase small boys around the house. I'm young enough to sneak candy from the pantry (even though I paid for it) and to deny it when I'm accused. I won't be too old to do laundry any time soon (although I do feel a cramp coming on...) I hope I never get too old for snuggling or smiling (even toothless) or using power tools or holding babies.


I thought this was sweet of Grandma, with her newest great-grandbaby (Peter & Amy's Creed), proving that you're never too old for things like holding newborns.

I might be getting too old for having babies, but that doesn't mean I can't still coo and fuss over someone else's. If I start dribbling, I'll just blame it on the baby.

digital blessings

63 inches. That wouldn't mean anything to me normally. (Actually, it still doesn't.)

But for those of you techies it might mean more - like the terms projection, HD and digital channels. That was all a foreign language to me a week ago, before being "blessed" with a television almost as big as me.

I'm still not sure if this was a good thing or not. A television this large in a living as small as ours puts a bit of a crimp on my decorating. Who really wants a big gray box as the inevitable focal point of a room?

But, hubby is happy, so I guess I should be too. The TV comes in clear since it is digitally-compatible. I still can't get over the difference between analog and digital signals - but I have to admit that it was a treat to watch the Vikings on a big screen that didn't have snow. (Don't tell hubby though - I'm still acting like this is a very unwelcome invasion of my space.)

Can God bless you with a television? I think so. It was a nice surprise to get something so outrageously expensive that we never would have purchased on our own. It was an even nicer surprise to get a free cartoon channel that entertains the kids when I'm trying to get something done, like this blog. (I'm still too cheap to spring for cable or satellite.)

So I guess the lesson is to appreciate the blessing, digital or otherwise. And to not laugh at our low-tech orange cable tacked to the ceiling.

firstborn

On my wish list is a book by Dr. Kevin Leman called "The 1stborn Advantage." I have no idea if the book is any good, but he has a great sense of humor and everything else I've read of his is great, so odds are good. Anyway, today I was reminded again of what firstborns are like.

We firstborns, for some reason, feel it is our duty to correct the world of any errors they make, especially grammatical. Hubby shakes his head at me when I correct him when he says things like "Where are you at?" or "I'm going to go lay down." (I'll let you figure it out...)

With grammatical errors, I notice them almost immediately and I often can't help myself from pointing them out. Sometimes the filter in my brain works; other times it doesn't. (And even though I'm an English major, I do miss some - so all of you who noticed the mistake at the top of the back page of my Christmas letter - rest assured - I saw it, but forget to go back and correct it. And yes, it irritates me.)

But, today my firstborn son got a look at the letter and felt compelled to point out two other errors that I made. (Typical.) First, I apparently listed the blue of the go-cart as Jeff Gordon blue when in fact it was Dale Earnhardt Jr. blue (there is a difference I was told) and I wrote that my third son is six, when I'm pretty sure he only turned five on his last birthday.

I'm not sure which was more mortifying - realizing that I made three mistakes in one letter (one of which I could care less about) or realizing that firstborns can be downright annoying sometimes. (Who wants to hear that they've made a mistake?)

So, if I've ever corrected you...hopefully, the good news is that the peacemaking middle children will have enough grace to forgive me and life-of-the-party last-borns won't even care that I made a mistake in the first place. And the rest of you firstborns probably didn't even think twice about who corrected you because you felt just as mortified as I did today.

At least that's what I'm telling myself.

sponges

No one ever told me how much kids pick up information - literally like sponges. They can retain so much and their memory capacity just scares me sometimes. Of course, the info they soak up is never what you want - like multiplication facts or what sound the letter "h" makes.

Instead, they suck in what Mom said about someone that shouldn't be repeated, and then they do. They memorize whole team rosters and then recite them in the van when you're trying to concentrate on not ramming into the idiot driving 30 mph in front of you. They pick up on song lyrics that are at best slightly inappropriate.

Hubby likes to listen to a country music station that plays both new and old songs while he's working on the addition. Normally this wouldn't bother me at all because I kind of like the station too (nothing like a little Johnny Cash or Marty Robbins on occasion.) But, of course the kids couldn't pick up on "El Paso" or "A Boy Named Sue." Instead, all four of them have been singing the chorus to a song that I have to admit is catchy, but a little strange coming out of the months of two- to 10-year-olds. I don't even know the name of it or who sings it.

But, apparently my brain is a sponge for useless information too - because I can actually recall the refrain (but probably only because I've heard it over and over and over:

"A little bit of chicken fried. Cold beer on a Friday night. Pair of jeans that fit just right. And the radio on..."

Yeah, picture that coming from a five-year-old and you get the idea of what I'm dealing with. Maybe I'll have to switch to classical music - no words. Course, them they'd just hum "Flight of the Bumblebees" and drive me just as crazy.

if-then

Two-year-old is supposed to be potty-trained by now. (He'll be three in a month and a half.) He was doing great for awhile - Grandpa gave him lots of incentive by telling him he wouldn't get to go out to eat for his birthday until he went poo and pee on the potty.

Now, however he just gets mad at me when I tell him it's potty time. He doesn't want to go and doesn't care that he goes in his pants. Today, when I tried to tell him that he should be a big boy and wear big boy underwear, he just pouted at me. I tried to reason with him by telling him, "IF you don't go pee on the potty, THEN you won't get to go out to eat with Grandma and Grandpa for your birthday!"

He just looked at me and said, "Then you can't to come to my berfday!"

IF this child doesn't drive me crazy soon, THEN I'll do it myself.

in the wash today...

six one-dollar bills!! not sure if they were mine or one of the boys, but they're mine now. who says doing laundry isn't profitable?

oh the places you'll go...with boys

You never quite know where you'll end up as a parent or the things you'll find yourself doing. But in my case, I think it's even a little more extreme being the mother of four boys. The testosterone overload in this house has me doing things, saying things, learning things I would never have dreamed. And going places I never would have imagined.

Here's just a sampling.

I never thought I'd be sprawled out on a wrestling mat, trying to coach two seven-year-olds on how to do a double-leg takedown (you can read about the entire episode in the previous blog.) Although I have always enjoyed wrestling and even chose to cover it when I worked at a local newspaper, I never imagined myself down on all fours trying to be a parent/coach. I wouldn't have bothered to do it either, except that the other parents involved didn't seem to be able to stop the two boys from running at each other like bulls during a bullfight.

I never thought I'd ever watch an entire NASCAR race, start to finish. Watching 43 cars go round and round a track for three+ hours is about as exciting as watching golf. Nonetheless, because Sunday afternoons are supposed to be "Sunday Funday" around here, I have been forced to not only watch, but listen to three boys get excited about lead changes, crashes, penalties and pit stops. The other saving grace is that I can knit while I watch.

I never thought I'd ever know anything about NASCAR. Stuff like Tony Stewart was sponsored by Lowe's but will drive his own car next year. Or that Dale Earnhardt Dr. is team mates with Jeff Gordon and Jimmie Johnson. Jeff Gordon drives the 24 car. Jimmie Johnson is sponsored by Lowe's and drives the 48 car - and he just made history this past year by winning the Sprint Cup chase for the third year in a row. I would not know that two Busch brothers drive cars - one sponsored by M&M's (Kyle) and the other by Budweiser (Kurt). I would also not know that the races are started not only by the National Anthem, but by a prayer, which I have to admit is pretty cool. I also would not know any of this if my oldest didn't talk incessantly about it.

I never thought I'd have to explain to a boy what a groom means - and have him respond that he never wants to get married if that's what he'll be called. His exact words, "I don't want to be called a stupid word like 'groom' all day."

I never thought I'd have kids into cards. I wish they were card sharks - they could probably earn their keep around here. This is the kind of cards that are just plain annoying - baseball, football and basketball cards. A friend of boy #1 gave him a stack this fall and that's what started the whole problem. Now I have a 10-year-old who will not talk about anything but football - how he wants to play football, who his favorite team is, whose cards he has and who plays on what team. He has a memory that simply astounds me and can rattle off statistics and information about completely meaningless things like what number Adrian Peterson is, where Peyton Manning played college football or that Randy Moss is his all-time favorite player. It bores me to tears.

I never thought I'd know that there are two Steve Smiths who play professional football, or that I could care less. I'd rather know what to do about two boys who can't get their school work done because all they do is play football or snow board.

I never thought I'd have to wipe off the toilet lid, the toilet seat, the edge of the toilet and around the bottom of the toilet on a daily basis. Four boys is more than one bathroom can handle. I should have taught them to pee standing up inside as well as outside.

I never thought I'd have four boys. That probably says enough right there.

on the mat

Last night God surprised me again.

We put boy #2 into the local youth wrestling program and I have been content, with the younger two boys, to sit on the side of the room, watching the coach put the 60-some kids through warm-up exercises. I've even been able to knit a bit. Last night I was not so lucky.

After giggling at my five-year-old and two-year-old as they tried to do the bicycle warm-up and windmills, we settled in as the boys got paired off to "wrestle" their partners. Last week my son was paired with a kid who seemed about as aggressive as a bull (a good pair I thought.) Turns out I was wrong. The two were supposed to be practicing a double-leg takedown on each other, switching off so each could learn it. Instead, this boy and my son were circling each other like two deer, waiting to do battle with their horns. Then, the other boy would make a mad dash at my son and try a takedown of force using only upper body strength. It didn't work well.

I noticed that this boy's parents were sitting directly across from the battling boys, but seemed be doing little to help out the situation. (Most of the others paired off had at least one parent or coach alongside, correcting mistakes.) After watching this go on for awhile and realizing that I was paying good money for my son to not learn the proper technique for a takedown, I left the two boys in the corner and crossed the room to be a coach.

I put the two face-to-face and explained what they needed to do: close together, fling the other's arms out, grab both legs, step-knee, right turn and drive him to the mat. Whew. But, it worked. They got at least a few "proper" takedowns in before it was time for the coach's demonstration of the next move. The other boy's family informed me that he just wasn't listening to them when they tried to explain what to do. (I almost snorted at that, but refrained from doing it aloud. I figured they just didn't know anything about wrestling.) I ran back to my corner to make sure the two other hooligans weren't causing any problems and found them trying to take each other down.

The next move was to flip the opponent over on his back while he was laying on his stomach using a half-nelson hold. (Under the armpit, over the head was drilled into all of our heads.) My son's partner had disappeared to get a drink of water. His father told me the boy's name and that he was a foster child (which explains why Dad was so much older than I expected) and that they were trying to get him interested in something. He came back and I was again on the mat trying to show the two boys what they were supposed to do. Get to the side. Arm under the armpit and over the head. Grab a leg and flip. Chest to chest with all your weight. On your toes! They got a few good moves in while I glanced over to see my other boys laying on top of each other. (Guess I'm getting free tuition for those two.)

Then the coaches wanted the boys to actually wrestle. This would have worked well, if the other kid was interested in wrestling and didn't seem to have a slight baby streak in him. They worked on taking each other down and I kept trying to get my son to finish off his moves, not just jump up right after a takedown. The other kid got bumped in the nose somehow and after that it was all downhill. Any time he got put into a position he didn't like, he'd grab his nose and say he got hit again. Once he got off the mat to give his dad a hug. I couldn't help but be a little frustrated that my son was not getting as much practice as some of the other kids who seemed to have a real desire to actually wrestle.

After practice was over, I was a sweaty hot mess. (Last time I wear long johns into the practice room - it's like 80 degrees inside.) I toyed with the idea of telling my son to try to switch partners next time (if it were possible.) But, felt immediately guilty about it.

Here's where the God part comes in. I recognized that He probably initiated this pairing off for a reason - both for my good, for my son's and for this boy's. I have no idea what his background is, but I have to give his foster parents credit for being willing to spend the money to get him involved in something, for showing him love and for just trying. I figured I should be able to do the same. It that means I have to be out of the mat learning wrestling moves right along with two little boys, so be it.

I've had weirder assignments.

my christmas wish list...

I thought I'd start an annual tradition just for myself - a list of all the things I'd like, but probably will never buy for myself. Feel free to purchase any of them for me. (I hope you hear the joke in that...)

cast iron frying pans/griddle
anything Burt's Bees - especially lip gloss
smart wool socks or any wool socks for that matter - my feet are always cold
yarn (well, okay I might buy this...)
size 2 double pointed knitting needles - I want to trying knitting socks
sock yarn
peridot birthstone necklace or earrings
chocolate - I'm not picky - I'll even eat chocolate chips
yoga pants or Target's boyfriend pants - all about the comfort - just don't care what I look like anymore
an ipod (to drown out the noise around here)
nintendo wii (this for the boys - lol)
trader joe's salt scrubs (they're the best for itchy winter skin)
an acoustic guitar (so i can learn to accompany my vocal boys)
a surefire method to get boys to pick up toys
a laundry service
perfume from Bath & Body Works
coffee - preferably decaf
creamer
Dr. Pepper
a Calvin & Hobbes cartoon treasury book (juvenile, I know, but it's just so funny!)
peace and quiet
a day to sleep in until noon if I want to
black licorice
books - here's my amazon wish list

Is that enough ideas? I hope your Christmas is merry and your shopping even merrier. (If that's possible.)

a thing of beauty?

I am a woman and therefore I spend a certain amount of time in front of the mirror - not as much as most to be sure, considering I have four children at home and usually the bathroom mirror is covered with toothpaste. I also am not much of a primper - throw a baseball cap on and a little Burt’s Bees lipgloss and I’m about as preened as I will get.

Hower, lately I have been checking myself in the mirror more often. Or rather I have been checking my face and a little tell-tale mark across the bridge of my nose. I’m curious to see how what was a rather deep gash heals and whether or not a noticeable scar will be there forever. (I’m betting yes.) I’m not vain about it, worrying that it will disfigure me, but am rather curious just to see what happens. Right now it is healed, although still somewhat sore, and there is a slight bump in the skin.

Everytime I look into the mirror, I will be reminded of a recent accident involving a 2x4 and a table saw that left me with busted glasses, a bleeding nose and two black eyes, not to mention a very large gooseegg on my forehead, a miniature version which is still there. I was not a pretty sight, but all things considered, have healed quite nicely, although the glasses were irreparable.

The little scar across my nose will forever remind me of how lucky I was to not lose an eyeball and how stupid I was to take the safety guards off my table saw.

Scars are funny that way. Some we are proud of - like where the hockey puck hit us in the chin during a high school game. Some are a part of life - like the stretch marks across my belly or the tiny chicken pox indentations on my two-year-old’s temple. Some recall trauma from accidents or surgery. Some are even remembered fondly or with humor - like the fact that one of my middle fingers is flatter than the other from getting squished in a Laz-E-Boy. But they all have the capacity to remind us of something.

Scars on the inside, while invisible, often hurt more. They are either healed, healing or still bleeding. Sometimes they bleed for a long time, longer than we would like. Sometimes they are still bleeding or still mending, even though we think they are completely healed.

The thing about scars is, inside or out, they shape us into who we are. They change the way we look at our bodies. They change the way we look at our world. They, plain and simple, cause pain. Sometimes, that pain is short-lived and other times it is lifelong.

But regardless of the kind or amount or length of pain, our scars are almost as individual as we are. We all have them to varying degrees and in varying stages of healing. We have scars from loss, from abuse, from failed relationships, from car accidents and from baseball games. We might even have scars from picking zits or chicken pox.

While we may not share the same kinds of scars, we do share the opportunity to look at our scars, inside and out, as potential things of beauty. I don’t make that comment lightly or to diminish pain. I am still bleeding from a different, more painful wound that will undoubtedly scar me in a way I haven’t yet anticipated. I don’t know how this scar will heal or when, but what I do know is that it will eventually.

I also know that I can take my scars (the oh-so-many of them) and either look at them as only painful reminders of what kind of world we live in and the frailty of our human bodies, or I can see in them the opportunity to learn something about myself, about those who minister to me and about my God.

I can use them as an excuse to check out or I can use them as a catalyst toward a deeper reliance on God and his plan, even though I can’t begin to understand it. I can even use my scars to minister to others facing similar pain. And someday, hopefully I and others will be able to look at those scars as things of beauty.

They are maybe not beautiful per se, but capable of bringing forth beauty through how they remind me of where I’ve been, where I am and where I’m going. And how I’ll be going there with a little bump across my nose.

The only difference is that I’ll have learned to wear safety goggles.

letter to my baby

The letter below was written by a new friend of mine, after she lost her child to a miscarriage. Her poignant words touched me and I'm so grateful she allowed me to share them with you. I hope they touch you as well.


If I could talk to my baby, this is what I’d say:

My precious baby,
Your daddy and sisters were elated at the news of your new life within me. While your big sister Estella told relatives, friends, strangers and anyone who would listen about the baby in mommy’s tummy, I was already dreaming about and anticipating your arrival in May. Your sisters would often lay their ears on my tummy and send you kisses through my skin. They even helped me put together your bassinet in hopes that you would someday lay in it. What a miracle you were! A new life within me!

Life was so crazy the night I found out. In a sterile little ER room the Dr. walked in and told me you had died. He said it may have even happened weeks before. I wondered to myself how long I had been a tomb for you, my little one. Others may think it sounds morbid, but I was glad to have held you inside even if your life had dimmed and burnt out. At least I held you. I tried to do everything I knew to make you strong and healthy, but our God is Sovereign and He gets to hold you now. Often when life gets rough I fall back into His arms as well. There is no better place to be than where you are now…but I do wish you were still here. This is still so hard for your mommy.

It was when my body turned hostile to you and turned and twisted and cramped and ripped until it finally spit you out to dispose of like common garbage, that my whole self seemed like crying out in confusion and sadness. My body seemed like an enemy that I could not fight…I wondered what it had done to you anyway. How could one day I be full of a new miracle and the next day have death within me? You died within me and my body is still bleeding from your death.

I cry more now, since you left. True to His promise, God comforts me daily and dries my tears. I think your sisters are His little helpers. Estella told me at supper that we’ll all get to play with you in heaven someday. She brings me her baby doll to hold as if someone tells her that there is emptiness in me that a baby left behind. One day I held her baby when she offered her and for a moment I closed my eyes and imagined it was you. A living breathing you! I quickly stopped the thought though…realizing that the line between stable and unstable can be thin during these times.

In church today we sang a song about when Christ returns and it said that parents should gather all their children. I wondered if you would know me in heaven, if you’d recognize my voice, or perhaps God has just planted that knowledge on our hearts. I don’t know how everything works in heaven but I do know it is better than my mind can even fathom. I do believe you are in the arms of Jesus now but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of Him. It sounds awful to say I’m jealous of my Savior but I know he understands.

As I lay in the dark room the other night thinking about you, God placed in my mind the lines of a hymn I haven’t heard since childhood. I couldn’t tell you the name of the song or the rest of the words but He gave me just what I needed. I clearly heard “ and Jesus said ‘come to the waters, stand by my side, I know you are thirsty, you won’t be denied, I felt every teardrop, when in darkness you cried, and I strove to remind you that for those tears I died.”
Life here isn’t always easy, my child, but it is good…with God. I have been so blessed and have realized that even my Father in heaven can turn the horrors of life into true peace if we give them to Him. I need to say goodbye now, but it is my prayer that the circle will truly be unbroken and that you will get to meet all of your family. Until then, I love you my child. I loved you the moment I learned you were a part of me and I love you still. I don’t understand why some things happen the way they do but I do praise God that you have a home with Him. I also praise Him that our “hello” will one day be much, much longer than this little “goodbye.”

“Goodbye, my child.”

Love,
Your Mommy,
Erin Allrich
November 9, 2008

in the spotlight

Hubby brought me flowers last night when he came home from work. (How sweet, I know!) After he walked in, he gave the bunch to #4 (the two-year-old) to bring to me. He dutifully handed them over and then gave me a hug (I'm guessing that was also part of his instructions.)

A few minutes later, I was cutting the stems to put the bunch into a vase when one of the older boys came into the kitchen and asked me where I got the flowers. From Dad, I said.

"And I gave them to her!!!" two-year-old declared, to anyone who was listening. Although it sounded more like: "N I gave dem to hair!"

Typical baby of the family - wanting the spotlight firmly on him. I don't think hubby minded sharing with him - he was the baby too.

saying goodbye

Tonight we named and said a formal goodbye to our eighth child - Jani Veli. The name somehow seemed appropriate for two reasons. 1) The family chose it and 2) Jani (Finnish for John) means God is gracious/God's gracious gift and Veli means brother. I should tell you though, that the name choice came only after the boys had exhausted all opportunities to name their brother after their favorite Nascar drivers - Dale, Tony and Jeff. Hubby voted for Kyle, but none of the boys would go along with that. (Unfortunate, as Kyle is the only name among them that has a true Finnish translation.) In the end the baby of the family was pretty emphatic in his choice, convincing Mom and Dad to go with Jani.

When I told the boys what we were going to do, #2 told me softly, "This is a sad day."

I made a small cardboard coffin for his one-inch body and had the boys write their names on each side, along with "God is gracious" and "We love you." We choose his grave site underneath the two clematis plants in the flower garden that were planted last spring in memory of his brother, Leevi. I guess now I know why I bought two.

Hubby took the boys outside to find some rocks for the grave and while they were outside, #2 asked him, "How do we know the baby didn't go to hell?" Got to like those teaching moments. He told him that we don't have to worry at all about that - all babies go right to heaven. "Good!" was the response he got, as if to emphasize his relief.

We dug a small hole underneath the ladder-cum-trellis and I placed the tiny box gently inside. Boy #3 blurted, "Won't he die if you put dirt on him?" That got the tears started for me. "He's already dead honey." The boys placed rocks over the filled hole and the oldest lit a candle for our mini-burial ceremony. Mini because it was past bedtime and because it was cold out.


The boys quickly realized I was crying, but I think most of them were slightly puzzled about why. I asked them for a hug and they were obliging, each taking his turn to hug mom - the youngest looking straight into my face very sweetly. We left the candle burning on top of the rocks and came inside. The rest of the evening, during snack time, I was bombarded with questions:

"Why were you crying, Mom?" Because I'm sad.
"Why are you sad?" Because the baby died.
"Why did the baby die?" I don't know honey.

All questions I've asked myself many times in the past month.

It felt right to include the boys in a little ceremony, especially since they were very curious to see the baby earlier (although it was a bit disappointing for some of them when they realized just how small their brother's body was.) It also felt right to mark the spot with four stones and light a candle. I suspect that I may come back to that place often to commemorate the other losses we've had.

Goodbyes are so hard. Even knowing that I will see this child again someday, I am not quite okay with the idea that he is with God and not me. I am still hurting and sometimes don't even want to be comforted or worse, know how to be comforted, even though I need it so much. I am trying very hard to believe that indeed God is gracious as my son's name proclaims, but right now my head and my heart are not in agreement about that.

So, instead, I'll just say good bye, my sweet little boy. I wish I could have held you longer. I hope that our Saviour can pass my love along to you until I can hold you in my arms and tell you myself. Näkemiin minun poika - minä rakastan sinua.

black-eyed beauty

This was yesterday.

I look so attractive as I sport these great facial colors that I thought I'd share my beauty with the world last night. Well, at least with sister-in-law and one of my friends in town.

Needless to say, the reaction wasn't quite one of awe at my gorgeousness, but rather awe that I was out in public. (I did brave the library, but the stares were more than I could take - although I have to give the librarian credit, she didn't even ask. Just checked my books out and handed me the slip.) I slunk out as quickly as possible, grateful for the cover of night.

Sister-in-law was not surprised to see two black eyes, but I do think they look more impressive in person, which of course is why I went to visit her. Had to show off a bit you know, and get some sympathy from at least one family member. (Not getting much at home - one boy asked me last night at the dinner table if my little clunk on the head knocked any sense into me. I did not find it humorous. Hubby did.)

My friend and her husband were also impressed, but probably more with my stupidity than my good looks. I tried to fake them out with a story about hubby, but they didn't buy it. Then I confessed the whole ordeal. My humility never ceases to amaze me.

I am however, not humble enough to take the family Christmas card pictures right now. Although sister-in-law thought I should. Of course it would be incredibly funny (which alone is a HUGE temptation for me) but I'd have to make it look like someone else did the beating up on me instead of myself. Hmmm. Might have to do some thinking about that one. I might be able to pull it off. You'll find out in about 46 days how humble I actually am. Or how much of an attention-hog I need to be. :) Or maybe both.

This is today.


I never realized that human skin had the capacity to turn into such beautiful colors. Who needs eye shadow when you can have such vivid purples, blues and yellows splashed across your face? And even better - they don't remain the same from day to day. Changeable makeup - what a concept. (And don't think I didn't notice how well the straps of my tank top coordinate with my eyes - I'm so stylish you know.) But, really it's probably still not worth the pain of swollen eyelids and the inability to wear glasses on your nose, unless they're pushed down to the tip, which then interferes with breathing. I'd rather be somewhat blind than congested.

What I can't believe is that all the action on my face has distracted everyone from a true change - I just had eight inches of hair lopped off. And hardly no one has noticed. That pains me so.

Actually, the pain in my head is worse today than ever - not sure why. Even though the swelling is down, my forehead is still incredibly tender. I can't even raise my eyebrows at the boys' antics or I'll keel over as pain shoots up my head. Good excuse to put a movie going and take a nap. (And yes, I've used that excuse for the past three days now. Don't knock it - it's working.)

Wonder how beautiful I'll look tomorrow.

intentional mourning

As I near 30 days since learning my baby died, I found myself rereading a little book I discovered nearly a year ago about Jewish practices and their applications to the Christian's spiritual life. (Mudhouse Sabbath by Lauren Winner)

"[This book] is, to be blunt, about spiritual practices that Jews do better. It is, to be blunter, about Christian practices that would be enriched, that would be richer and more vibrant, if we took a few lessons from Judaism. It is ultimately about places where Christians have some things to learn."

A couple weeks ago, I was flailing about, feeling entirely purposeless and not knowing what to do about it. But even in that despair, I still felt that there should be something I could "do" during grief that would make sense. What I didn't know, was whether that "doing" should be praise, a cry, a prayer or simply doing life as usual (laundry, dishes, diaper, etc.).

Winner (a Jewish convert to Christianity) says that Jews do their spiritual practices with more attention and wisdom not because they are more righteous, but because the DOING, the action, is the center of Judaism. Practice is to Judaism as belief is to Christianity. In other words, your faith might come and go, but your practice ought not to waver. Often, it is through the doing that you may come to hear, to understand and to believe. (Exodus 24 - "All the words that God has spoken, we will do and we will hear.")

In a very dark moment, I remembered Winner's comment that the Jewish ritual of mourning (avelut) provides the direction for what to do during grief. She opines, and I tend to agree with her, that Christian churches "lack a ritual for the long and tiring process of sorrow and loss."

In other words, after the initial consolation calls, meals, shared tears, and when the mourner is still hurting, everyone else goes back to their normal lives. This is not to blame them, because in our Christian churches we have no language for grief or what to do long term, other than know that we will be reunited with believing loved ones some day.

In the Jewish community, mourning is marked by significant days, months and then years. During the days before burial, mourners are exempt from Jewish law requirements like attending prayer services or visiting the sick. Then the countdown starts for them.

SHIVA (seven)
The first week after burial mourners sit "shiva" in low chairs (as Job's friends did - Job 2:13) They sit with others in their community for seven days and seven nights. Neighbors bring food and mourners dress in black, do not wash their hair, or wear perfume or put on lipstick. They don't even leave the house.

SHLOSHIM (thirty)
This time is also drawn from Scripture (the captive woman in the book of Deuteronomy who weeps for 30 days for her parents). This period brings the mourner back into her world. She may return to work, but avoids large parties and celebrations. The month is divided into four distinct weeks - marked by Sabbaths. Each successive Sabbath finds the mourning participating in more. For example on the first Sabbath the mourner will wait outside during the celebratory songs. On the second Sabbath they will stay for the whole service but do not sit in their usual seat. On the third Sabbath they participate in the joyful hymns but will avoid neighborly visitation after the service. And on the fourth Sabbath they become full participants in the community of Shabbat.

YAHRTZEIT (one year)
The central rule of mourning up to one year is to say "Kaddish," a short prayer that begins; "Magnified and sanctified may God's great name be." It is a prayer that is required for mourners to say twice a day for a year. And it is not allowed to be spoken alone at home - but rather in the presence of 10 adults. At one year, mourners mark the anniversary by lighting a special memorial candle, while others might find different ways to honor or commemorate the loss.

Winner says, "This calendar of bereavement recognizes the slow way that mourning works...long after your friends and acquaintances have stopped paying attention, after they have forgotten to ask how you are and pray for you and hold your hand, you are still in a place of ebbing sadness."

What I find interesting about all of this is how Jewish mourners are helped along by their friends and family during the most intense part of grief, yet are still required to, with others, pray words of praise to God. This would probably be the hardest part for me. Kaddish is not a prayer of mourning, but a prayer about God - "Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded be the Name of the Holy One, Blessed is He, beyond any blessing or song."

Mourners are not required to feel praise, only to give praise. The sheer repetition of that praise follows along with Exodus 24 - first we will do, then we will hear.

It hasn't been until the past couple of days that I truly have felt "ready" to become a part of my community again. I know that the next months will tick off day by day and milestones will be made. I know that I will endure May 12 (due date) and that God will be with me through that as well. I hope that I can speak the praises of Scripture, even if I don't "feel" them. By the time a year comes around, I hope I can say that I have done and have heard all the words God has spoken to me.

kara vs. table saw

In one corner we have a thirty-something DIY-er who never met a power tool she couldn't conquer.

In the other corner we have a barely used JET table saw fighting sans manufacturer's recommended guards. (They were removed during an earlier bout - one which DIY won - and the end result being the angled shower walls below.)


This battle was all about archways. DIY won rounds one and two, ripping 2x4's and knocking around 1/2" plywood like a punching bag. She finished two archways for niches in the addition hallway, adding an air compressor, a framing nailer and a neat little staple gun to her belt.

DIY came back for round three, preparing for a knockout. Her frugality got the best of her though... With a near-fatal mistake, she decided to rip a 4" chunk of 2x4 for bracing, but JET took advantage of a weak moment. DIY had her arsenal of boards piled up, reading to fire away at JET's blade. But, after the first little chunk went through, she didn't take the time to fully prepare for the next cut by cutting power and removing the board. Instead, she went full steam ahead, determined to finish off JET by completing the pile without breaks.

JET somehow got a piece of the piece of 2x4, kicking it back toward DIY at lightning speed. The piece nailed DIY square between the eyes, breaking her glasses neatly in half between the lenses (sending one half flying six feet to the left) and catching her between the bridge of the nose and her left eyebrow. Somehow JET managed to also take out DIY's right thumb and forefinger. DIY still isn't sure if that came before the head blow or after.

DIY couldn't believe it. She's had many close calls in her fighting days, but never anything like this. Stunned, she picked up the other half of her glasses by her feet and then realized that she was in trouble. Her head started spinning, her eyesight fading and she felt intense pain shooting from her forehead. With minimal faculties, she started to stumble toward the house, aware that not only was her husband/manager not home, but it was 11 pm and 25 degrees outside. He would not be home for at least an hour and she did not want to be TKO'ed outside on a concrete sidewalk.

Clearly she should not have been fighting without an audience, or at least an audience that hadn't gone to bed at 8 pm.

She made it into the house, dripping blood every four feet. Her head was stinging, her eyes watering (both from the pain and from sawdust) and she couldn't move her two fingers, one of which was also bleeding. Despite her limited vision and intense pain, she managed to pull an emergency ice pack from the freezer (a bag of peas) and push speed dial to call hubby at work. By that time, she realized that 1) she was not going to die and 2) she was going to be very attractive in the morning.

She remembered she had arnica montana in the cupboard and quickly called sister/doctor to see how often to take the little white pills. Somehow she managed to turn the vial to get out four and endure sister's laughter at her description of round three.

She also had the presence of mind to record her injuries for posterity.

11:04 pm - shortly after a near knock-out in Round Three

















8:30 am - Ready to head back in the ring


Round four commenced at 9 am and this time, DIY was prepared, even though she could only see out of one eye and had to result to an old pair of glasses to see anything. She first searched for JET's weapon, finding that it had careened off her head a full 12 feet in the opposite direction it came from. She chucked it aside and got back to the fight. She took her time, methodically pushing boards through JET's blades, wearing it down by repetition and carefulness. She even managed a mini-bout with jigsaw, winning that one as well, after manager hooked up a light so she could see better to advance her cuts.

She shut JET down, carried her lumber into the addition, and built the two final archways for her shower walls. Archways were nailed into place, with manager's help, because DIY could not pick up the heavy framing nail gun.

And the winner is DIY! But, she looks pretty rough, even in victory. Tomorrow she will be back to face JET as she puts all the safety guards back on.

Here's proof of DIY's victory - master bathroom shower walls w/archways (although her handiwork is hidden by cement board.)













Nearly 24 hours later, here is our valiant DIYer - ready to take her one-eyed body to bed to rest up for another battle tomorrow.

blessed be your name

I can rarely make it through Matt Redman's “Blessed be Your Name” without choking up. I can’t you how many times I’ve been in the middle of a worship service, unable to continue singing, fighting back tears. Once last summer I even had to escape to the bathroom, just to get my emotions under control.

Blessed be Your name
In the land that is plentiful
Where Your streams of abundance flow
Blessed be Your name
And blessed be Your name
When I’m found in the desert place
Though I walk through the wilderness
Blessed be your name

CHORUS:
Every blessing You pour out I’ll
Turn back to praise
And when the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name

Blessed be Your name
When the sun’s shining down on me
When the world’s “all as it should be”
Blessed be You name
And blessed be Your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there’s pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name

CHORUS

You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name

CHORUS

I think what gets me every time is the words in verse two - “Blessed be your name, on the road marked with suffering, though there’s pain in the offering...” I feel that pain acutely every time.

We all have tragedy in our lives - it’s just hard some times to think of that pain or grief as an offering to God. And sometimes, it’s even harder to tell Him that His name is blessed when we’re going through something so difficult that we hardly can pray, let alone praise Him. It’s ironic that we often forget to praise Him for the painless blessings in our lives and we often can’t praise Him for the painful ones, at least not immediately.

Can I praise Him for losses? Can I praise Him for all the offerings we’ve given Him over the years? Can truly I praise Him for giving and taking away?

Right now, I must confess the answer is no - I cannot praise Him like Job did by saying “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; Blessed be the name of the Lord.” (Job 1:21) I do not immediately fall down to worship the Lord after a catastrophe. A commentary in the Full Life Study Bible reads: “Job reacted to the disaster that happened to him with intense grief, but also with a humility that submitted to God and continued to worship Him in the midst of extreme adversity. Job teaches how faithful believers should face life’s calamities. Though we may experience severe sufferings and unexplainable affliction, we should pray for grace to accept what God allows to come upon us.” I think He would love for me to be like Job, but understands my inability to do that.

I know that the name of the Lord is blessed, but blessing it myself is a bit harder. My heart just does not simply choose to say: blessed be Your Name. My heart sometimes is just too numb to say much of anything. What I can do is be honest and hold that up as my offering, hoping that the praises will come later and be sincere when they do.

The beauty of Scripture is that there are literally hundreds of other verses that one can cling to during difficult times, much of them found in the Psalms. If I might have a tough time blessing God’s name, I can still pray through Psalm 116 or meditate on the repetition of Psalm 136 - “His love endures forever” - knowing that whatever comes my way, his love can and will last far beyond any tears or painful offerings.

in the mail today...

I love a good prank. But first, let me tell you how a cousin blessed me today. She sent a package with a very sweet and encouraging card, a bag of chocolates, an amaryllis plant so I'll have a little bloom at Christmas and a kit of linen-scented diffusing oil. It smells really nice and kind of clean. (I almost wondered if she'd secretly been inside the house lately.)

But the piece de resistance was a little bag with this tag attached: "Lunch today is on me. Wish I could be there to share it with you!!!" Inside were two beets. My boys thought I was crazy when I laughed for a couple minutes straight.

Here's the joke - I planted a whole row of beets last summer in the garden because she kept saying how good beets were. I got her "no-fail" recipe and served them for dinner one night. They were NOT a hit - only hubby and one boy liked them. The others asked that I never make them again. (Keep in mind that these are children who eat venison, olives, broccoli, asparagus and are just about anything else I place in front of them.) But they didn't like the beets. (I didn't much either.)

A good laugh is better for the soul anyway.

diary of a miscarriage - warning this is VERY graphic

For those of you who have never experienced a miscarriage, I thought I'd give you a little play-by-play of what the physical side of it is like. (What happened to me in the past 72 hours - no exaggerating.) My experience is admittedly a bit extreme, because I endured more than most people do. A lot of miscarriages simply plop into the toilet or have a bit of bleeding and are done. I have not been that lucky. That being said, I still feel like it has been easier on my body to let things progress naturally (even if it takes a bit longer) than to opt for surgery. Recovery is easier - waiting is harder. Not an easy decision to make.

A disclaimer: If you get queasy easily, you probably do not want to read this because I am going to get into the nitty gritty graphic messy details of miscarriage. And much of it is just plain gross. And there are pictures. If you're still curious, read on. And my apologies that it's so long.

Saturday - 11/1/08
9 am - Wake up to contractions. They progress throughout the morning, more often and more painful.

2 pm - Lay down to ease pain and try take a nap.

3:30 pm - Wake up to a gush of blood. Remove clothing and prepare to hang out in bathtub. Ten minutes later, pass the 10-week-old baby and what appears to be tissue. Very little pain. Lots of blood. Try clean off with the handheld shower while hubby puts a little space heater going. Kids are banned from the bathroom.


4 pm - Lay on towel on bathtub, trying desperately to get comfortable, yet maintain a laying position so blood loss is decreased. Pass a large softball-sized clot, along with occasional trickles of blood. Hubby finds a bucket to toss the clots in since they will not make it down the drain. Take cayenne pepper capsule along with some food and water to try stop/decrease the hemorrhaging. Bleeding tapers off after an hour, but does not stop altogether.

5 pm - Stomach starts churning. Puke up the cayenne pepper and pass another clot all at once. Lay in tub in own vomit and blood, while nose burns incredibly from the cayenne puke, thinking to self, this is about as low as it gets. Strangely the smell doesn't bother me. Realize it's a good thing my towels are red.

5:15 pm - Finally rinse off self and tub. Hubby pushes water, Dr. Pepper, candy anything on me to get me to drink fluids. Sip on water as often as possible.

5:30 - 7 pm - Continue to lay in tub, extremely uncomfortable on hips and shoulder, even with the folded towel underneath me. At some point realize I'm going to have to get on the toilet or I'll have another stinky mess to clean up. Manage to get out of the tub and poop. I recall leaning over the side of the seat, almost falling into the tub, but not quite out. Plop back into tub and wait some more. Pass a few more smaller (golf ball-sized) clots, with minimal bleeding in between.

7 - 9 pm - More laying around, pain pain pain on my poor hip. Bleeding seems to have slowed to small occasional trickles. Cover naked body with another towel because am feeling cold. Day dream of my bed. Hubby won't let me out of the tub until I can sit up without getting woozy. I manage to do that and crawl out of tub and toward the bedroom. He tells me later that I passed out on the way, but I still don't believe him.

9:15 pm - Throw up in bed into a beach towel. Think the towel was Boy #2's, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him. So much for trying to drink liquids. Am now feeling very uncomfortable with cramps that start in lower abdomen and radiate to my lower back.

9:30 pm - Inlaws come to pick up boys in case we need to go in to hospital. Hubby doesn't think we'll need to go, but I am feeling differently, although I don't tell him yet. Try to keep sipping water and am starving. Eat a piece of toast with grape jelly. More cramping.

10 pm - Puke up the toast, part of my droolings and dribblings are on hubby's tshirt and his pillow. He is thrilled. Cramping is getting worse. Bleeding still hasn't stopped.

12 am - I can't relax enough to sleep because the cramps are so painful. Can only lay on one side or the cramps are worse. Cannot lay on back as the bleeding seems to increase. Finally tell hubby I can't do this anymore and that we need to go in.

12:15 am - Lay on floor while hubby puts on my socks, underwear and a ratty pair of pajama bottoms. Crawl down stairs because I don't want to stand and pass out. Crawl to front door after hubby helps me put a sweatshirt on. Jam shoes on and limp out the front door 10 feet to the van.

12:30 am - Finally make it out the driveway. I am sweating profusely, ears ringing, tunnel vision - all from standing up - no blood in head apparently. (Not that there ever is.)

12:45 am - Make it to ER entrance. Try to walk in, but collapse once inside the door. Hubby picks me up like a sack of potatoes and the pressure of his shoulder on my belly makes me cry out - "Oh my stomach!" I am plopped into a wheelchair that is thankfully parked next to a wall so I have something to lean my head against. I cannot see anything around me and remember feeling sweat drip down my forehead. I hear hubby behind me giving the intake person my date of birth and some other pertinent information. A nurse comes behind the wheelchair and tells me, "Kara, sit up! We have to go." I mumble that I can't and she picks me arm up (that had fallen to the side of the chair) and plops in on the armrest. It fell back down. She starts to push the wheelchair and I have one foot dragging along and my head tipped all the way back because I couldn't hold it up. I remember thinking to myself, "Why is she being so mean to me?" Two nurses help me into a bed and pull off my sweatshirt and t-shirt. I tell the one nurse, who is banging on my arm to find a vein, that she is going to have a hard time getting the IV needle in because I know I'm so dehydrated. The other nurse starts typing into the computer and asks me, "So, what seems to be the problem?" By this time, I finally feel coherent and tell her I had a miscarriage and that I've lost a lot of blood and have been throwing up. Almost immediately I notice a change in her and she comes over and puts her hand on my shoulder and tells me she is sorry I've had to go through this.

I find out later that when the intake nurse asks hubby what the problem is and he tells her about the miscarriage, her reply is: "Oh! I wasn't expecting that!" (We figured with the timing of our arrival and my physical symptoms, everyone probably thought I was either drunk or high or both.) Can't say that I blame them considering what I was wearing and how I probably was acting.

1 -3 am - I am examined by a doctor who looks like he's 17. Still bleeding. Still have cramps. But after about a half hour I finally get some morphine - thought my head was going to blow off. I also got two doses of some anti-nausea medication that did not work. I was wheeled to radiology for a vaginal ultrasound. The ride there and back was torture - had I had anything in my stomach to throw up I would have. Then came a pelvic exam which was a real fun experience - I lost count of how many cotton swabs the doctor went through. I do remember another gush of blood and perhaps another clot when he pushed in my belly to check the uterus. I was still in a fair amount of pain, so was given another 1/2 dose of morphine.

3 am - ER doc talked to the OB on call who decided I should be given a blood transfusion because my hemoglobin levels were so low (and I think they assumed I'd have to had a D&C in the morning as well).

3:30 am - I sent hubby home to get some sleep and the transfusions began. It took about 90 minutes to complete each unit. (I had two units.) I got a little sleep in between each 20 minute blood pressure check, all the temperature checks because apparently a body can have some sort of reaction to donated blood. I was told to call the nurse immediately if I noticed any wheezing, itchiness or difficulty breathing. (Was I praying after that!) No complications.

7 am - ER doc decides that he would rather send me up to the OB department than send me home yet. So I endure yet another nausea-producing ride. I am the only patient in that unit - ironic, considering I have no baby. Doc also tells me that the ultrasound technician and the radiologist confirmed that there was nothing left in my uterus. Bleeding has slowed. Pain from cramping has decreased. I am exhausted.

7:30 am - Call the inlaws to let them know where I was and tell them what happened. Accidentally hung up on mother-in-law when nurse came to check on me. Decided to wait to call hubby so he could get some sleep, but he showed up about two seconds later, looking very nice in a brown pullover I bought him last summer. How sweet of him to come check on me - early - and how sweet that he couldn't sleep. Unfortunately, he did not bring me any clothes to wear home - a slight problem since my pj's were pretty much toast and the nurse said she wouldn't let me out of the room with my granny panties showing. Hubby made a few phone calls and I rested. I wasn't peeing enough so the nurse gave me another IV bag (I think that brought the total up to five) and hooked an antibiotic dose as well. I was too tired to argue.

9 am - Hubby decided to go home and get my clothes and let me sleep. I wasn't holding up my end of the conversation anyway. I immediately conked out and didn't wake up until the doctor came in.

10 am - OB doc said I wouldn't have to have a D&C, as the uterus was empty, bleeding was minimal and my cramping was tolerable. He wouldn't let me go until I peed more and could keep some food and fluids down. He reminded me of someone, but I still can't place who it might be - a little bit like Gil Grisam from CSI maybe.

10:30 am - Sister-in-law stops by after church and visits. Her ER experience immediately clues her in to my paleness - my hemoglobin level was still only 8.7, but that was an improvement. We chat for awhile and I eat crackers and apple juice.

11:30 am - Finally peeing on my own and get the go ahead to get out of dodge, but no clothes and no hubby. Finally call him, thinking he fell asleep at home. He is at work, filling out his time sheet. Eat a piece of jelly toast and keep it all down. Pretty proud of myself.

12 noon - Going home. Yay. Kids are staying at Grandma & Grandpa's another night. Peace and quiet is so nice.

1 - 4 pm - Take a nice long nap after texting immediate family members about the ordeal.

4 pm - Watch NASCAR w/hubby. Sad. Then cramping starts again. Was told to take ibuprofen for pain, but didn't think it would be necessary since I don't usually have any post-delivery cramping with live births or miscarriages. Not this time.

5:30 pm - Finally succumb to the pain and down the Advil. Watch Extreme Makeover Home Edition and go to bed.

Monday - Cramping continues much of the day - need more Advil. This sucks. Still bleeding, although not a lot. Trek in to the clinic to relive the events with OB doc. He decides not to put me through another pelvic exam, saying I've been through enough. I have more blood drawn to check hemoglobin levels and test for some possible miscarriage causes. Go to bed taking another dose of ibuprofen, just to sleep.

Tuesday - Get up feeling pretty good, although bleeding still hasn't stopped.
10:30 am - Go to the bathroom, wipe and feel something funny. At first think I'm really swollen for some strange reason. Get out a mirror and about die. There is something sticking out of my vagina and it doesn't look good - dark red thick tubular mass. I panic and yell for hubby, picturing cows on the farm with their uteruses hanging out. He doesn't want me to touch it but to go in immediately. I choose to call my OB's nurse. She says to try tease it out and call her back. It takes nearly 10 minutes of bearing down, pulling, wiggling, etc. to get it out. I realize it is not part of my body because I cannot feel it when I touch it. I finally get the mass out and it is the size of a baseball in my head, heavy, red and fibrous. It is the placenta and I have just passed something about 2 inches in diameter. And I hurt bad. The cramps immediately disappear. The bleeding, which was darker red blood before, turns to a lighter, thinner red. I am freaking out wondering how an ultrasound technician could miss this and what would have happened if I wasn't at home, etc. Call the nurse back and she says to save it and will talk to Doc when he comes in at 2 pm. The adrenaline from this ordeal has exhausted me and I have to lay down. Plus, I'm just a little grossed out.



12 noon - Try to sleep, but can't. Lay in bed until nurse calls back with instructions to come in as soon as possible w/the placenta.

3 pm - Take a shower because I realize I'm still wearing the clothes I went to the clinic in yesterday.

4 pm - Have hubby drop me off at emergency room so I can take the placenta in to sister-in-law since she's working. She is amazed (and not grossed out, which is pretty impressive.) Tell her the plus side is that I just lost a pound.

4:15 pm - Receptionist ushers me right back to Doc - who is mortified at the size of the placenta and that it wasn't caught on ultrasound two days ago. "Gonna have to call down to radiology and see how they missed a placenta the size of a big Mac in a gal who weighs 80 pounds soaking wet." (That was nice to say, although I haven't weighed 80 pounds since junior high.) I don't think he was too happy and was upset with himself for not doing a vaginal exam yesterday, but neither of us thought was necessary. Hindsight of course tells me that the cramping should have been a huge sign for me, since I never have that. But, that's what hindsight is - not valuable for much else. Go through another vaginal ultrasound which shows nothing in uterus but a slight spot of lining that should slough by itself. Bleeding is minimal. Pain is gone. Horrified feeling still present. I am told to come back in two weeks to check if cervix is still open and to go over results of blood work.

So, there you have it. Two days of a very interesting experience I wouldn't really care to repeat. But for several reasons, I'm still glad I did this at home. My body was then ready and knew it wasn't pregnant anymore. (D&C was really hard last time because I bled for six weeks and my hormones were raging because my body had no idea what had just happened.) I got to see the wee little one and (surprise, surprise) it was another boy. And I'm glad we went in when we did, because I got some pain killers, fluids and a transfusion, and I don't feel as tired as I would have without all that. I'm also glad the doctor got to see the placenta, because apparently it was much bigger than it should have been for as far along as I was. It has been sent off to pathology.

I hope this diary doesn't freak anyone out, or discourage anyone from trying to pass the baby at home. My experience is not even close to the norm. Most people will have some cramping, some bleeding, but I believe it's generally over in 2-4 hours, with minimal risk to mom. There are of course horror stories from both ways (at home or in hospital), but knowing what happens to my body because I've experienced it both ways, I was still more comfortable doing it naturally. I had to wait two weeks for the baby to pass, which isn't pleasant. But other than being a little tired right now, I feel like myself, something I could not say for at least three months after the D&C with the last miscarriage.

I hope you're not too grossed out by this and I pray that this diary will help someone, someday. Or help others to understand what a woman can go through during a miscarriage.

happy halloween!

is it snack time?

It’s painfully obvious that hubby and I need to pursue a new career. Or at least a part-time one that would better provide for the four hungry mouths that make up part of this family.

We need to start farming.

Keep in mind we already plant a rather large garden and this year even raised chickens to butcher. We apparently need to add to the crops and livestock. I draw the line at a milk cow, but I don’t think hubby would be opposed to goats.

It’s getting to be almost ridiculous - one chicken is no longer enough for all of us, unless I have at least three vegetables along with it, plus bread and maybe even something for dessert. We should have raised 50 this year instead of just 25.

No matter how many times I see it with my own eyes, I still cannot believe how much these kids of ours can eat. Even the two-year-old packs away more food in a meal than I could ever attempt to gag down. Last week he had third helpings of beef stew, even after gobbling down two dinner rolls and a heaping helping of fried cabbage. Last night Boy #3 actually broke a bowl trying to dish himself more wild rice soup. (I have no idea if it was seconds or thirds, but either way I wasn’t very happy.)

But, in spite of all of this food consumption, the thing that is really driving me crazy are the endless questions about snacks.

“Is it snack time?” (15 minutes after breakfast.)
“Is it snack time yet?” (Two minutes later.)

The only good thing is that at least two of them have learned to tell time, just by trying to figure out when snack time actually is. The trouble is that the time varies in direct proportion to how easily they wear me down with their incessant questions about snacks or what they can have for a snack. Some days, snack time has come as early as 8:30 am just because the only time the house is quiet when four boys are eating.

After lunch, we start the same routine all over again. I’m starting to seriously wonder if they’re all carrying some sort of tapeworm.

Half an hour after consuming an ungodly amount of food for lunch - trust me you wouldn’t believe me if I told you - they’re already starting in.

“Can I have a snack?”
“When can I have a snack?”
“Is it snack time?”

What I need is a snack laced with tryptophan, or some other tranquilizer that would put them to sleep for an hour so I could either work uninterrupted or take a nap. I’m sure there is something out there that would fit the bill, but my guess is it’s only used in zoos. Wait - this place would qualify!

There is no physical way that these boys could actually be hungry for a snack, so their desire to have one has got to be coming from somewhere else. Gluttony perhaps? If they know there is candy in the cupboard, they are much more likely to beg for snacks. It’s as if they feel they’re entitled to that snack, simply because they exist and the snack exists in the cupboard.

Although I suppose many of us have a love-hate relationship with food and/or snacks like chips, pop and ice cream. We want them even though we know they aren’t terribly good for us. They just taste good. And we usually eat them regardless of whether we’re actually hungry or not.

It’s like something clicks in our brains telling us - “It’s snack time!” - and off we go to the fridge or freezer or convenience store to find chocolate, candy or a mocha latte.

So I am not all that different from my kids - only slightly more economically capable (I can purchase my own snacks) and slightly better at justifying why I need snack time (Of course I’m worth it.) Speaking of that, I believe there is a cinnamon chip scone calling my name.

Isn’t it snack time?

how to survive a miscarriage

Yes that title is a bit misleading. I believe it's about as possible to survive a miscarriage as it is to survive a breast cancer diagnosis or survive raising kids or survive life in general. It's possible, but it's just not very easy. And there are no shortcuts.

There are however, a few things that do make it better. Here's my list:

1) Have a good, empathetic doctor. (Not as easy as you might think, and unfortunately you have no way of knowing whether your OB will be kind during a loss until you face one with him/her.) But it helps to know that they're sad with you and that they support whatever decisions you make.

2) Have close friends who have experienced a miscarriage. That way you have someone you can just call out of the blue when you're having a bad day because you saw a PG woman at Walmart and just need to vent. They will automatically understand.

3) Have a supportive family. (This might be out of your control, but there's no doubt it helps) There are certain times when family can make all the difference in the world - when they can take kids for you or just love you when you need it most. Sometimes they don't even have to say anything, and yet you feel that they care.

4) Have a God big enough to handle all the emotions that you'll face. Your God needs to be big enough to handle your anger, your pain and your questions. I guess part of having a God like this would also include having faith as well in Him and His plan and purpose, even if you can't understand it.

5) Have people praying for you. No one can ever convince me that there isn't power in prayer. I've felt its calming effects too many times to discount its power. I would say however, that its probably even more powerful if people know specifically what to pray for and what your needs are - safety, peace, comfort or whatever.

6) Have an outlet for your emotions. For me that is this blog and sometimes the ears of my close friends. But for others it might be a spouse, a journal, prayer time, etc. But, I believe it is essential to at least be able to somehow express your feelings, even if you can't express them adequately or eloquently. Sometimes all you need to say is that you're pissed or blue or even in denial.

7) Have a plan for recovery. I'm referring more to the physical recovery here, because the emotional one takes much longer. Plan to rest. Plan to bone up on multi-vitamins and liquids and any thing your body may need. Allow yourself to take it a bit easy, especially if you're still facing surgery or passing the baby. After all of that is over, plan to be a bit out of commission for awhile and slowly ease back into life.

8) Let your grief take you wherever it might. This can run the gamut from denial to anger to questions to tears to sadness to even bitterness. Let it run its course. If you don't allow yourself to feel whatever it is you might be feeling, you run the risk of stuffing emotions that will only come out some other way at a later date. It's much easier (in the long run) to deal with it all when it comes.

For me, my reaction has been different with each miscarriage. My first one was devastating and very, very depressing. I remember feeling like I was being punished for something and being so angry because I so wanted another baby. With the second one the grief was shorter but much more intense. My physical recovery was also much harder because I lost so much blood, so I had the added problem of feeling so tired and unable to do anything. With the third, I got very angry and blamed God for being unfair and unkind and unloving. We lost that baby at 14 weeks and again the recovery was very difficult because I had to be induced and then have a D&C - I bled for six weeks and it took at least three months before the hormones were back to normal. The entire thing was a battle. This miscarriage has been different still. I took about four days to myself - didn't answer my telephone, didn't talk to anyone and just was alone. I couldn't even pray. I couldn't bear the thought of talking to a God who could perform a miracle and allow it to slip away. After those four days, I felt I could shake it off, "that's enough of this" and carry on. I returned some phone calls, let people know what was going on and got back into the routine of life. I cried very little. Maybe I will cry more as this progresses and I wait for baby to pass, but I doubt it. I really feel like this is just how it's going to be and don't feel like fighting it. There's a strange peace in accepting things, even if you don't like what's happened. But, really what can I do about it anyway? :)

Anyway, my point still is to let whatever emotions and feelings you might be having to just happen - you will eventually feel better, life will become normal again and you will get through it.

Surviving is possible, but only one day at a time.

slippers

Why I doubt God sometimes is beyond me. He often proves Himself in the smallest little ways and yet I don't trust Him in the BIG things. I suppose my humanness has much to do with it. And my pride. And my stubbornness.

Thursday my sister-in-law took my boys to her house and I decided to go shopping for slippers. It's getting cold in MN and my feet freeze. Plus, I'm too cheap to put the heat on all the way, so the house is still a bit on the cool side. Anyway, I trucked into town in hopes of finding something that wasn't fuzzy or furry or cutesy, just some plain warm leather slippers.

My first stop - Marshalls - no luck. Only fuzzy bath slippers. But I did run into a couple from church. Chit-chatted awhile, then made a couple of other necessary errand stops at Joann Fabrics and Old Navy. I was just getting ready to head to Kohl's or JCPenney when I got a call requiring me to head toward home. Never made it anywhere else and I sighed very loudly as I passed Cabela's thinking that's probably where I should have gone.

I got home a bit out of sorts because I really wanted slippers. I crabbed at hubby and vented to a friend, who suggested I look at Cabela's or Land's End. Maybe tomorrow I thought. Tonight I'm just going to be crabby because my toes are cold and I don't have any new slippers to wear.

Well, life took over and I forgot about my slippers, until I received a package this afternoon, from.....drum roll please.....Land's End. Inside was a pair of gorgeous orange suede slipper mules that fit perfectly and were toasty warm. Tucked inside was a note that said: "Thinking about you, wishing you didn't have to go thru this again. Praying you will feel the Lord's peace during this difficult time. Lots of love..."


The gift, which came via my cousin, but really from the Lord, was even more miraculous because I don't believe I ever mentioned to her my desire for new slippers. Somehow God told her that I needed them.

Another perfect example of how God provides for me, even though I don't deserve orange suede slippers. (They match so well with my turquoise socks, but I was too lazy to change to something more coordinated.)

in the wash today...

A load of towels that has been washed and sitting in the washer since Sunday evening. Phew! Thank goodness for Febreze. Dumped half a bottle in and rewashed the entire load.

what i accomplished today...

I'm sure this will impress so many of you, but hey all things considered, I'm pretty proud of myself.

1. Actually did a science lesson with boy #3. (But only because I was feeling guilty about crabbing at him last night and that we have done almost no science since school started. 206 bones in the human body. The smallest is the stirrup in the ear. The strongest is the thigh bone. And he now knows that when I grab his ear to stop him from pummeling his younger brother, I'm grabbing cartilage.)

2. Took a shower. (But only after a guy from church stopped by to tell me he missed me - we haven't been to church since the first weekend in September - and I realized that I was a complete greaseball, bedhead who was still wearing pjs at 10:30 am.)

3. Made my bed. (But only because it's the only place in the house I can fold laundry. I still haven't got to the laundry.)

4. Returned one phone call. (But only because it was my sister-in-law and I wanted to get rid of my kids, who at the time were fighting over who got to use the peanut butter knife and in what order the peanut butter and jelly should be put on bread.)

5. Got the main floor somewhat picked up. (But only because I made the boys do it - since it's their mess anyway. I used the sleep-over at their aunt's as a bribe. It worked very well. And I don't think they felt taken advantage of in the least bit.)

6. Responded to an email from a friend. (But only because I first emailed her to ask how she survived five miscarriages - I figured she had some wisdom and insight to offer. I wasn't disappointed.)

7. Cancelled the D&C surgery for Friday. (But only because I figured it was a great way of to get out of going anywhere for awhile. Kidding. I may regret that decision, but it felt right at the time.)

There you have it - all that I accomplished today. And it's only 4 pm. Almost time for Jeopardy.

tough questions

How do you trust that God has a purpose in everything, even tragedy?

How does God work things for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose?

Why does He require so much of us?

Who ever came up with the idea that God never gives us more than we can handle?

How do you not lose your faith when you can't even pray?

Can you swear at God and still be a Christian?

What more can a person learn from a fourth miscarriage?


I'm sure there are many more questions a person could have - none of which have easy answers. I might add to this list as I think of more. If you have any answers - feel free to share.

what a waste...

I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry anymore.

I now have four living children and four dead children. And I'm not sure if I'm upset about that or still too shocked to feel much of anything. Surprise pregnancies are just that - surprising, unexpected and even a bit disturbing if you're not ready for all that again. But, I truly felt like I was taking everything in stride - "If this is what God wants for me, even though I'm not so sure about it - then it will be okay."

Only it wasn't. And now it's not. I went it to every doctor's appointment thinking it would be okay either way - okay if the baby lived and okay if the baby died. I wasn't thrilled to be pregnant, even though I did my best to accept it. And now on this side of it, I'm not thrilled to have lost another child either. So, it really wasn't okay either way.

I kind of figured that if God can miraculously keep a baby alive in spite of heavy bleeding, then somehow this child was MEANT to survive - not for just three more weeks, but for a full-term pregnancy. How wrong I was to believe in the possibility of a long-term miracle.

So right now I can be grateful that I don't have to purchase a new car seat. I don't have to give up my office for a nursery. Our entire family will still be able to fit in the truck. And I guess I don't have to go through the pain of labor. Honestly, it's a pretty good list of things that I'm legitimately grateful for, but a list that I hope you can hear the sarcasm behind.

Thinking back over the last three weeks (two of which I have been completely unable to do much of anything), I can't help but feel like everything was such a waste. It was a complete waste of time to baby myself and still lose a baby. It was a complete waste of time and resources to have people dote on me, bringing meals, cleaning the house, cooking for us and doing the grocery shopping. It seems like a waste to share my emotions, fears and needs with other people, only to have to turn around and tell them, well, sorry the baby didn't make it in spite of all your good wishes and thoughts and prayers.

I really feel like everyone, myself included, just wasted three weeks for nothing. I am carrying a baby who died anyway. Died in spite of my bed rest. Died in spite of prayers for healing and safety. Died in spite of a miraculous survival at eight weeks. And died in spite of a mother's body that is fertile enough to conceive, but not fruitful enough to bear the harvest.

I keep telling myself that it will be okay, but I don't think it will. I don't feel the anger like I did eight months ago when I lost baby number 3. What I do feel now with the loss of baby 4 is betrayed - both by my body and by God. I just don't understand how he can allow conception, allow a miracle and then allow it to quietly slip away.

Of course, I don't know that the baby quietly slipped away - I'm saying that for my sanity. For all I know, this child could have died a horrific suffocating death being smothered by my body not allowing it enough oxygen, nutrients or whatever else it needed and obviously didn't receive.

Solomon was right when he said everything is meaningless - a chasing after the sun. I call it a waste.

humble pie

There are some secrets I would rather not share. I keep them fantastically hidden from most everyone but my husband and children. They are things that would mortify me if people knew. They are things that would humiliate me so badly I'd have to leave the state.

And today, they were discovered.

So, in the spirit of learning humility - I'm going to take a real leap and share my deepest darkest skeletons with everyone else - no more secrets for me.

A dear friend came over today to clean my house. As if that wasn't mortifying enough, she warned me that she would be upset with me if I cleaned before she got here. (Boy, does she knows me.) Luckily, I avoided ticking her off because I simply didn't have the energy to do anything beyond making my bed and shutting my bedroom door. (But as you'll see later, even that didn't help.)

I was laying on the couch sick to my gut when she arrived, breezy and beautiful. What I wouldn't give to wear make-up again - can't even remember when I last put on some lipstick.

She asked what I wanted done. (I almost confessed that I'd really just like a fairy godmother to say bibbedy-bobbedy-boo. But that would have been rude.) So I swallowed the first piece of humble pie and pointed to the kitchen floor, in dire need of a scrubbing. She got right to work, while I cringed inside, wondering at how much food really was stuck underneath the bench where two piglets slobber their meals.

She finished the floor and started working on the dishes in the sink. (I think one pot had been soaking for four days - but it sometimes takes that long to get clean, doesn't it?) In the meantime, the kids started a brave plan to destroy any progress she made in the kitchen by getting all the lunch stuff out. After that mess was cleaned up she got back down under the table to sweep up the bread crumbs and whatever else got dropped.

I would have been content with all that, but she was determined to really make me learn a lesson today. "Laundry?" she asked. (I swore there was a gleam in her eye.) Um, no that's okay. She didn't buy it. (Who would in a house of four boys?)

I swallowed hard, led her upstairs to my bedroom, and opened the door to show her the eight loads of clean laundry piled on the floor, needing sorting and folding. Then I made a huge mistake. I entered the laundry room to check on the wash I had started this morning. The load in the dryer wasn't dry, so I put it going longer, shut the door and cringed at all the clothes I had to walk over just to get into the room and the smell of all the dirty dish towels (you know the smell, I know you do.)

She folded all the clothes upstairs, then called the boys in to help her identify what belonged to whom. And somehow she convinced the older two to put their things away - and I didn't hear any whining!

She then came down the stairs with a puzzled look on her face. "Where's your dryer?" (I tried to fake sleep - it didn't work.) "I'm not going to tell you," I insisted. But, she figured out how to get the boys to divulge family secrets.

By the time she was ready to leave, I was ready for a nap. I humbly thanked this angel who didn't seem to mind what the condition of my house was and went upstairs to nap with boy #4, only to find that she had scrubbed the bathroom floor, cleaned all the toothpaste off the mirror and the sink and neatly placed three baskets of folded laundry by my closet. And, she put a load of wash in the dryer and another one going in the washer. I hope she had her eyes closed when she was in that disaster area.

I fell asleep to the hum, squeak, hum of the dryer, the rumbling of the washing machine and the whooshes of the dishwasher going downstairs. Who says housework isn't tiring? As I was drifting to sleep, I suddenly remembered her parting words: "I'll be back!"

Aaah! So much for sleep...

see a penny

I just received a little story via email that really hit me.

A woman and her husband were invited to spend the weekend at the husband’s boss’ home. The man was very wealthy and took them to an exclusive restaurant one evening. As they were about to enter the restaurant, the boss stopped suddenly, looking down at the pavement.

The woman wondered if she was supposed to pass him. There was nothing on the ground except a single darkened penny that someone had dropped, and a few cigarette butts. Still silent, the man reached down and picked up the penny.

He held it up and smiled, then put it in his pocket as if he had found a great treasure. How absurd! What need did this man have for a single penny? Why would he even take the time to stop and pick it up?

Throughout dinner, the entire scene nagged at her. Finally, she could stand it no longer. She causally mentioned that her daughter once had a coin collection, and asked if the penny he had found had been of some value.

A smile crept across the man’s face as he reached into his pocket for the penny and held it out for her to see. She had seen many pennies before! What was the point of this?

“Look at it.” He said. “Read what it says” She read the words “United States of America.”

“No, not that; read further.”

“One cent?” “No, keep reading.”

“In God we Trust?” “Yes!” “And?”

“And if I trust in God, the name of God is holy, even on a coin. Whenever I find a coin I see that inscription. It is written on every single United States coin, but we never seem to notice it! God drops a message right in front of me telling me to trust Him? Who am I to pass it by? When I see a coin, I pray, I stop to see if my trust IS in God at that moment. I pick the coin up as a response to God; that I do trust in Him. For a short time, at least, I cherish it as if it were gold. I think it is God’s way of starting a conversation with me. Lucky for me, God is patient and pennies are plentiful!

I got to wondering how many times I’ve simply passed up on a penny, thinking it wasn’t worth much or that it was probably filthy. I’ve never bothered to look at it as a reminder from God to trust Him, no matter what.

Could I honestly read the words and say to myself, “In God I trust?” Do I trust Him completely, totally and with everything? Good times and bad times?

If I were to see a penny, and stop to pick it up, perhaps I would then realize that the things I have been worrying or fretting about are things that most likely I cannot change.

If God is trying to start a conversation with me, it is a good thing then that pennies are plentiful and that He is patient.